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Post by biggordie on Aug 13, 2008 20:09:50 GMT -6
Stay tuned to these pages for the first chapter, in several scenes, of the newest fiction from one of the world's foremost writers of whom no one has ever heard, and of which the late, great, and sadly-missed Tricia Johnson-McDuffie once said: "What kind of crap is this?!?!?"
Gordie
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Post by Diane Merkel on Aug 13, 2008 23:31:56 GMT -6
What? Is BS back? (Where IS that boy???) Looking forward to it, Gordie. Trish didn't give such endorsements lightly!
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Post by biggordie on Aug 14, 2008 9:33:50 GMT -6
Since this chapter is rather lengthy, I am going to post it in sections corresponding to the "scenes."
COBALT ONE - FIVE A novel of business, and some of the people who conduct some of it
Chapter One In which we meet our protagonist and learn something of his business
The man was waiting. He had been waiting since shortly after dawn, which he thought to himself must have been about an hour before. He had come to this place through a pine forest, moving quietly, if not exactly silently, through the pine straw and other plant-life. He had been careful to not make too much of a disturbance to either the flora or the fauna during his passage. Being careful was an important part of his business.
The man was waiting on a ridge-top, sheltered by the 50 foot pines and hidden from view by some scrub brush whose names he did not know, and hardly cared to know, and by a rather ratty-looking, drab-colored, blanket. He looked at his watch. It was 0521, so his estimate of an hour had not been that far off. The morning was crisp, bright and clear. The to-be-expected valley mist had already lifted and dissipated, the way it had for thousands of years before, and would for thousands of years to come - and the view across the valley was unobstructed. He settled back to wait. Waiting was also part of his business.
He was waiting for other men to come, or perhaps only one man. He was not sure of that. In his business, one was often unsure. The man, or men, would be coming soon, and would be coming from the ridge on the opposite side of the little valley. That information had been a part of his instructions. That ridge looked mush the same as the one where he waited. The treeline there was something over a mile from him - 2155 yards, to be exact.
There were several features of this pretty little valley which distinguished it from others in the region. There was a small stream running along the valley bottom, and it ran very straight, not at all like others nearby. There were no trees or significant undergrowth along the stream, nor indeed on the slopes leading up to the two ridges, although there was a tall barbed wire fence on either side of the stream. The fences looked menacing, and were some thirty feet apart, with the stream running precisely down the mid-line between them.
The man thought that the stream looked man-made, and in fact it was. There were signs attached to the fences at regular intervals along its considerable length, with symbols and words, in the local language, warning that the fences were electrified, and that death might result from contact with them. In another place, the fences might have been erected to keep wandering game or livestock from wandering; but deer and cows can't read, the man thought. These fences were to keep people from wandering.. The fences and the stream ran in both directions as far as the man could see.
The man who was waiting was slightly on edge, his senses heightened in both anticipation and alertness. His nerves, however, were not taut, and his muscles were loose and relaxed. He had been in this country for five days, time enough to adjust to the jet-lag and the time difference. 0526, he saw. He had no idea of what time it was back home - he could never quite remember time zones. "I guess it's tomorrow, by Rocky Mountain time," he sang softly to himself, giving a mental nod in John Prine's direction.
So the man waited. Anticipation, alertness, calm nerves and relaxed muscles were all basic necessities in his business. There were others, of course, and he had them all in full measure. He was good at his business. Very good. Very, very good.
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Post by biggordie on Aug 14, 2008 9:51:58 GMT -6
Next "scene"
The office was not overly large. It was much like thousands of smaller offices all over the country - a central general office, or bullpen area; a glassed-in private office, with outside windows (and a sign that read "Private"); two greysteel stands of open suply shelves, stacked with the usual office supplies; several grey steel filing cabinets in various locations; and a closed-door area on one side (the left as one entered), which was probably an employee lunch or coffee room.
The sign on the door read simply "Monroe And Company," and the company's Yellow Pages feature ad expanded upon that to include "Bridge Financing For Construction Projects Of All Types And Sizes." Monroe And Company had four employees in the office, which was, in fact, their only office, in Detroit or anywhere else.
The manager, a non-descript middle-aged man with a bald pate and a blue necktie, inhabited the office marked "Private." He had a nice walnut desk, and two comfortable visitor's chairs. The bullpen area was occupied by three desks, two of which had visitor's chairs beside them, and the desks were in turn occupied by three people. The thirty-ish and plain receptionist had the desk nearest the door, just behind the wooden railing that separated the reception area from the bullpen. That railing was eight feet or so inside the door. Inside the reception area were two other visitor's chairs and a small table barely large enough to hold a few magazines and a yellow glass ashtray.
Behind the other two desks sat a young blond woman, whom most would have considered attractive or maybe even beautiful; and a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He had sandy-colored hair, cut short, was wearing glasses, and looked every bit an accountant, which indeed he was. The lights were on; there was Muzak playing very softly; and Monroe And Company was open for business and awaiting its first visitor of the day.
