Scotch And Pen

*This story is not for children. 
 *I have never been nor will I ever be a spy but I sure do have fun writing about them.

“Kill him.” Scotch instructed.

She looked at the man as he lay on his own study floor—choking, gasping for air, foaming at the mouth. “He’s dying.” Pen countered.

“Slowly. Too slowly.” He said. “Finish him. Now.” Scotch pulled out a knife and waited for Pen to take it from his hand.

Pen looked at him, then her victim choking on the floor. A sound of footsteps echoed through the mansion’s foyer and stopped on the other side of the study door.

“Gregory?” A voice called. “Are you in there darling? I have to something to show you.” They heard the sound of bags rustling. “It’s in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.” The footsteps faded as the woman on the other side of the door headed to her bedroom.

This time Scotch mouthed the words. “Do it.”

“This is ridiculous.” Pen said as she took the knife from Scotch’s gloved hand. “He’s dy-ing.” She looked at her victim only long enough to expose his neck and verify that she had the knife properly positioned. Pen looked up at Scotch while she applied pressure to her target’s jugular and sliced an opening across his neck. “Absolutely ridiculous. I was hired as a consultant for lab research. I’m not even supposed to be doing field work. I told Corporate up front, ‘No Blood.’ I stated that specifically during the final interview. ‘I am willing to do a little field work only during an emergency on two conditions: there was to be minimal use of weapons and no blood.’” She wiped her bloody gloves on Scotch's shirt after handing him back the knife.

“Which is fine as long as you do the job correctly to begin with.” Scotch responded and accepted the return of his weapon.

Pen shook her depleted vial of poison. “I wonder what went wrong. Maybe I should have gone with the cyanide.”

The two turn their attention back to the study door at the sound of approaching footsteps. “I’m coming darling!” A woman’s voice called out.

“We can talk about that later, come on.” Scotch said as he pushed Pen to their exit.

Pen walked to the fire Scotch had built and deposited her bloodied clothes on to the pile. The basic black leggings, white tank top, and dark blue hoodie in her mission bag lacked imagination but was right for the weather, current climate, and time of year. If they encountered anyone on the way to the car she and Scotch would be just another couple who had snuck onto the private beach of an unoccupied house for a romantic rendezvous. She watched as Scotch tended the fire.

“Did you change all of your clothes?”

“Um hmmm.”

“Shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the vial of poison?”

“In the flames.”

“Cell phone?” He asked.

Pen closed her eyes. “My cell phone is at home where it belongs per company policy. The corporate issue phone is still in the mission bag. It has not been used. Anything else?”

Scotch consulted a small notepad. “No that’s it.” He tore up the notepad and tossed it into the flames.

Pen watched as the notepad and Scotch's checklist immediately began to burn. “Isn’t that still evidence?” She asked.

“What?”

“The notepad cover.”

Scotch grinned. “Special cover. Looks and feels like leather but is actually a fast burning paper. It doesn’t retain finger prints either.” He looked at Pen. “Spy tech.”

“It smells funny when it burns. I wonder what makes up its chemical composition.”

“When we get back to work you can stop by the lab and ask if they’ll let you do a litmus test.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Not funny?”

Pen glared at Scotch.

“Not funny.” He acknowledged and went back to studying the flames.

“What is funny is where we’re at. This house is only a few miles down the road from our target.” Pen looked up from the flames. “Why did we stop here?”

“An agent will always stop and destroy any and all evidence from their mission at the nearest Corporate sanctioned location once their mission is complete. You should have learned that on day three of your training. It’s in the manual. Chapter Five: The Mission.”

“I didn’t go through training.” Pen said.

“You didn’t go through training?”

“I was hired as a consultant. Consultants are not permanent employees so most companies tell a consultant the bare bones basic information necessary to complete that and only that job. It’s not worth the output of money to fully train a temporary employee.”

