Add-a-paragraph, Short Story in the works Options

[Larry]

The frigid, ebony horizon that seldom covered the path of light and hope had been rubbed out once again this warring night. The fearless, invading blue moon freed itself from charcoal clouds that held it captive. While dancing above all living and dead, it rejoiced, beckoning to all who had once lost their way. A storm was coming, and it cared not what havoc it would bring.

Caught by surprise, the ‘New World’ sign flailed incessantly in the gale force wind just above the entrance to corporate headquarters. Only a select few could access the computerized security program that allowed entrance, and even fewer actually contributed to the work the company produced. There were infallible reasons for this. Power and technology of this magnitude had to be kept under wraps at all costs. However, even the best kept secrets often find their way to the public at large. For New World, this was simply not an option. There was too much at stake to think about the consequences this could bring to ‘New World’ and the Human Race.

"For Gods sake! Be careful with that," screamed assistant director of operations Ray Densmore. "That piece of equipment is worth more than you'll ever earn; if it falls you better make damn sure it lands on you!" he shouted at the delivery operatives who had accompanied their cargo from the experimental research laboratory C.E.R.N in Switzerland. Densmore, with his five thousand dollar Armani suit and his manicured nails was not accustomed to overseeing deliveries at airports, but director Metteur had insisted he take charge of this one. Densmore had no idea what was in this massive aluminum crate, which was about the same size as two telephone boxes and weighed at least three tons but as he looked around at the substantial security detail armed with Uzis, he assumed it was very valuable. It had taken the best part of an hour to load the crate onto the truck; the journey to New World would take another two. Densmore almost jumped out of his skin as a crack of thunder was unleashed overhead; the weather was turning for the worse. He wouldn't feel at ease until they had this damned crate safely inside the New World facility. “What the hell was it anyway?”, he wondered as the truck and its escort pulled away.

The wind shifted, a weak straight-line smacked Densmore, lifting the front edge of his expensive toupee. A glossy-nailed hand streaked up and pressed it back into place. Across the street, a black car revved its engine. The blond at the wheel threw her head back in laughter at the primping, prancing man who held his hair in place. She turned the steering wheel, smoothly bringing her vehicle onto the street and blowing Densmore a pouty kiss as she went by. He pressed his hair even harder, his fingertips turning white. Even in the cloudy darkness of the night, you could see his face was red.

Densmore's neck hairs suddenly perked up as if an arctic blast had just hit him squarely in the face, despite his flushing pink tone. “Yeah, baby! Here’s a kiss right back at ya.” He met her passing gaze with his own, gyrated his crotch in her direction and then flipped the bird. Why do I keep seeing her everywhere I turn? He mumbled under his fetid Starbuck’s latte breath, the only remnant of warmth cycling through his frigid bones. Surely, she was a figment of his hellfire heydays from decades too far past to recall with any certainty? Riding the surges toward an impending storm drain, his empty cup floated away, as did his memory of her.

Climbing into the cab of the delivery van, which reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, Densmore eased his ample, Armani covered butt onto the cold vinyl seat as the howling wind was joined by sheets of rain nearly blotting out any sight of the huge armored sedans escorting them back to New World. “Damn”, he thought! The trip would be much nicer if he were behind the wheel of his Rolls setting on soft leather instead of this sewer of a cab, but Metteur had insisted he ride with the cargo. Why in hell did it have to be the middle of the night, through driving rain; and why did the crate have to be shipped to some God forsaken airport in the suburbs where, it seemed, that damn blonde had been waiting for him.