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Post by biggordie on Aug 14, 2008 10:19:20 GMT -6
scene the three:
The man's wait was over now, for there wer other men coming over the opposite ridge. One man running ahead of two other men, who were obviously pursuing him. The man under the blanket looked through a glass to ensure that the lead runner was the subject of his instructions. It was he, no question. Next he looked at the other men through another glass. This one had a tiny red dot in its center. The pursuers were about 50 yards behind their quarry, and it seemed to him that they might be gaining. His instructions were to preclude an interception, and so he acted.
There was a very muted whumping sound, such as might be made by hitting someone with a sofa cushion or pillow; but it was not a sofa cushion that hit the first pursuer in the middle of his chest. It was a large caliber bullet, and it tore through his body and several important organs, destroying as it went. The man was dead before his body hit the ground.
The other pursuer, who had been slightly behind his companion, stopped in his tracks at the sight of his cohort's body falling. He had heard nothing and seen nothing, but he knew a dead man falling when he saw one. He took a hesitant step forward; thought better of it; and turned and ran. He had gone about fifteen yards when another bullet found him. It struck him in the precise middle of his back, smashing through his spinal column and breaking into fragments which penetrated his heart and lungs. He too was dead before hs body reached the grass.
The man who had been chased heard the noise behind him; stopped and looked back, and then eased his gait to a hurried walk. Upon reaching the first barbed wire fence, he produced a pair of wire cutters from a jacket pocket, and with a few deft snips was through the fence without difficulty. He was not electrocuted for the simple reason theat the fence was not energized. It never had been. The signs were only for show. He made a short run and leapt over the stream; walked to the second fence, repeated the snipping process, and stepped through the fence. He looked back over his left shoulder, and saw that the valley was empty except for the corpses of the two men who had been bent on capturing him. He looked up at the ridge ahead, and grinned slightly. He knew that there was a protector up there, somewhere, a guardian angel with a sniper rifle. He was still grinning when his head exploded in a bloody red splash of skull bone and brains. He wouldn't have heard the third whump anyway.
The man on the ridge took his time packing up his belongings. There was no need to hurry. Nobody came anywhere near here, and nobody would be wondering where those two men were for several hours. He would be on his way home before they were missed or worried over. The other - well that was part of the business too. His instructions had been to preclude that man from falling into the hands of the other men. He had done that. He had followed his instructions. There would be no challenge to his report, and no one to question the order in which the three men had died.
He made his way to where he had stashed his bicycle; loaded it; wheeled it out of the forest to the country road he had come by; mounted it and rode away. He was not an accomplished bicycle rider, just good enough to get from here to there and back again, and the weight of his gear kept him continually struggling to maintain his balance. But riding a bicycle was not really part of his business, excpet on occasions such as this. His business was killing people. And he was good at his business. Very good. Very, very good.
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Post by biggordie on Aug 14, 2008 10:40:45 GMT -6
scene den vierte:
The first visitor of the day to the offices of Monroe And Company was a young and athletic-looking man of about six feet in height, dressed in a dark, not-too-expensive business suit. There was nothing remarkable about his entry, except that he just seemed to appear. He was already through the door, had closed it behind him, and was approaching the the wooden railing before the receptionist had realized that he was there. She had started to rise to greet him, when he had raised his right hand, which held a small-caliber pistol fitted with a gigantic silencer and shot her in the middle of the forehead.
He had placed his left hand on the railing and vaulted over it, swinging his weapon toward the sandy-haired man to his left. He shot him twice, once in the chest and once in the throat. When he landed on the other side, the pretty blond woman was already on her feet, with a hand stifling a scream, ans apparently in a state of shock. Her, he also shot in the forehead, and then walked toward the internal office.
The manager of Monroe and Company had reacted calmly, considering the situation. When the clean-cut young man kicked open the office door, he found the manager crouched behind his desk, speaking on his telephone to a 9-1-1 emergency operator/dispatcher. Neither the crouching nor the 9-1-1 call were enough to save his life. The young man shot him twice in the top of the head.
On his way out of the office, the young man stopped at each body and fired another bullet into each victim's head. He opened the gate in the railing, rather than vaulting it; stopped at the small table, and swept aside the magazines and ashtray. He reached inside his jacket; retrieved a piece of letter-sized, folded, paper; unfolded it and placed it in the center of the tabletop. From a pants pocket, he took a small object and placed it on top of the paper, to keep it unfolded and in place. He placed the pistol on the tabletop, opened the door, and walked away - closing the door behind him.
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Post by biggordie on Aug 14, 2008 11:01:12 GMT -6
the final scene - of chapter one:
The manager's 9-1-1 call had given the operator/dispatcher sufficient information to alert police to "A man with a gun, people shot, possible hostage situation" and a location. The first two responding patrolmen did what they had been trained to do. They occupied the corridor and sealed it to prevent anyone escaping. The quick arrival of two more pairs of officers allowed them to evacuate the occupants of the other three offices on that floor while still ensuring that no one left Monroe And Company. Nobody did. Nobody was going to, although the officers didn't know that at the time.