“We don’t work for a company, we work for a spy agency. It’s what spies do. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a spy.”
“We are working for a spy agency that is using standard business techniques to run their consultants.” Pen pointed out. “I am perfectly aware that you’re a spy. You have that devil-may-care James Bond wannabe thing going on.”

Scotch looked at Pen. Something in his usually warm brown eyes had grown darker. 

Pen had second thoughts about her comment. “I was just kidding about the James Bond thing.”

“I’m a spy. It takes a lot more than a crack like that to bother me.”

“What does bother you?”

“Hmm...What bothers me. Having to wear this generic crap after every job, the elimination of smoking, some drinks taste better with a good cigar. The fact that you keep insisting that you're a temporary consultant but I was told that I would begin training my new partner tonight. That bothers me most of all.”

*This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

About The Author...

Definitions of ourselves and who we are can be difficult to accept. It can be a challenge to change the way in which we look at ourselves that, from my understanding, has to do with the human ego.

My relationship with writing has been an interesting one so far. One of my greatest challenges has been with that pesky ego and how I look at myself. 

  I look at myself as a writer. Just a writer. A plain old warm beverage on a rainy day, just as comfortable as your favorite blue jeans or pajamas writer. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I know I can do. It’s what feels good to me.

My mother is an author. Being an intelligent woman, she likes to discuss things. Sometimes, I do too. Today, we got into a conversation about how being a writer has become more challenging in recent years, especially with the explosion of voices on social media. We discussed various aspects of it. I shared how I felt like I was stuck in some awkward in between stage with my work. Many words followed. After a time she looked at me and said, “Some day you are going to have to accept the fact that you are an author.”

We’ve had this conversation before.

I said the same thing that I always do, “I’m not an author, I’m a writer.”

There we were, two intelligent women with two different definitions of the word “author.”

She feels the title author is something the creator of a finished written work is free to use. It is one I should be happy to embrace. John Steinbeck was an author, Ernest Hemingway was an author, Agatha Christie was an author.

I agree with her on that point, I should be happy to embrace it. The problem is that I have never seen myself as one.

True confession: Although I have been working for several years toward a goal of becoming a working writer vis a vis supporting myself with my writing instead of working a separate day job in addition to writing, I didn’t go into it expecting to become an author.

I see an author as someone who is deep and profound. They entertain you but also make you stop and think. They make you look at your life and wonder at it, wonder if you want to change it, or leave you wondering if you should be doing more for others. They leave a reader changed after they close the book. They look like matching suits or dresses with stockings, along with matching hats and gloves. They win Nobel prizes and their writing is required reading in college courses. Sometimes they give commencement speeches. Other times, they record battles on foreign lands or comment on major societal changes in their own home towns. In my mind, they rarely look like me. They rarely look like jeans and a t-shirt. Especially a t-shirt with a snarky comment on it.  I kind of have a thing for those.

My relationship with writing first and foremost, is a love story. I come to it because I want to, l love to, and some part of me needs to. Whether I am sitting in my Big Writing Chair in High Command, sprawled out on my living room floor with pages strewn all over, white board and diagrams at the ready or stretched out across my bed with a laptop, as I am now, it’s a quiet place, it is a place where all of the parts of me are accepted. Writing is home. As long as I'm writing, regardless of all other variables, I will always be at home. It holds few expectations of me. I expect less of it. I have a long list of hopes. They are just that hopes.

To find myself, here in my bedroom during the late moments of my quickly dwindling weekend contemplating finding a way to change the way I see myself; it’s one of the last things a person expects to find themselves doing on a Sunday night.

I consulted my dictionary tonight looking up both the definitions of a writer and an author in search of information to help me prove my point. There was nothing under the definition of the word “author” that read, “creator of great literary works that have won awards and critical adoration” or even one that reads “Not you HR.” Nor was there a picture of me next to the word “writer.” They appear to be very close and virtually interchangeable which begs the question, “Why is the title ‘Author’ more widely accepted while it also appears to have more weight and validity in our society? That’s probably a question for another time.

