Two Sentence Tuesday #6

A blonde enigma in a red dress walked into my office with a Swisher Sweet nestled between her lips and a wily twinkle in her eye.  Her voluptuous saunter would have had even the most devout preacher longing to sin it up and I was no altar boy… 

Love

Love

What an enigma you are;

A circulating puzzle in my thoughts;

A voice inside my head,

Playfully screaming to remind me

That I’ll never get the answer

Right.

I quantify and rationalize you,

From here to the burning oceans

Of the sun,

Yet you remain the smoke

My fingers grasp at in vain...

An ever-elusive source of despair.

Perhaps I’ll figure you out,

Someday…

Maybe bring your mysteries

Under a floodlight of elucidation

And dial down the invisible voice

From gale roar to gentle friend.

The Conspiracy Theorists' Ball - Part Two

The poll has closed and here is the selected choice in my "Choose Your Own Adventure" story. Thank you for reading and thank you for voting!

The Conspiracy Theorists’ Ball – Part II (Choice A)

By Brandon Palzkill

            “No good can come of walking into that deathtrap,” Adam thought to himself as he left his office later that evening.

            He had deliberated on his choices over the course of four hours two glasses of whiskey and he had finally arrived at what he considered to be the sensible decision. He was by no means a coward, but the idea of a nighttime rendezvous with some mystery caller on the seedy side of town had filled him with an unease that he couldn’t shake; who knew what awaited him if he brashly hopped in his car and drove off into the darkness? Adam much preferred his other option; he knew the neighborhood and the client so he didn’t expect any surprises.

However, his afternoon had not gone entirely surprise-free. He had just barely inserted his car key into the lock when he realized that his car seemed noticeably off. It took little of his keen intelligence to realize that he had a flat tire, where after he cursed his so-called intelligence for failing to replace his long-since missing spare. He kicked the defeated and deflated wheel and cursed under his breath, before he relocked his car doors and spent the next five minutes trying to hail a taxi.

Twenty five minutes later, the fading crimson sun steadily sank below the ever-darkening horizon as the cab rolled to a halt in the driveway of a palatial three story manor. Adam counted about fifteen rooms that he could see from the front of the house and the three car garage looked big enough to enclose his office five times over. The increasingly shadowy grounds appeared lush and meticulously tended to and he was sure that he would have been dazzled by vibrant greens, reds, blues, and violets under a full, midday sun. Adam had never been invited to a rich client’s home for a consultation before and, on the whole, he was impressed to see how the other half lived.

He rang the doorbell and peered through the door’s intricately etched frosted glass panes, on the lookout for signs of movement. The entrance hall seemed dark and still and devoid of any kind of activity as he stared intently through the glass. All too soon, however, the echo of approaching footsteps rang over the hardwood floor and a silhouetted figure had soon stood out in the darkness. The figure became vaguely clearer as he reached the obscuring glass of the door, but didn’t come into complete focus until Adam was standing face to face with him.

The man before him was indeed Sheldon Fincher, renowned legal eagle. He was a man of about fifty two, a head shorter than Adam, with faded ginger hair. A grim, troubled frown accented his lined face, making him almost look as though he had a toothache.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Barnes,” he said, solemnly extending his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Adam replied, shaking hands. “Your reputation certainly precedes you.”

Mr. Fincher stood aside and motioned him through the door.

“I regret that our meeting has less to do with my professional affairs as it does my personal matters,” Fincher lamented. “I’ve called you I have an issue of a truly personal nature that requires your talents.”

Adam was intrigued to hear more and eagerly allowed himself to be directed to Fincher’s study. Once there, Fincher offered him a seat in front of his desk before walking over to his bar and pouring two glasses of a nicer scotch than any that Adam had ever stocked on his own shelf. When Fincher finally sat down, he had a stern, businesslike demeanor.

“So…” Adam started, “what can I do for you, Mr. Fincher?”

“If I might be candid,” Fincher started, “I’ve contacted you because need your assistance in unearthing my wife’s possible indiscretions.”

If Adam had a nickel for every conversation he had had which started with that sentence, he would have a house bigger than Fincher’s.

“And why do you suspect your wife?”

“She’s been distant and terribly secretive as of late…”

“Okay,” Adam considered, “do you have anything else to make you believe she’s cheating?”