The small convoy had been on the road for a few miles when Densmore cringed in disgust as the big burley driver of the van reached into his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of Picayune cigarettes and lit one up, breathing a heavy sigh of satisfaction after the first puff. “Put that damn thing out”, he said to the driver; “I’ll report this incident to your superiors!” The driver, with a smug look on his face, turned to Densmore and sneered, “I don’t have any! I own the transport company, the van you’re sitting in, the escorts in front of us and all the boys in them security outfits work for me! New World contracted me to haul your damn crate, not to take any smart-mouthed lip from some flunky. If you don’t like my smoke, open a window and shut up or I’ll stop this van and let you ride in the back with your cargo.” The rain was still coming down at a blinding slant and the storm seemed to have gained strength since their departure from the airport so, with a sheepish look on his face, hiding his impotent rage, Densmore shut up, stared at the driving rain, and flinched at each flash of lightening.

The glare of headlights caught the corner of Densmore’s eyes from a side street moments before the big tractor-trailer rig hit the front of the van, spinning it out of control. Densmore, shaken up by the crash, saw what seemed like twenty or so men emerge from the darkness carrying automatic weapons and there, in the middle of it all was that damn blonde again, standing on the street corner like she was directing traffic. Apparently, the escort drivers had seen the same professional precision of the ambush and sped off into the night. Belatedly, after seeing the van’s driver with his hands high above his head, and the little red lights from the laser sights centered on his and the driver’s chest, Densmore followed suit. Ten minutes later, New World’s mysterious crate was busted open right before his eyes and its contents were loaded into the back of the tractor-trailer. Under the headlights, as the thieves were carrying something that looked like a stainless steel coffin past the cab of the van, Densmore saw the acronym C.E.R.N. spelled out. What was a Criminal Examination, Retention and Nullification Module 1A and who the hell was that blonde?", Densmore thought, as the taillights of the big rig disappeared into the blackness, followed by the black sedan with the blonde's arm out the window, returning his gesture from earlier that night.

The remainder of the trip back to New World in the crippled van was a living nightmare for Densmore. Thoughts raced through his head about the ambush, the lost cargo, the damn blonde and how Director Metteur would react to the bad news. Through the weakening storm, he saw the top stories of the imposing tower of New World draped in black clouds which matched his mood and, he thought, his impending meeting with the director. Sure enough, there was Metteur and a contingent of armed guards waiting on the delivery dock as they drove up and parked. The menacing scowl on the director's face was heightened by the lights of the dock which were still swaying in the wind. Metteur knew something was wrong when he saw the smashed front end of the van and his apprehension grew when they did not back into the dock to deliver his precious cargo.

Don Sutherland sits in the shade outside a small Parisienne cafe sipping a beer and waiting for his wife to return from her shopping trip. The display on the billboard-size digital thermometer on the building across the street says it's 12:40 pm and 39 degrees Celsius. Don raises an eyebrow as a waiter approaches him with a telephone, he is surprised when the voice on the phone is a man's and not his wife's.

Hello

"Hey Don, its Sal..."

Are you kidding? Look...I'm on my honeymoon, the first time in five years me and Severine have had some time together and you...

"Don, I'm sorry, listen, it's Morrison, we think he's back. In fact, I'm sure he is, but nothing's official yet. I thought you'd want to know.

Jesus!!...Get me a flight out of here in the next hour, I'm coming back.

"The jet's already fueled and waiting for you, but your not coming back, your going to Switzerland"

Fine... Damn it, Sev wont be happy, are you sure it's him?

"It's got all the trademarks, you did say, no matter what the hour, if he ever showed up again, to call you, and I'm certain it's him."

Thanks, you did the right thing Sal, who else are you sending? (another phone call, Sal calls Don's old partner (a female, sexual tension, mutual dislike, trying to put all that behind her, can’t say no)

