Round 2 - The Picture Round (Reffy vs. Jor)

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

[Jenny (Reffy)]

“Good morning. Cantor Fitzgerald Financial Services. How can I help?” I unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn.

“Morning. Bernard Cantor, please. It's Lisa from HR,” she doesn’t sound happy. I’m not sure how anybody could be upset on such a beautiful day. Its marvellous blue sky for as far as the eye can see and it’s quite warm already. It’s going to be an amazing day.

An amazing day to die.

“Give me a second,” I put Lisa on hold.

Bernard’s phone rings a few times. I scribble on my notepad while I wait for him to pick up; a typical flower complete with ladybug. A cursory glance tells me it’s only just turned eight thirty. I shouldn’t even be here yet. I don’t start until nine thirty on a normal day.

I don’t know that I only have sixteen minutes to live.

“Yes?”

“I have Lisa from HR on the phone for you.”

There’s a slight pause on his end. I assume he’s trying to find a way out of taking the call. I can hear typing through the ear-piece. He's probably checking his schedule or trying to find the last correspondence from her. Human Resources is always on his case about staffing or wages. “What are you doing here so early?”

He's stalling. I can't blame him. I can almost imagine the irritated Lisa on the other end of the phone listening to the irritating hold music tapping her pen against the desk: tick-clack-tick. “Catching up on a few tasks,” I mumble, looking at the stack of filing and unrecorded receipts. The ladybug has been joined by a butterfly.

If I knew I only had sixteen minutes to live things would have been so different. For starters, I would never have stayed in the building. I would have gone outside and as far away as possible.

I always wanted to swim with turtles in Australia. That was a dream of mine. Rick and I never had babies either. It was a plan of ours but we never got around to it; his job got in the way and we wanted to save money first. It sounds stupid but even the small things like not finishing the series we were watching together. It was those that would hurt the most.

“Fine. Put her through,” he finally gives in and takes the call. I transfer her and put the phone down with a clunk. I don't manage to hide the little smirk as I can hear Bernard through the wall hamming it up to Lisa. I sit for a few seconds listening to the rise and flow of the one-sided conversation as it bumbled through the wall to me. I can't make out the words but from the sounds of it he's already fed up with where the conversation is going.

I come back to the present with a thud as some more of my colleagues enter the room. Other eager and early starters. I realise that the filing will not get done on it's own. With a heavy sigh I get up to sort it out; a task I’ve never enjoyed but while the phones are mostly quite it’s a good time to do it. I won’t have a chance later.

I don't get that chance. The filing will never get done. Fifteen minutes.

The pile of paperwork could fill garbage truck and I’d gladly put it all in there but it is financial records which need to be kept a minimum of a few years. I’m not exactly sure of the legal requirement. I was only hired to be a receptionist. I don’t actually need to know this stuff.

The stack of paperwork is heavy to pick up and difficult to move as it all shifts and threatens to spill to the floor. I do the rest of it in a couple of trips, not wanting to make my job any more difficult.

Paperwork would be the least of this company's worries soon.

I'm hot with effort by the time all of the paperwork is spread before the relevant filing cabinet. I use the back of my wrist to dab away some dampness along my brow and mumble something about the air-con. Maintenance promised to fix it weeks ago.

At least the cabinets look out over the city and I can open the windows to gain some air. I sneak a peek out. It’s already grid locked out there on the streets below. The cars all look like toys from this far up. We’re on floor one hundred and one in the north tower. Seeing the traffic jam I realise I probably did the right thing in coming up here early. It’s better than sitting in a car for a good twenty minutes while waiting for the next five second gap of moving. There’s nothing worse than turning up to work with sweaty armpits and greasy hair, even though you’d showered that morning.

The shower felt good this morning. Getting out of bed didn't. I’d left Rick, snoozing, wrapped up in the light sheet. I didn’t wake him. I didn’t want to disturb him.

He never got a chance to say goodbye.

