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Group Story thread

  1. Oct 19, 2003 #1
    I had an idea, and we'll see how this plays out. The premise is simple. I'm sure you've all played that word game where you write a sentence or word at a time and see how it turns out. Same thing here, just in paragraghs. I'm sure greg will be happy to eat up less disk space:wink: So we're all writing a story here. This will appeal to all the amature authors on the board. Let's see where this leads..

    The man strode down Lexington Blvd with purpose. The throng of pedestrian traffic was normal for this time of the morning, and the man expertly weaved in and out of people, intent on his destination. There was a deep furrow in his brow, and he was so oblivous to the world around him that he almost ran over a young woman coming around the corner. He paused briefly, nodded, and continued on. About 5 blocks later he came to a white, nondescript building. There were many such buildings in Washington, and this one was no different from the outside. But the men waiting for him inside were anything but ordinary.

    EDIT: OK no more Tom Clancy novels for me!
    Last edited: Oct 19, 2003
  2. jcsd
  3. Oct 19, 2003 #2


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    A smile. A word of greeting. Even a handshake. All protocol of course, and these men were steeped in it, forged in, born to it. But all that calm, dry procedure could not hide their fear, and he could sense it.

    He smiled that the most powerful men in the country were so afraid of him. A little pride, a pebble in the sea of his own anxiety.
  4. Oct 20, 2003 #3
    He found himself wondering if he could do it. If he could change his mind. If he could dispose of them before slipping away silently into the darkness. Maybe, but this had to be done. It had to be finished now or it would be there for the rest of his life, like some dagger twisting in his gut. He felt no fear as his silent escort led him down the hallway.
    Last edited: Oct 20, 2003
  5. Oct 20, 2003 #4
    At the end of the hallway they turned into a conference room guarded by 2 marines. Security was pretty tight, and he found this ironic. The people inside needed no protection. He stiffened up as he opened the door, bracing himself for what lay ahead.
  6. Oct 21, 2003 #5
    Berker and Christian stood up from their seats at the big, black conference table as the group of men entered, and shook hands all around. They studied his face a little too intently, he thought, sizing him up, assessing his readiness.

    Berker's bald head seemed to gleam even in this evenly lit room, as though he polished it in his spare time. His dark-rimmed glasses hid the fact he had no eyebrows. The man wondered how long Berker had left.

    Christian, in his tailored suite, with his workout-trim midriff, exuded a aura of health Berker probably never had known, despite being a good twenty years his senior. Christian looked the man directly in the eye and with his right hand, indicated the chair next to his own.

    He felt the gun there, attached to the underside of the table above his lap. Berker, he noticed, seemed to enjoy the way he distracted attention from his left hand as he explored the orientation of the gun, by an ostentatious readjustment of his, presumably chafing, coat and shirt collars, with his right hand.
    Last edited: Oct 21, 2003
  7. Oct 21, 2003 #6
    Berker and Christian looked nervous as all the men sat down. The room was hot, too hot. There was an uncomfortable pause as Berker prepared himself. Finally, he spoke, "shall we begin?"
  8. Oct 21, 2003 #7


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    It was seven o'clock on a cold October morning, and the birds were chirrupping in the trees along Lexington Blvd. 6 men entered a room.
    None of them walked out.

    Terrorism was the official line, of course. A simple business transaction between wealthy stockholders and the chairmen of a major cigarette company, broken apart by a maddened fanatic from an obscure cult. Motiveless and tragic, cut and dried. A claim of a missing million dollars added spice, and sent the media scurrying to the usual conclusions.

    The other, inconvenient details were forgotten. How two of the US's top undercover FBI officers were never seen again. How CCTV survelliance tapes of the area from 0700 - 0800 were lost in a theft the next day. How a spate of arrests on drug smuggling charges detained the occupants of the entire block. And how the police department authorised a search by hundreds of officers at all the major train stations in Washington DC, within hours of the incident.

    2+2=conspiracy, Kilmore thought.
  9. Oct 21, 2003 #8
    She watched the rest of the tape. The final explosion, Berker and Christian's little surprise. It was a shame to dispose of such great handy-men. Especially Christian who was such a pleasure to have around on late nights. But it had to be done. Both had to go. Not even her own pleasures would blur her main goals.

    The tape stopped and begun to rewind. She turned the chanel back to the news. Quite the mess she had created. Things could have gone much neater, but that man. Who was he? he had turned her plans awry, and she'd had no choice but to take care of things by any means necessary. It wasn't all for the worse though, with the way the news was attacking the story she'd have no problems diverting attentions away from her business.