I hope it is not what I’m thinking about when I close my eyes tonight. 

Sleepy writer, needs rest. 

Thanks Mom for the discussion.

In the words of Captain Kirk, “It has been noted and logged.”

P.S. Seriously though, I’m working on it.

A City Detective’s Night In The Country--Excerpt "Heather Darling and the Case of the Clockwork Cannibal" HR Apostos

When Ian and I come into the house after an early morning tour of the farm, we find Detective Farina sitting at the dining table. He’s still in his pajamas and his head is resting on the table. A mug of coffee sits on the table next to his head and is cooling by the second. I’m not going to say anything. Luckily, Ian does it for me. I am returning to the kitchen after washing up to make breakfast just as Ian sits down next to the detective with his own steaming mug.

He studies the detective’s unmoving form, “I think that you’ve finally done it Lassie.”

“What?”

“Wore the poor lad out.”

“Impossible.”

I watch out of the corner of my eye as my father puts his head on the table to study Farina even more closely. “The unruly hair, the red eyes, the drooling, the vacant expression...all marks of carnal overload.”

“Like I said. Impossible. We went to bed early.”

Ian begins to say something.

“And went to sleep.”

“No, no. Detective Farina does not have the look of a man that has seen a bit of sleep. You say that you went to bed early did ya?”

“Aye, the lad was put to bed early,” I say imitating my father’s Irish brogue. “Just like a wee bairn.”

Ian sits back up and says, “Bairn is a word of the Scotsman my girl.”

“I tried.”

“And a lovely try it was.” He says as he turns his attention back to the detective. “So what is it that robbed you of your sleep?”

“The trains, the wildcats, the coyotes, the frogs.” He says. He raises his head and looks at Ian. “Damn crazy frogs. Doesn’t anything ever go to sleep around here? It was awful. But nothing was as bad as the dancing zombies.”

Ian looks at me. “He’s been dancing with the zombies.” My father announces.

“And I thought that a man like you would be faithful. Shame on you Farina.”

The detective raises his head and glares at me.

“I finally nodded off some time this morning, when I closed my eyes there were frogs, coyotes, birds, and a train conductor. They were all zombies and they were all dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

“Which was the song that was playing when the alarm went off.” I say with a smile. I walk over to the dining table and rub the detective’s shoulders for a moment. I lean down and whisper. “It’s going to be forty-five minutes before breakfast is ready. Go back to bed.”

Farina wastes no time rising from his seat. Ian and I listen as the detective makes his way back to the bedroom. Farina’s groan of relief echoes through the house as he falls back into bed.

To The Hilts

“My room?” Tinkletoes asks.

“Everyone has a space.”

“Let’s take a look.” He says as he crosses to the metal door and opens it. Inside is a standard military issue cot and a standing locker with a pair of full length doors. Maps and diagrams of some of Tinkletoes’ light saber designs line the walls. There is a clock running in military time and a shadow box displaying the history of hand grenades with bullets lining the outside edge. The self-proclaimed mercenary takes a few steps, stops in front of the locker and opens the door. Half of it stores back up t-shirts and sets of camos. The other side holds light saber parts, tools, and weapons storage.

“Well...what do you think?” House asks.

“Everything looks orderly. Plenty of supplies. I like the grenade bin. Nice work.”

“Of course.” House says. “Lay down on the cot.”

“Where are my hilts?”

“Safe. Lay down on the cot.”

“I came here for my hilts.” Tinkletoes counters.

“You’ll get them. Lay down first.”

A growl emanates from Tinkletoes’ throat.

“Who wants another pancake?” Writer Lady calls.

Dylan runs to her side, empty plate held out in anticipation of more food.

“I don’t know Dylan. You’ve already had three and these are almost the size of the plate.” Writer Lady says.

Dylan looks up at her with big eyes. “I’m still hungry.”

“Rough night huh?”

“I was up all night slaying ninja-zombies with Dobby in the Midlands.”

“The Midlands?”