Adam sat through interviews with many a paranoid and insecure husband or wife who had deluded themselves into believing that their spouse was having an affair without so much as a peculiar makeup smudge to back it up. As such, Adam never accepted “I have a hunch” as a legitimate argument. Fincher looked quietly frustrated and paused before speaking, as though choosing his next words carefully.

“I have noticed things,” he finally spoke. “On two occasions that I know of, she had lied about visiting friends downtown. I have also heard her having hushed phone conversations late at night when she thought I was asleep… I’m neither delusional nor foolish, Mr. Barnes; I wouldn’t have called you without cause.”

“I apologize if I’ve insulted you, Mr. Fincher,” Adam interjected. “In my experience, people often hit the panic button before they’re sure. How can I assist you in this matter?”

“I had always suspected my wife of marrying me for my wealth, so she agreed to sign a rock-solid prenuptial agreement; if she is proved to be unfaithful, she gets nothing. Part of me was naïve enough to think that it might keep her from straying… perhaps, it would seem, I was wrong. But I need proof to be absolutely certain.”

 “Understandable,” Adam answered. “If there’s any proof to be found, I can definitely dig it up.”

“Of course,” Mr. Fincher added, “it would be more of a relief if you find that she hasn’t been unfaithful at all, but if she has, I’m comforted to have someone of your reputation on the…”

A sultry cooing echoed through the supposedly empty hallway beyond the office door and was followed by low, indistinct grumble. Adam motioned for silence then stealthily leaped from his seat and reached the light switch, cloaking the office in sudden blackness. He stood at the door, which had been left minutely ajar, and listened into the hallway.

“Of course he’s not here.”

“But he could come home at any moment.”

“Not a chance; he practically lives in his office. It’s just you and me, and we have hours.”

The chatter was broken by soft smacking sounds and accompanied by rustling as they appeared to be struggling across the hardwood floor. The sounds soon shifted upstairs, punctuated by the fading of a woman’s delighted giggling, and Adam looked at the enraged and shocked Fincher digging his fingernails into the desktop.

“Wait here,” Adam whispered.

He quietly inched the door open and slid through the gap. Fincher did as instructed and sat stiffly at his desk, listening to the silence and struggling with the desire to do something violent to his cheating harlot of a wife and her contemptible lover.

“HEY!!! WHAT ARE YOU…”

“WHAT THE…”

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

The sudden outburst upstairs had snapped Fincher back to his senses and he was confused as he listened to heavy footsteps strutting proudly and assuredly down the stairs and toward the office. The door was pushed open and the lights were thrown back on. There stood Adam Barnes, victoriously in the doorway, a camera clutched tightly in his hand.

“It’s a little X-rated, but I think I have your proof…”

THE END

The Conspiracy Theorists' Ball - Part One

Here is the first installment of my "Choose Your Own Adventure" story. The trick is that each installment will end with a decision that our fearless hero has to make (that is, unless the installment ends with his untimely demise) and it will be up to you, the reader, to decide where he goes from there. To do this, you need only cast your vote in the poll on this blog. At the end of the week, the option with the most votes is the winner. Now... let's get interactive!

The Conspiracy Theorists’ Ball – Part I

By Brandon Palzkill

            It was the late afternoon and deep tangerine sunlight streaked across Adam Barnes’ desk as he peered somberly through a file folder.  His shaking hand grasped blindly for the nearly empty glass of whiskey that sat dangerously close to the edge of his desk while his eyes focused resolutely on the face of the young man staring back at him. The pampered-looking boy, all of about twenty, sat unmoving in the three inch by five inch photograph that had been affixed to the dossier of the private investigator’s case file.

The boy had been the only heir to a billion dollar Oil Empire and was last seen leaving a club at around four AM, a little more than a week ago. He was well known for his hard partying lifestyle so nobody gave much thought to his absence over the next two days, but when someone found his car in a ditch, seven miles outside of town on Highway Twenty Nine, a panic ensued. The police scoured the area thoroughly for two more days but had come up with less than nothing and the standard forty eight hour window had already long passed them by, which made the boy’s father eager to call for Adam’s services.

They always called him. Sure he was the only private investigator in the city but he was also damn good at what he did. With his keen senses and analytical mind, he was able to make short work of any investigation. There were few cases that he couldn’t solve and fewer criminals who he’d been unable to expose, which was why he found it so puzzling that the police hadn’t consulted him yet. When they and the boy’s father finally did seek out his expertise, he had eagerly offered his services, assuring the boy’s father that his son would be found in no time.