    She smiled to herself, content as a kitten. She straightened her pantyhose and hiked her skirt up a bit. She had a meeting to attend, and she'd need every advantage to sway this bunch, the rest of her plans depended on it.
  10. Oct 22, 2003 #9
    The job was simply to get those stupid representatives to swallow the deal. It would have been easy if that man wouldn't have interfered. It is all Mayer's fault. He should have seen it coming. He let him enter without checking the data twice. You can't do that in this business. If you make a pie you don't let it rest on the windowsill to much. Sooner or later someone will stick a dirty finger in it.
    The enemies must have sent him. He knew the exact time and place, plus he knew who to replace in order to get the place right in front of the director. The hit was perfectly planned and executed. Nobody expected the fire alarm and the smoke bombs.
    "At least we have this freaking tape showing him dissappear into the staircase heading for the lower floors", she thought as she took the tape out of the VCR. "That ought to make the Administrator cast more attention and men to this operation. Not like that moron Mayer. We had to send two good agents "to the matresses" because of him." She took a short look in the mirror and squeeze the door knob.
  11. Oct 22, 2003 #10
    He was still deaf as he dressed the wounds on his face in the mirror over the bathroom sink.


    His memory was coming back in sharper detail. After the explosion he didn't know his own name. Instinct, honed by training, had taken over and directed his escape through the door and choking dust, past the cringing marine guards.


    Berker and Christian had heard it too. Berker's expression had dissolved into undisguised terror; paralysis affecting everything but his eyes which twitched around looking for the source of the sound. Christian was pale and stupified. He whimpered out loud, but to no one in particular, "Oh. It's one of our little surprises."

    click (Not a gun. What?)

    The sound had meant nothing to him. He was sure of only one thing: Berker and Christian knew what it meant and it froze them in fear.

    The man smoothly pushed his chair back from the table, ducked underneath it, yanked the pistol from its place, rolled over and lay on his stomach pointing it toward the door - the most likely source of trouble.

    Deafness came as ice picks to the ears. Every square inch of his body was punched hard by an unseen mob of bull-muscled boxers. No breath possible.

    The unconsciousness was brief. The table would probably have crushed him, but it had been broken into its component boards in being slammed down onto the combined laps and chairs of those still seated at the table. All he knew at that point was he had to leave: it was bad here.

    Berker, he mused, had been spared the slow, poetic justice of death by cancer. His double, triple, even quadruple dealings had been what killed him. He had supposed himself to be the spider at the center of the web, pulling strings anchored to people at the other end. Apparently someone at the end of one of those strings had pulled back. Someone big.

    The man would find out who.

    He sat on the edge of the bed watching a television he could not hear. A young, blonde, driven-looking woman was holding a microphone up to the moving, silent lips of a speaking man. He seemed to speak rapidly, efficiently, not answering her questions so much as disposing of them. The man was intrigued by how much information there was in visuals alone.

    He noticed how the speaking man observed the reporter when he looked at her, his eyes shifting from one aspect of her face to another. He seemed to be assessing her, noticing things, picking up data. An intelligent, obsevant man. Beneath his image the words briefly appeared:
    Detective Fritz Kilmore, DCPD
    Last edited: Oct 22, 2003
  12. Oct 23, 2003 #11


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    A vibration, a tension in the air. The door had opened behind him, and the woman had enter his room.

    She spoke to him, strove to force her voice inside his head, but he could not hear it. He waved back, at nothing in particular, and she stared back in frustration.

    He knew this woman, but he could not remember from where. Short hair crowned a narrow face. Peircing eyes of startling blue. Small mouth, neat teeth. Pretty but for the coldness of expression, welcoming but for the anger. She screamed at him more, and he grinned back.

    The woman stopped, got out a pad of paper and wrote: "Sara". He nodded, and she smiled back, a brief softness, quickly hidden.

    She wrote again: "We must go to a meeting." He shook his head, and the anger returned to her face.

    He barely felt the tranquiliser needle as it penetrated his arm, and his awareness faded away into darkness.
  13. Nov 21, 2003 #12
    The door squeaked and the noise of steps on metallic stairs was a sharp surprise. He opened his eyes and looked around. He opened his mouth into a big yawn then snapped his fingers. He could hear. He tried to move, but he noticed he was tied to the bed. The guy who was watching him returned. He cast him a look, went to the big armchair and took his magazine. He hid it under his shirt and went out with a "good luck, rookie".

    "What the hell did he mean by that? What rookie? I'm a Ph.D in Physics and I didn't start no other job. Who are these people? Where am I?"

    The door opened and Sara stepped in. When she closed the door it sounded as though two doors were closed at almost the same time. The corner of her mouth twitched. She opened the window to let the people behind the double mirror sit down and to let out the stench. A woman knows these things instinctively. She started scratching behind her ear. She was nervous and upset. She began:
    "You're not supposed to be alive"
  14. Nov 21, 2003 #13


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    "Fo' shizzle my nizzle," he replied "damn nearly got a cap in my ass."
    Just then the door opened: it was Mr. Fujiama.
    "Hey fun boy!I'm going to cut you real good" Fujiama said drawing his samurai sword.
    "Eat my lead mofo!" he answered releasing a round of automatic fire.
  15. Nov 21, 2003 #14


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    He kept firing until he had emptied his magazine.

    Fujimata smiled.

    Somehow, incredibly, all 30 bullets had missed completely, and his opponent had not moved. But the sword has gone, vanished entirely.

    "What the hell is going on?"

    The man, whose name, inexplicably he knew as Fujimata, calmly removed the gun from his frozen hands, and sat down. "Don't you know, recruit? Haven't you remembered yet?"

    And it was true. He did not remember. So they told him.
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