Ten minutes to live.

I set to filing. A few more colleagues pass-by each issuing a chirpy good morning. The phone rings a few times; they're calling on the personal lines. I'm left in my own little world of filing uninterrupted. The minutes disappear quickly. I'm thinking about what to do for dinner. Rick and I have a local steakhouse that has seating outside. If the great weather continues, which it looks like it will, then we could go there and catch the last few rays of sunshine.

Less than thirty seconds.

My thoughts about dinner are suddenly interrupted by a commotion coming from the hallway. A few people are shouting but it's difficult to make out any of the words. I recognise a few from the opposite offices. It's panic as they push their way towards the other side of the building; the side I am on. Others have gone for the elevator or stairs. The room has flooded with people that push me against the wall. Each has a panicked look in their eyes.

I should have followed them down the stairs … but then, I don't think it would have made any difference. I would have died sooner.

A few of my colleagues are on their feet asking about what's going on but none of them are getting sensible answers. All I can make out is that it is something about a plane.

0 minutes.

Seconds later the whole building rocks and shudders violently. It's like the World Trade Centre decided to jump a few feet in the air just for fun. The noise is like fighter jet engine ripping apart unprotected eardrums. It doesn't show any signs of stopping. The nice day outside disappears as plumes of smoke crawl and roil passed windows. The electricity blinks once, then twice, and finally shuts down.

My mind jumps around in a panic: was it an earthquake, in New York? Not likely. An explosion? What happened? I only have a few seconds to think, in the squash of people around me, before the movement knocks me from my feet. I fall amongst others while some keep their feet and trample us. My screams join the song of pain and fear but nothing can be heard over the grinding and groaning of the twisting metal beneath us. Panes of glass explode and ceiling tiles fall, crashing over desks.

The heat in the room jumps as though somebody just opened a huge oven door. It doesn't seem to stop in it's relentless pursuit. The bodies, people, on the floor start to scream louder. It feels like we're sausages on a grill, each being turned and roasted and flame-licked.

I'm dead. I just don't know it yet.

The seconds seem to become minutes as the panic continues and consumes everybody around me. We're trapped. Some how I've managed to get to my feet. Eventually the grinding sound stops to be replaced by a doomed silence so heavy it threatens to drive me crazy. Far below I'm sure I can still hear somebody, a few people, screaming. There's the reassuring sound of fire engines and rescue crews. The high pitched squeal almost pleasure to my thundering ears. Already I'm covered in a weird beige dust and ash. The room is quickly filling up with smoke that appears to be streaming up the stairwells. I take a few experimental gulps of air and end up coughing them back out again. Everything hurts. The world is spinning slightly. I'm shaking.

“There's no phone line,” Leslie is not far from me. She's holding a phone to her ear and pushing buttons in a panic. She's jumped on to her desk to avoid the heat which is pouring through the floor towards us. She looks pale and is obviously cut somewhere; a small line of dirty red has trickled it's way across her forehead leaving a trail in the dust. Her hand shakes. “The fuck happened?” She looks at me with harrowing eyes.

None of us will ever know what truly happened. We're already rotting corpses waiting to be dug up.

Am I angry? Yes. Yes, I am. I am now. Angry that I never got the chance to achieve my dreams and do the things I wanted to do. Angry that I never got the chance to say goodbye and claim a final kiss. I was too young to die but I suppose they all say that. I was supposed to die old; to die in my own bed surrounded by grandchildren.

What gave them the right? The right to take others lives. It was another war. Another quarrel about fuel. Terrorism that would change the world. Another bit of propaganda.

Bernard's here. He must have gotten swept up in the rush of people. His suit is ruined by the ash; it's clinging to his already greying hair like sand clings to a wet foot at the beach. I manage stay standing but I'm wobbly and using the desk for support. The smoke is continuing to overtake the room. It's started to roil through the windows to be snacked up by the cooler air outside. The throng of people, those who are more with it than me, have already glued themselves to the windows. There's no window free of a person trying to gasp in fresh air. “Is everybody okay?” his voice is calm, unlike many of the others. He's used some of his shirt to cover his mouth. It sounds like he's taking charge. I'm a little relieved. “We need to find a way out and down.”