“The lands between Earth and Faerie. They had already invaded Earth and Faerie was next.”

Writer Lady looks at Dobby. The ginger tabby looks up at her from his dish and shakes his head.

“Where was I?” She asks.

“Dead.” The tow-headed boy answers. “The grown-ups all bought it ages before I got there.” Dylan holds his plate closer to the skillet. “Can I have the pancake now?”

Writer Lady lifts the freshly fried cake on to his plate. “A big pancake for a big story. It’s a trade.”

“Thanks Writer Lady.”

Dylan accepts his prize with a grin and runs back to his seat. Writer Lady hears Ray comment from the other room.

“Whoa. That's your fourth pancake. A lot of food for such a little dude. Remember this is a no hurl zone. No tossing those things back up man.”

“Well?” House asks, waiting for a response

Tinkletoes closes his eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t feel like a cot.”

“It doesn’t. It has been enchanted to feel like a medium firm pillow top mattress with a feather bed topper. It also has 850 thread count sheets and a silk duvet.”

“That’s why I feel like I’m going to slide off.”

“Roll over.” House instructs.

“What?”

“Roll over.”

Tinkletoes looks at the edge of the cot. “How about if I just sit up.”

“You’re not going to roll off if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Tinkletoes does a slow roll, he settles himself on the left side of the mattress which is invisible to the naked eye. “I should be on the floor.” He says.

“You aren’t.” House squeals with delight. “I created a luxurious king size bed that looks like a military cot.”

Tinkletoes sits up. The self-proclaimed mercenary steps away from the cot and studies it. He gets down on his hands and knees to study underneath. “Excellent work. Now...where are my hilts?”

“All this and you're still carrying on about the hilts?” House releases a sigh. “Okay, fine. Look in the trunk at the foot of the cot.”

Within seconds Tinkletoes is at the trunk and lifting the lid. He looks inside and tucked at the bottom front are his hilts, they have been extracted from his gear bag and are tucked into their own individual holders. “Finally.”

“I told you they were safe.” House says.

“You did.”

A voice echoes through the room. “Changes will commence in five, four, three, two, one...”

The self-proclaimed mercenary reaches into the trunk to collect his treasures before he finds himself in another room entirely. He pulls his hand out of the trunk seconds before it and the rest of his room disappears around him. When everything around him stops moving he opens his hand. It’s empty. “$%^&!”

“You said a bad word.” Dylan says as he passes Tinkletoes with an empty plate in hand. Dylan returns within seconds.

“You’d say bad words too if you’d had the morning that I’m having.” Tinkletoes countered.

The four year old shakes his head. “You said a bad word. You have to go stand in the time out corner.”

Tinkletoes looks at Dylan. “I’m on a mission I don’t have time to stand in some stupid corner.”

“But you said a bad word.”

“That rule only applies to kids, I’m an adult. There’s no help for me at this point.”

Dylan points to the appropriate corner. “Time out.”

“How about this, you go stand in the corner for me, I’ll give you five dollars, and I’ll never say the word ever again.”

“That’s bribery.” Dylan says.

“How do you know?”

“Paige is my big sister, she knows everything.”

“I need to get my hilts. I’ll stand in the corner later. Okay?”

“Bribery and trying to get out of a time out means no story time.”

Tinkletoes raises an eyebrow and tries to hold back his grin. “No story time huh? I have been a bad boy.” The self-proclaimed mercenary attempts to look remorseful. “I really don’t deserve story time. I’ll have to live with it.”

“But you still have to stand in the corner.”

A crowd has gathered around them. Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady. “I don’t have to stand in the corner do I?”

“Tinkletoes has had a rough day.” Writer Lady says.

“He should stand in the corner.” House’s comment echoes throughout the room. “I know that it would make my day.”

“What is it that you always say?” Carp asks. “A good soldier is a good example for everyone around him.”

“Yeah Dude.” Ray agrees. “Be an example. He looks up to you.”