In the penthouse suite of an ultra-modern glass and steel office building, Salvatore Adolophus Liebowitz hung up the phone and eased his tremendous shoulders and back against the soft leather of an overstuffed office chair, which creaked as though it were breaking but managed to stay together somehow. He felt better about the increasingly odd occurrences of the last few hours now that he had contacted Don and Helga. He was really sorry to have Don’s long overdue honeymoon cut off but knew that Don understood the importance and also knew that his baby sister, Severine, would be a fire ball of fury but would also understand. They all went back a long way and after their stints in CIA Black-ops together, their paths had crossed many times. Sal, as only his very close friends called him, was a very dangerous man who was proficient in nearly all weapons known to the world in general, and an expert in some he had re-made for his self. He had been a Sergeant Major in the Marines, where he taught their snipers how to kill from a half mile away and also taught their special operations personnel how to kill; up close and personal with whatever implement was available. His sister, Severine, the smart one in the family, had been a Bird Colonel in the Marine’s demolition school. She had first met Don at the school when he was a buck private and had taught him everything she knew about explosives and he had taught her everything he knew about how Cajuns made love. Donald Le Beaux Boudreaux had spent most of his young life before he joined the Marines in the Atchafalaya Swamp in south Louisiana where his daddy hunted, fished and trapped for a living. He was probably meaner than any ’gator down there but the Marines and Severine had mellowed him out somewhat. They gave his aggressive tendencies more purpose and direction and only made him ten times as dangerous as before.
After three wars and numerous under cover skirmishes which never appeared in any official report, Sal had worked for an alphabet soup of governmental agencies until he started his own security firm. That FUBAR last night told him he had a mole in his house because no one, not even Metteur, who had requested his presence on the job, knew the exact route or schedule he was to take from the airport to New World headquarters. He also knew that the damn bleach-blonde bitch that headed up the ambush was Svetlana Cherenkov, a close and very personal friend and associate of Billy Ray Morrison. Svetlana didn’t move a muscle unless Billy Ray told her to do so but when he did, she always completed her assigned job with a flair, bordering on perfection.

[Cleo_Serapis]

Now THATs a NICE Paragraph (or two) added here Larry.

Cool stuff - I'm hoping to add to this as well this weekend (at some point). Thanks for kicking the thread up and for your interest!

Stay tuned.
~Cleo

[Cleo_Serapis]

Anyone interested in resuming this one again?

[Larry]

The frigid, ebony horizon that seldom covered the path of light and hope had been rubbed out once again this warring night. The fearless, invading blue moon freed itself from charcoal clouds that held it captive. While dancing above all living and dead, it rejoiced, beckoning to all who had once lost their way. A storm was coming, and it cared not what havoc it would bring.

Caught by surprise, the ‘New World’ sign flailed incessantly in the gale force wind just above the entrance to corporate headquarters. Only a select few could access the computerized security program that allowed entrance, and even fewer actually contributed to the work the company produced. There were infallible reasons for this. Power and technology of this magnitude had to be kept under wraps at all costs. However, even the best kept secrets often find their way to the public at large. For New World, this was simply not an option. There was too much at stake to think about the consequences this could bring to ‘New World’ and the Human Race.

"For Gods sake! Be careful with that," screamed assistant director of operations Ray Densmore. "That piece of equipment is worth more than you'll ever earn; if it falls you better make damn sure it lands on you!" he shouted at the delivery operatives who had accompanied their cargo from the experimental research laboratory C.E.R.N in Switzerland. Densmore, with his five thousand dollar Armani suit and his manicured nails was not accustomed to overseeing deliveries at airports, but director Metteur had insisted he take charge of this one. Densmore had no idea what was in this massive aluminum crate, which was about the same size as two telephone boxes and weighed at least three tons but as he looked around at the substantial security detail armed with Uzis, he assumed it was very valuable. It had taken the best part of an hour to load the crate onto the truck; the journey to New World would take another two. Densmore almost jumped out of his skin as a crack of thunder was unleashed overhead; the weather was turning for the worse. He wouldn't feel at ease until they had this damned crate safely inside the New World facility. “What the hell was it anyway?”, he wondered as the truck and its escort pulled away.