“What happened?” Leslie, she's crying now. A part of me wants to go over and comfort her but I haven't got any to give.

“Whatever happened we need to evacuate. I'll take the strongest and head down to see what happened. Find a route out.” He sets about finding a group of people who aren't panicking and that want to find a way out. Most of them have gathered over by the windows trying to get any kind of fresh air. Everything is covered in the light grey ash. It's like all colour has gone from the world.

I'm in no state to help. I'm not even sure I could move. The paperwork was blown away and the cabinets are no longer standing. Weirdly I realise how much the filing was wasted energy. I can feel the panic leaking out of my body. Now I just feel tired and immeasurably hungry. I only had two slices of toast this morning as I skipped out of the front door. I check to find my old desk. There was some candy in the drawers. Some thing has pushed my entire desk across the room along with the partitions. My stomach growls.

Food. Food was the only thing I could think about. Not whether I would be able to escape or if I would live. I didn't even think about Rick.

The group of people head down the stairs. I watch them go. The rest of us are left as stragglers. We all cluster near the windows, some lean out. The heat is intense and it's only climbing. The sweat just seems to move around the ash which is clinging to us. None of us speak. I suspect they can't find the energy. A sense of helplessness creeps in and seems to spread quickly. A cursory glance along the building sees more people clinging to a windowsill for air as the crush moves forwards. People are so desperate they've climbed out onto a precarious ledge and hang out for the cleanest air. I join the people against the edge. I look down and all I can see is smoke. Some times it parts to show fire and ambulance crews below. Other gaps reveal news reporters.

I won't see Bernard again. I don't think he survived. I don't think they ever found a way down.

Now all I am is another new story to report on.

A scream rises from our group. Nathan, from accounts, points in a panic. Somebody from a window below us has jumped. I'm not sure whether they jumped or if they just fell victim to the crush of people gasping for air. There's been a time or two where the push from behind me has been almost too much. His fall seems to last forever as he slowly tumbles. Morbidly some of us cannot take our eyes from him as he flies towards the ground. I look away at the last second but the sound is something I knew I would always remember.

Remember for the rest of my life.

“An explosion happened at the Trade Centre. I don't think I'll see you again. Just wanted you to know I love you. Take care of Patrick.”

Shocked I turn. I don't know the lady but I can see she's trying not to cry. She hangs up and moves back to the window. Suddenly and acutely, I remember Rick. He doesn't know. I wonder if it's better if he doesn't know. Do I, would I, have the confidence to say goodbye. What exactly do you say? She doesn't stop at the window. She swings another leg over and takes a jump. She wasn't crying when she jumped. She had a look of resignation on her face.

I do the maths. Rescue teams can't get up this high. They could never put out the fire. It's too dangerous to even enter the building. The realisation dawns: we'll never be rescued. The false hope at hearing the sirens dissipates. There is no hope. While I watch the lady fall another joins, and another, and even more. I would be sick, I feel like I could, but I can't. Instead I just cough and wretch. The phlegm brought back up is thick, black, and cloying. I hold on to the ledge to avoid falling over.

The choice, if you can call it that, was not easy. Stay and burn or jump and feel the fresh air on my face one more time. Suicide. Would it be my only option. Would it be worse to stay? Better to jump? Cook or splat. Hardly a choice.

Nobody here as any words of comfort or support to give. I suppose that I ought to say goodbye. A frog clasping my throat closed. For the first time since it happened, I cry. It only makes things worse. With each tear comes another cough and struggle to breathe. I know I'm hyperventilating but it's hard not to. It's hard to even think straight. The heat in the room has grown beyond pain. It feels like ... it feels like being an ant underneath a magnifying glass. I can feel my skin starting to burn.