True to his word, he had found the boy, every bit as fast as he said he would… or rather, he what was left of him. His killers were savage and merciless and left him in several pieces, scattered throughout an old paper mill. He thumbed to the back of the file and found the crime scene photos; it was a horror story that eternally burned itself into his memory. His stomach rumbled and sloshed queasily. He hastily pawed for the glass to take a sip of cure-all and knew by the chiming tinkle rumbling off the floor that he had missed.

“Damn it,” He groaned, tossing the file aside.

As if on cue, the door opened and Maggie, Adam’s secretary, walked in. The setting sunlight caught her strawberry blonde hair in a way that made it look like wavy locks of fire. Her pale green eyes found the sad puddle of booze and glass and she heaved a heavy sigh.

“Yes?” Adam sniped.

Maggie had worked for Adam long enough to know not to take his shortness personally. She understood that he always took it bad when his cases went south and this case had gone as far south as hell. His ability to still care so much was one of the reasons that he had earned her respect and she considered suffering the backlash of his bitterness to be a small price.

“I thought you’d needed some quiet drinking time,” she said; “so I held your calls.”

She set two notes down on top of the opened file folder and gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Would you like me to clean that up for you?” Maggie asked.

“Thanks,” Adam muttered. “But don’t worry about it. I got it.”

Maggie watched with gentle curiosity while Adam went to work cleaning up the broken glass. He felt self-conscious and slightly sheepish as her gaze bored into the back of his head and was caught off guard when he nicked himself on a broken shard of glass and Maggie had been the one to give a sharp intake of breath.  

“Look…” he awkwardly blurted out; “you don’t need to stick around. I’m planning on calling it an early day. Take off; have some fun.”

The slightest hint of disappointment shone in Maggie’s eyes and when she gave him another smile, it looked somewhat forced.

“You got it, boss.” She answered. “I might suggest, though, that you should probably check those messages before you leave, too. I’ll see ya’ tomorrow.”

She disappeared through the door and Adam felt an inexplicable need to call her back. He knew what it meant but he didn’t have the courage to say it aloud. For tonight, at least, it was all for the best. He was not going to make for good company, nor did he feel like being in the company of others for the rest of the evening.

 No sooner had Adam spotted Maggie stepping out onto the sidewalk heading for her bus when he buried the file in the deepest reaches of his file cabinet and sacked out on the couch with a fresh glass in his hand, eager to imbibe a little liquid lullaby. Before he took his first sip, however, he had noticed one of the message slips on the floor; clearly, it must have fallen off when he picked up the folder. He grabbed it and set it next to the other slip of paper and then he figured that he might as well give them a glance while he was still sober enough to read.

The first message was listed as being from an “S. Fincher,” which he surmised to be Sheldon Fincher, the high powered attorney:

“Mr. Barnes,

I require your assistance in a matter of the utmost importance and discretion. Please join me at my home this evening at half past eight, where I might give you a greater explanation of my troubles. I can be found at 210 Nightingale Lane. I hope to see you then and wish that I might have the opportunity to make use of your talents.

Sincerely,

S. Fincher”

He knew that neighborhood. That was a swanky gated community and most of its residence made in a month what Adam failed to make five years time. Any case that could come out of that neighborhood might keep the lights burning for a good long while. However, that thought had no sooner crossed his mind when a second thought replaced it; he couldn’t handle another missing child at the moment.

The second message was altogether vexing. That there had been no name attached to it was only one of its mysteries; the whole message seemed to be an enigma:

“Adam Barnes,

Something disastrous will happen in the next few days unless you can stop it. Meet me tonight beneath the bridge at 2004 MacDougal Drive at eight forty five, sharp… Trust no one.”

That was certainly not a safe place to be when the sun goes down. It was located deeply within the city slums but near the outskirts, where the river passed through the old industrial district. He couldn’t begin to imagine the sort of clientele that would ask to meet him at such a place, nor the sort of job that he might be asked to perform when he got there.

Adam read and reread both of those messages and was uncertain if he was admiring Maggie’s accuracy or her flare for the dramatic in her message taking abilities. Either way, his interest was definitely piqued. The only trouble was he could never make it to both of them; they were on opposite sides of the city. What was he going to do?

Will Adam:

A.)   Seek his fortunes on the rich side of town?

B.)   Delve into the mysteries of the slums?