The wind shifted, a weak straight-line smacked Densmore, lifting the front edge of his expensive toupee. A glossy-nailed hand streaked up and pressed it back into place. Across the street, a black car revved its engine. The blond at the wheel threw her head back in laughter at the primping, prancing man who held his hair in place. She turned the steering wheel, smoothly bringing her vehicle onto the street and blowing Densmore a pouty kiss as she went by. He pressed his hair even harder, his fingertips turning white. Even in the cloudy darkness of the night, you could see his face was red.

Densmore's neck hairs suddenly perked up as if an arctic blast had just hit him squarely in the face, despite his flushing pink tone. “Yeah, baby! Here’s a kiss right back at ya.” He met her passing gaze with his own, gyrated his crotch in her direction and then flipped the bird. Why do I keep seeing her everywhere I turn? He mumbled under his fetid Starbuck’s latte breath, the only remnant of warmth cycling through his frigid bones. Surely, she was a figment of his hellfire heydays from decades too far past to recall with any certainty? Riding the surges toward an impending storm drain, his empty cup floated away, as did his memory of her.

Climbing into the cab of the delivery van, which reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, Densmore eased his ample, Armani covered butt onto the cold vinyl seat as the howling wind was joined by sheets of rain nearly blotting out any sight of the huge armored sedans escorting them back to New World. “Damn”, he thought! The trip would be much nicer if he were behind the wheel of his Rolls setting on soft leather instead of this sewer of a cab, but Metteur had insisted he ride with the cargo. Why in hell did it have to be the middle of the night, through driving rain; and why did the crate have to be shipped to some God forsaken airport in the suburbs where, it seemed, that damn blonde had been waiting for him.

The small convoy had been on the road for a few miles when Densmore cringed in disgust as the big burley driver of the van reached into his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of Picayune cigarettes and lit one up, breathing a heavy sigh of satisfaction after the first puff. “Put that damn thing out”, he said to the driver; “I’ll report this incident to your superiors!” The driver, with a smug look on his face, turned to Densmore and sneered, “I don’t have any! I own the transport company, the van you’re sitting in, the escorts in front of us and all the boys in them security outfits work for me! New World contracted me to haul your damn crate, not to take any smart-mouthed lip from some flunky. If you don’t like my smoke, open a window and shut up or I’ll stop this van and let you ride in the back with your cargo.” The rain was still coming down at a blinding slant and the storm seemed to have gained strength since their departure from the airport so, with a sheepish look on his face, hiding his impotent rage, Densmore shut up, stared at the driving rain, and flinched at each flash of lightening.

The glare of headlights caught the corner of Densmore’s eyes from a side street moments before the big tractor-trailer rig hit the front of the van, spinning it out of control. Densmore, shaken up by the crash, saw what seemed like twenty or so men emerge from the darkness carrying automatic weapons and there, in the middle of it all was that damn blonde again, standing on the street corner like she was directing traffic. Apparently, the escort drivers had seen the same professional precision of the ambush and sped off into the night. Belatedly, after seeing the van’s driver with his hands high above his head, and the little red lights from the laser sights centered on his and the driver’s chest, Densmore followed suit. Ten minutes later, New World’s mysterious crate was busted open right before his eyes and its contents were loaded into the back of the tractor-trailer. Under the headlights, as the thieves were carrying something that looked like a stainless steel coffin past the cab of the van, Densmore saw the acronym C.E.R.N. spelled out. What was a Criminal Examination, Retention and Nullification Module 1A and who the hell was that blonde?", Densmore thought, as the taillights of the big rig disappeared into the blackness, followed by the black sedan with the blonde's arm out the window, returning his gesture from earlier that night.

The remainder of the trip back to New World in the crippled van was a living nightmare for Densmore. Thoughts raced through his head about the ambush, the lost cargo, the damn blonde and how Director Metteur would react to the bad news. Through the weakening storm, he saw the top stories of the imposing tower of New World draped in black clouds which matched his mood and, he thought, his impending meeting with the director. Sure enough, there was Metteur and a contingent of armed guards waiting on the delivery dock as they drove up and parked. The menacing scowl on the director's face was heightened by the lights of the dock which were still swaying in the wind. Metteur knew something was wrong when he saw the smashed front end of the van and his apprehension grew when they did not back into the dock to deliver his precious cargo.