Standing Operating Procedures, and radioed orders, required the officers to await the arrival of the Emergency Response Team, rather than trying to enter the premises themselves. This was all part of their business, at which they were good. When the ERT arrived, their senior officer took command of the situation, in accordance with procedure, and after doing several things, also in accordance with procedure, and which took more than a few minutes, entry to the premises was effected.
The first three ERT officers through the door "cleared" the area in stages, according to procedure. These men were well-trained,and very good at their business. When the "all clear" was given, their commander entered and assessed the scene. "Jesus F......g Christ!!" was his assessment. While other officers started entering, and EMTs went to the bodies, one of the original responders noticed the items on the tabletop, and called out: "Captain!! You gotta see this!!." The Captain walked over and noted the pistol and the other items. "CSU will want to collect these." He leaned over to read the note, without touching it. It was printed in block capitals and said: "KISS YOUR COLLECTIVE ASS GOODBYE 1 5" The item on top of the note was a tube of oil paint. It was Cobalt Blue. "Jesus F......g Christ!!" said the Captain.
It was not until the investigation into the killings was well under way that the detectives working the case, while attempting to pin down a motive for them, discovered that Monroe And Company was not exactly in the bridge-financing business.
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Post by clw on Aug 15, 2008 6:55:19 GMT -6
I love a good mystery and this has the makings of a great one! Trish would have loved it, you know. I do find myself wondering how many great books a person can write at the same time. So do we get to hear more or is this just a teaser?
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Post by biggordie on Aug 15, 2008 9:13:58 GMT -6
clw There is no more and will not be. I wrote this much, on a dare really, about 36 years ago - early '72, if I recall. My buddy and I were operating a niche-market book store - all paperbacks, concentrating on MSA - Mysteries, Suspense and Adventure, with great selections of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Westerns and Romance novels. We opened just around the corner from the U of Toronto Bookstore, and were an immediate hit [our first customers knocked on the window as we were putting up our display shelves and stocking as we went]. Anyway, one day he said "We should write a mystery/suspense novel." He had the idea for the "hero" who would be a sort of cross between James Bond and Matt Helm [the book guys, not the films] - somewhat urbane but totally lethal and almost without feelings. In the book, the hero was to undergo an abreaction to one of his kills and turn his wrath upon the people whom he felt had caused him to do this killing [that is the last man killed in the valley, who just happened to be the husband of a woman whom the hero had coveted some time earlier]. The balance of the book would have been devoted to the retribution wreaked upon the "business" and the "business'" attempts to eradicate the threat posed by our hero - lots of procedural junk, secret meetings, hand-wringing, dead people [sometimes "wet work"] and recriminations ["Why the ....don't we know more about this guy FCS? - we hired him, didn't we? He works for us, doesn't he?" "Apparently not anymore, sir."]. It eventually comes to a conclusion [ ] when a few months after the hero is ostensibly offed by the MAN, there is an assassination of a high-level official of the D.O.D., and a note accompanied by a tube of cobalt blue paint is left at the scene. The Cobalt One-Five of the title is the actual "code name" from the file of a man upon whom the hero was supposedly based. The Cobalt refers to the alleged color of the files for the business specialists, and the 15, or One-Five, was supposedly the file identifier for his personal file. Purportedly, that is. It was to be a work of fiction. Any similarity to people..............and blah blah blah. I actually might have finished it years and years ago, except that I lost the plot and character cards, got married, had to get a real job and grow up [more or less] and never had the time to pursue the matter. When I did finally find myself with time, I channeled it into the Little Horn fights. Tricia sent me her first chapter to read and comment upon, and in response I sent her that chapter. She did like it, and I told her that she could have it and run with it if she liked. The same offer extends to anyone else who would like to do something similar - if you think you can do something with it, go for it!! Gordie
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Post by El Crab on Sept 14, 2008 18:36:16 GMT -6
Has a similar plot as the Bourne series. You coulda been a contenda!
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Post by BrokenSword on Sept 14, 2008 19:32:42 GMT -6
Good grief, Gordie. How’d I miss this?
It’s a darn shame you left it where you did - before the gratuitous sex scenes. The ones where the hero grabs the babe, holds her tight, and kisses her, and… uh… and…what’s that other thing we used to do?
BS
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Post by biggordie on Sept 14, 2008 19:55:25 GMT -6
Michael:
My pal was going to do the sex scenes - he had a flair for using his imagination in that regard - but we lost touch in '75, and as I say, I lost all the character and plot-line [index] cards, so would have had to start from scratch, except for Chapter Ein. All I had in my head was the outline of a couple of other scenes - hardly the stuff of bestsellers [and a lot of work for an undisciplined type like me].
el crab:
I appreciate the thought, whether seriously proffered or not!!
Gordie
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Post by crzhrs on Sept 26, 2008 11:43:10 GMT -6
<what’s that other thing we used to do?> Has it been that long?!
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