The terrace is cold, on account of it being very early.Brenda shivers, but understands that the meeting has to take place outside. Colin is not happy and doesn't sit down. Instead he paces up and down the decking from the patio doors that open into their mock-Tudor mansion to the steps that lead down to the well maintained lawns and the big koi pond in the shade of a crescent of mature willow trees.
His brother Alan, who Brenda never really liked, became suddenly very dead last night dealing with the also dead Peter, a former associate and money-laundering scumbag on the make. This means that there will be a visit from the police later today, and Colin hates the police. His lawyer, Mr Green, is standing on the lawn talking quietly to someone on his phone. To make it worse, the foreigners are here. She can see them getting out of a Mercedes at the front of the house.
They don't use their real names in conversation. Brenda is Liz, the German is Adolf, the Belgian is Poirot and the Italian is Mario. They settle down around the garden table with Brenda, who sends Colin in to get some drinks sorted before he says something stupid. Brenda shivers and wishes she'd put some proper clothes on instead of just throwing on a puffa jacket over her gym clothes.
'There is a problem?' The Belgian says, turning watch Colin leave.
Brenda assures him that there isn't and gets them all sat down around the big patio table. The German lights a cigarette. He is dressed in an grey suit that, whilst clearly expensively tailored, looks like it has been stuffed in the back of a wardrobe for a year. The Italian is wearing jeans and a fleece and wouldn't look out of place on a hike. The Belgian is also smoking. His attire looks like he robbed the bins round the back of Steve Jobs house. The black polo-neck bears a drift of ash from his cigarette. He brushes it away, smearing the ash and making the whole thing worse. He leans forward conspiratorially.
'The shipment will arrive within the hour.'
'It has made it all the way here?' asks the Italian. The Belgian nods, smiling.
'And you ready to unload?' says the German, looking at Brenda.
'We're ready. Your boys better be ready to ship it out.' she looks around the table at the others as Colin arrives with drinks.
(His brother Alan, who Brenda never really liked, became suddenly very dead last night dealing with the also dead Peter, a former associate and money-laundering scumbag on the make. This means that there will be a visit from the police later today, and Colin hates the police. His lawyer, Mr Green, is standing on the lawn talking quietly to someone on his phone. To make it worse, the foreigners are here. She can see them getting out of a Mercedes at the front of the house.
They don't use their real names in conversation. Brenda is Liz, the German is Adolf, the Belgian is Poirot and the Italian is Mario. They settle down around the garden table with Brenda, who sends Colin in to get some drinks sorted before he says something stupid. Brenda shivers and wishes she'd put some proper clothes on instead of just throwing on a puffa jacket over her gym clothes.
'There is a problem?' The Belgian says, turning watch Colin leave.
Brenda assures him that there isn't and gets them all sat down around the big patio table. The German lights a cigarette. He is dressed in an grey suit that, whilst clearly expensively tailored, looks like it has been stuffed in the back of a wardrobe for a year. The Italian is wearing jeans and a fleece and wouldn't look out of place on a hike. The Belgian is also smoking. His attire looks like he robbed the bins round the back of Steve Jobs house. The black polo-neck bears a drift of ash from his cigarette. He brushes it away, smearing the ash and making the whole thing worse. He leans forward conspiratorially.
'The shipment will arrive within the hour.'
'It has made it all the way here?' asks the Italian. The Belgian nods, smiling.
'And you ready to unload?' says the German, looking at Brenda.
'We're ready. Your boys better be ready to ship it out.' she looks around the table at the others as Colin arrives with drinks.
Smallbrainfield,
Mon 23 Apr 2012, 14:28,
archived)
A battered submarine makes it's way along the river and steers clumsily into an long abandoned dockyard.As the war on drugs has escalated, transporting cocaine from South America to the United States and Europe has become an increasingly complex arms race. While drug mules can still be employed and shipments be hidden in a trail of paperwork or welded into false panels of trucks or in panniers under ships, new methods are still developed. A submarine was the next logical step, though a deadly one for the crew. Two of the six crew are dead, poisoned by the vile atmosphere inside. Most of the trip has been made on the surface, but the last few hundred miles into the Irish Sea have been mostly submerged, with only short trips to the surface to navigate and charge the batteries. By the time it reaches the dock, the air inside is acrid. Acid mixed with the smell of human sweat and death. The pilot surfaces and cranks the hatch open to soft, sweet air, to find the dock full of police officers. He raises his hands.
( Smallbrainfield,
Mon 23 Apr 2012, 14:32,
archived)
Colin is sweating despite the cold. It has all gone so wrong.His brother is dead and he can't help wondering if it's his fault.
He keeps up the pretence of anger around Brenda, but he's tired. It's why he went to the police in the first place. He never wanted to be rich, never wanted a drug baron for a wife and a big mock-Tudor mansion. He keys the number on his mobile phone and goes to hide in the toilet, leaving the phone ringing out in the downstairs toilet.
(He keeps up the pretence of anger around Brenda, but he's tired. It's why he went to the police in the first place. He never wanted to be rich, never wanted a drug baron for a wife and a big mock-Tudor mansion. He keys the number on his mobile phone and goes to hide in the toilet, leaving the phone ringing out in the downstairs toilet.
Smallbrainfield,
Mon 23 Apr 2012, 14:33,
archived)
It's like the sunday omnibus or something!
Wasp Box like a nervous random stranger at a glory hole,
Mon 23 Apr 2012, 14:48,
archived)
Hmm, it's not as much fun sinceJJ started putting Toon Time inside other posts.
( Smallbrainfield,
Mon 23 Apr 2012, 14:56,
archived)
I know, doesn't feel the sameI like it better when I'm writing filth whilst firmly astride my high horse.
( Wasp Box like a nervous random stranger at a glory hole,
Mon 23 Apr 2012, 15:01,
archived)