Don Sutherland sits in the shade outside a small Parisienne café sipping a beer and waiting for his wife to return from her shopping trip. The display on the billboard-size digital thermometer on the building across the street says it's 12:40 pm and 39 degrees Celsius. Don raises an eyebrow as a waiter approaches him with a telephone, he is surprised when the voice on the phone is a man's and not his wife's.

Hello
"Hey Don, its Sal..."
Are you kidding? Look...I'm on my honeymoon, the first time in five years me and Severine have had some time together and you...
"Don, I'm sorry, listen, it's Morrison, we think he's back. In fact, I'm sure he is, but nothing's official yet. I thought you'd want to know.
Jesus!!...Get me a flight out of here in the next hour, I'm coming back.
"The jet's already fueled and waiting for you, but you’re not coming back, you’re going to Switzerland"
Fine... Damn it, Sev won’t be happy, are you sure it's him?
"It's got all the trademarks, you did say, no matter what the hour, if he ever showed up again, to call you, and I'm certain it's him."
Thanks, you did the right thing Sal, who else are you sending? (another phone call, Sal calls Don's old partner (a female, sexual tension, mutual dislike, trying to put all that behind her, can’t say no)


In the penthouse suite of an ultra-modern glass and steel office building, Salvatore Adolphus Leibowitz hung up the phone and eased his tremendous shoulders and back against the soft leather of an overstuffed office chair, which creaked as though it were breaking but managed to stay together somehow. He felt better about the increasingly odd occurrences of the last few hours now that he had contacted Don and Helga. He was really sorry to have Don’s long overdue honeymoon cut off but knew that Don understood the importance and also knew that his baby sister, Severine, would be a fire ball of fury but would also understand. They all went back a long way and after their stints in CIA Black-ops together, their paths had crossed many times. Sal, as only his very close friends called him, was a very dangerous man who was proficient in nearly all weapons known to the world in general, and an expert in some he had re-made for himself. He had been a Sergeant Major in the Marines, where he taught their snipers how to kill from a half mile away and also taught their special operations personnel how to kill; up close and personal with whatever implement was available. His sister, Severine, the smart one in the family, had been a Bird Colonel in the Marine’s demolition school. She had first met Don at the school when he was a buck private and had taught him everything she knew about explosives and he had taught her everything he knew about how Cajuns made love. Donald Le Beaux Boudreaux had spent most of his young life before he joined the Marines in the Atchafalaya Swamp in south Louisiana where his daddy hunted, fished and trapped for a living. He was probably meaner than any ’gator down there but the Marines and Severine had mellowed him out somewhat. They gave his aggressive tendencies more purpose and direction and only made him ten times as dangerous as before.
After three wars and numerous under cover skirmishes which never appeared in any official report, Sal had worked for an alphabet soup of governmental agencies until he started his own security firm. That FUBAR last night told him he had a mole in his house because no one, not even Metteur, who had requested his presence on the job, knew the exact route or schedule he was to take from the airport to New World headquarters. He also knew that the damn bleach-blonde bitch that headed up the ambush was Svetlana Cherenkov, a close and very personal friend and associate of Billy Ray Morrison. Svetlana didn’t move a muscle unless Billy Ray told her to do so but when he did, she always completed her assigned job with a flair bordering on perfection.

[Cleo_Serapis]

OOOh Larry! I'll add this to my notes and continue! EXCELLENT!!!!!!

for the !
~Cleo

[Larry]

Hi Lori,

Thanks a bunch. I wish someone else would chime in with a bit of intrigue. It's almost yours and mine as far as
the story line goes. Oh well, they'll be fewer people to share the royalties. Ha Ha!

Larry