Part 1 - Just an Ordinary Couple (by Rune Woodman)
May 20th 2007 10:17
The sound of sirens echoed through Castlereagh Street as I hitched up my dress and ran for my life. It was three in the morning and you can’t believe how much I appreciated my choice that night to wear the ball gown with the thigh high split.
I wasn’t so thankful of the three inch sequined man killers on my feet. I stopped for a moment to remove them as my husband, Clyde, flew past me screaming over his shoulder, “For God’s sake, keep moving!”
He was mostly deaf in one ear, there was no point yelling back at him. With my shoes detached I looked back to Market Street. Much to my surprise we were not being followed. A police car screamed through the intersection and headed off to the other side of the city. Silence followed it.
“Hey!” I called out to Clyde. He continued blundering down the middle of the road. “HEY!”
He stopped and turned, “What are you doing?”
“We’re not being…” that wasn’t going to work. “COME HERE!” He ran to me. I could see his chest heaving under his dinner suit. We were getting too old for this.
“Hey!” he said when he was closer. “We’re not being followed.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“YES!” his hearing got worse during sex and other aerobic exercise. He could have used a hearing aid but he claimed he didn’t need one yet. That's what he said instead of saying they were too expensive.
We were good at our jobs, or at least we had been once. Tonight was to have been a very smooth and simple operation. I was to meet the owner of a very fashionable clothing store at a party in the ballroom of the Westin Hotel. I’ve been charming him for weeks. Clyde was to be there mingling with the crowd.
Fashion Store Man and I were to sneak out to have an exclusive peek at his latest shipment, direct from Italy, at his shop around the corner. The garments had arrived that afternoon; no one in the country had seen them yet. Using my womanly ways I was to keep him busy on the floor while Clyde snuck in behind us and photographed the collection then dashed out. The whole thing should have been done and dusted in under 10 minutes. Fashion Store Man would get little more than a quick kiss and a grope, then take me back to the party. Clyde would take the images to our client who would make them into patterns and have them on sale in his budget outlets by Monday morning. Clyde was to exchange the photos for a reasonable fifty thousand dollars in cash.
Instead, we were standing in the middle of the city, with no photos, out of breath and from the look on Clyde’s face - one of us was on the verge of a heart attack. Not to mention that there’d be no cash and a very pissed off client waiting for us at the Hyde Park Obelisk.
The plan had gone beautifully until Clyde was about to take the first photo. He thought he heard me cry for help. With the education of a gentleman Clyde could not ignore a woman in distress (there are so few like him left these days). As a result, Fashion Store Man got a punch in the nose that he didn’t deserve and we were forced to leg it out of the shop and up the road thinking we were being chased by sirens that didn’t apply to us.
I should introduce myself, my name is Raiiney. My husband Clyde and I are generally for hire to anyone with the right amount of money for almost any task. Espionage and blackmail are our specialties. I’m VERY pretty and Clyde’s an excellent photographer. For the last ten years we’ve managed to keep it together and earn some reasonably good money, but we’re not getting anywhere. We spend faster than we earn, we have no real-estate to our names, there’s no direction in our lives and we’re not getting any younger. Clyde’s put on a kilo or two and I’ve recently discovered my first major wrinkle that make-up cannot disguise.
“What do we do now?” Clyde asked.
“We’ve got a client to meet,” I leant on Clyde as I squeezed my feet back into my shoes.
“We can’t go see him without the photos!” he complained.
“Don’t worry, I have an idea. We can still turn this around to our advantage. Come on.”
“What?” he asked.
“Come ON!”
“Oh, OK.”
I wasn’t so thankful of the three inch sequined man killers on my feet. I stopped for a moment to remove them as my husband, Clyde, flew past me screaming over his shoulder, “For God’s sake, keep moving!”
He was mostly deaf in one ear, there was no point yelling back at him. With my shoes detached I looked back to Market Street. Much to my surprise we were not being followed. A police car screamed through the intersection and headed off to the other side of the city. Silence followed it.
“Hey!” I called out to Clyde. He continued blundering down the middle of the road. “HEY!”
He stopped and turned, “What are you doing?”
“We’re not being…” that wasn’t going to work. “COME HERE!” He ran to me. I could see his chest heaving under his dinner suit. We were getting too old for this.
“Hey!” he said when he was closer. “We’re not being followed.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“YES!” his hearing got worse during sex and other aerobic exercise. He could have used a hearing aid but he claimed he didn’t need one yet. That's what he said instead of saying they were too expensive.
We were good at our jobs, or at least we had been once. Tonight was to have been a very smooth and simple operation. I was to meet the owner of a very fashionable clothing store at a party in the ballroom of the Westin Hotel. I’ve been charming him for weeks. Clyde was to be there mingling with the crowd.
Fashion Store Man and I were to sneak out to have an exclusive peek at his latest shipment, direct from Italy, at his shop around the corner. The garments had arrived that afternoon; no one in the country had seen them yet. Using my womanly ways I was to keep him busy on the floor while Clyde snuck in behind us and photographed the collection then dashed out. The whole thing should have been done and dusted in under 10 minutes. Fashion Store Man would get little more than a quick kiss and a grope, then take me back to the party. Clyde would take the images to our client who would make them into patterns and have them on sale in his budget outlets by Monday morning. Clyde was to exchange the photos for a reasonable fifty thousand dollars in cash.
Instead, we were standing in the middle of the city, with no photos, out of breath and from the look on Clyde’s face - one of us was on the verge of a heart attack. Not to mention that there’d be no cash and a very pissed off client waiting for us at the Hyde Park Obelisk.
The plan had gone beautifully until Clyde was about to take the first photo. He thought he heard me cry for help. With the education of a gentleman Clyde could not ignore a woman in distress (there are so few like him left these days). As a result, Fashion Store Man got a punch in the nose that he didn’t deserve and we were forced to leg it out of the shop and up the road thinking we were being chased by sirens that didn’t apply to us.
I should introduce myself, my name is Raiiney. My husband Clyde and I are generally for hire to anyone with the right amount of money for almost any task. Espionage and blackmail are our specialties. I’m VERY pretty and Clyde’s an excellent photographer. For the last ten years we’ve managed to keep it together and earn some reasonably good money, but we’re not getting anywhere. We spend faster than we earn, we have no real-estate to our names, there’s no direction in our lives and we’re not getting any younger. Clyde’s put on a kilo or two and I’ve recently discovered my first major wrinkle that make-up cannot disguise.
“What do we do now?” Clyde asked.
“We’ve got a client to meet,” I leant on Clyde as I squeezed my feet back into my shoes.
“We can’t go see him without the photos!” he complained.
“Don’t worry, I have an idea. We can still turn this around to our advantage. Come on.”
“What?” he asked.
“Come ON!”
“Oh, OK.”
| 44 |
| Vote |
Subscribe to this blog
Comment by Competitionqueen.com