Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers).
This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Hosted by Denise, governed by a single admonition to make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.
This is our next installment of a Serial Six (co-written with Tom) ‘…of Heroes and the Misunderstood’. (last installment: Here)
This week’s prompt word:
PASS
The post Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- “…of Heroes and the Misunderstood” [a Rue DeNite Serial Adventure] first appeared on the Wakefield Doctrine.I’d be catching hell from Rue as soon as we were alone, but hey, sometimes gender trumps a guy’s better judgement, so as long as I was in bodyguard-mode, I decided to try and defuse the mounting tension in the room, “Let’s all take a beat, aiiight?”
Being 46 degrees of Italo-American descent, I was blessed with the whole, dark hair/complexion/eyes/improbable dimple, yet for God knows what reason, I find affecting a gangsta patois amuses the hell out of me, not to mention throwing my opponent off-balance, if only a little bit.
“OK, everyone but the dead or comatose chick on the floor stop talking,” I moved to the side just a microsecond before Rue’s hand on my back could move me; she was totally focused on the skinny dude with a twitchy arm, sneery lips and what looked to be a professional manicure; I moved over to our currently-holding-the-rug-down assassin-ette.
Crouching next to her, I turned her over on her back; her light-brown hair was short, (the pale of the nape of her neck suggesting a recent effort to change appearance), she was wearing what I think they call a peasant blouse and, as god-is-my-witness, circa 70s hip hugger jeans complete with a triangle of flowery fabric at the cuff; standing, she’d be 5′ 4” or so with a pass-able figure; a small tattoo showed above her honest-to-god macramé belt, a symbol: ; disregarding the remains of a big-assed gun now reduced to wood stock and canvas strap on the floor next to her, she reminded me of a coed who shot me down back when I was impersonating a college student.
Wonder Boy, or whatever his name was, was still speaking to Rue like I was her plus-one said something that reminded me that we weren’t in the US of A and how, other than Aston Martins, the Beatles and a recent UN award for “Most Progress in the Field of Dentistry’, I wasn’t in love with London or the whole spite-makes-right attitude of it’s inhabitants.
Then again, Rue had orders from Lou Caesare, orders far more nuanced, (and private), than the one he gave me: “Don’t let anyone kill her; you’re the more dispensable, capische?”