“Fine.” Tinkletoes says as he walks to the appropriate corner. “I’ll stand in the corner. Nobody’s allowed to watch.”

The group makes haste leaving the area.

Dylan stays long enough to hug Tinkletoes’ arm and whisper a quick, “Thank you,” before running from the room.

The self-proclaimed mercenary stares at the corner without uttering a single word.

“You didn’t have to do that.” House whispers.

“It’s for the kid.”

“Not that. You didn’t have to get so angry. Your quarters are enchanted to move on a regular basis for security purposes. Mural Man and I thought that you would like it.”

Tinkletoes’ watch beeps and numbers flash on the display. “What’s this?”

“What does it look like?”

“These are the coordinates of my room and the time...”

“The time it will disappear from those coordinates.” House says. “Or...”

“Or?”

“Mural Man also suggested another enchantment. One in which you could access anything in your quarters by using similar means to all those space movies that you like.”

“Space movies? Sci-fi?”

“I think that’s what Mural Man called it. I wasn’t paying that much attention. He was talking about you.”

“Of course.” Tinkletoes thinks for a moment. He holds out one hand behind him and waits for one of the hilts to make it’s way into his grasp. His hand closes on the hilt and he pulls it to him looking at it joyfully. Hiding his smile quickly, he says. “His way is much easier."

Writer Lady stops in the entry. "Time out is over."

Tinkletoes looks at the ceiling. "Give my regards to Mural Man.”

 The self-proclaimed mercenary makes his way into the kitchen to find some pancakes.

*This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Night Out--Excerpt "Heather Darling and the Case of the Clockwork Cannibal" HR Apostos

In spite of Heather being fashionably challenged when it comes to attending concerts in pubs and Detective Farina’s intense love for my new dress, we make it to The Three Hounds in plenty of time to get good seats. Okay, Detective Jillian arrived early to see her friends. She had already taken custody of a table close to the stage on our behalf.

But, thanks to me, Heather is more appropriately dressed in skinny jeans (hers) and a Rolling Stones t-shirt (mine). I tried to get her to kick her make-up up a notch. Okay...Alice Cooper eyes. When I showed her what I would be using on her face she announced that if she agreed to it her esthetician would never forgive her and could dump her altogether. Apparently, it has taken her forever to find the right one. They put goop on your face and take it off again. How hard can it be to find someone capable of doing that?

Detective Farina on the other hand, pouted. I’m not kidding. He pouted when he saw that I had replaced my new dress with my favorite well-worn jeans and a t-shirt that reads, “If Ignorance Is Bliss Then You Must Be Ecstatic.” I offered him visitation with the dress, and asked him if he needed me to wear it or if he just wanted to take it to bed with him to cuddle. He did not appreciate my sense of humor. Duuude…seriously, it’s a dress.

“What’s the name of your friend’s band?” I ask Detective Jillian, while we watch the band go through a final sound check.

“There Might Be Bear.” she responds. While she’s talking to me about how long the band has been around, how long she has known the founder, and how they met, I notice that Heather is focused. On the band. She notices that I’m watching her and fidgets a little. Then she becomes an active participant in all of the conversations taking place around our table. None of us, other than Detective Jillian, have been to a performance in some time including Ian. Since he had been to Woodstock, he was the Hall of Famer of the group.

“What is the best concert that you’ve ever seen?” Heather asks Ian.

“I saw The Rolling Stones play Paris in 1967.”

“Not Woodstock?” She asks.

“Sometimes, it’s not just the memory of the concert. It can also be about what is happening in your life at that time. In 1967, I was a young man, just out of school. I had an exciting job at Scotland Yard making good money. The ladies loved me. I had been shot a few weeks before and nearly died. I had caught the bad guys and survived to tell the story. Life was good.” He looks at me. “Not as good as it is now. But it was one of the happier periods of my life.”

One of the bartenders steps out onto the stage and says, “Please give a warm welcome to one of our favorite visitors…There Might Be Bear.”