I dial his number. I can't get through. There must be millions of people doing the same as me. The network is swamped. I get his answer-phone. Maybe it's better that way. He can keep my voice then … and I don't need to answer his questions or hear his panic. I don't have to tell him directly. The indirectness will help.

"Hi," I still don't know what to say! "I love you," awkward pause. I speed up not wanting him to know I'm scared; I'm terrified and in pain. "Know that I love you, lots. Don't worry. I'll be fine."

I hang up. That was terrible. I know he'll see through it. The last time he'll hear my voice. The last time I'll ever get to say what I wanted to say … and I can't! Words do not describe the feeling. Words cannot sum up how much I hurt and how much I just want to be in his arms. I've got to be strong for him. For me.

Another person jumps. She was crying. None of them have screamed on the way down. I can hear the screams from below … or maybe it's just my imagination. I must be more than a thousand feet up. Does sound carry that far? Can a human voice travel from the floor to me? Something explodes a few floors below. A rush of hot air licks up my back. The smoke is still here and getting darker.

I can feel the heat pushing me towards the window.

Towards the blue sky.

There's no other option now.

One last gulp and a large jump; it was more like a lean and let go but it was all I could muster.

I'm falling free now. The cool and fresh air pushes against me. It's like I've never felt fresh air before. I want to gulp it in. I want to swallow the whole sky but the pressure is too great. Maybe that's why the others didn't scream. They couldn't win against the wind.

I can feel it pulling against my shoulder length brunette hair as it ripples and snaps in the wind. The shirt I'm wearing is ripped and buttons fly off. I don't care. I open my arms like I'm flying, a majesty eagle, and enjoy the last few seconds of my life.

I can see the floor. All I can see is concrete and the red patches of others gone before me. It's approaching quickly. The screaming from below becomes real.

I'm sorry they had to see this. It was my only option.

[Deleted]

The Woman and the Sword

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Ken rapped his pen, again and again, on the edge of the desk. It was a dark brown oak, solid and old, but clearly well maintained. He should know - he used to have Rosanna scrub it down twice a day, to keep it polished and looking neat. It wouldn't have been any good to have some sort of foreign dignitary or government official be sitting across from him, and see a distracting smudge or chip. Ken smiled, At least Alyssa can do that right.

No, that wasn't fair. She was a cocksure little bitch, that much could be said. But she didn't rise as high as she did by accident. Alyssa Ross was a wunderkind - Ken hated that word, it was thrown around too easily - and while she might have risen too high, she did indeed deserve to fly. Icarus' problem wasn't merely the fact that he flew.

Ken had hoped her calling this meeting meant that the young CEO was ready to patch things over, to stand aside, to at least listen to him. He still had hope, but here she was, keeping him waiting. It was a cheap move, and might as well have been broadcast on a screen on the side of a zeppelin. A startling oversight, truth be told, from a woman who was all facade. Still, Ken wouldn't let it work. He wouldn't let her fluster him. I'll break the fucking desk in two, just tapping my pencil, he thought, grinning at the absurdity of the thought.

"Ah, Mr. Gary, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I just finished on the phone with Chairman Fang."

Name-dropping bitch. Ken arose to accept her handshake. "Hey, listen, no problem, Miss Ross. But, please, call me Ken."

She was in a pewter skirt suit, her auburn hair pulled back in a bun that was as tight as her ass. Ken watched it wiggle from side to side, ever so slightly, as she moved to take her seat behind the desk. My seat he thought, smiling at her with his pearly white teeth as he sat back down in his own chair.

"I would like to keep this professional, Mr. Gary, so forgive me if I don't do that." She smiled at him, her eyes bright and conciliar. Ken kept his smile going to.

"Hey, that works too, Miss Ross. So, uh, what can I do for you?" He leaned back in his chair, a casual stance, and folded his hands over his flat, trim stomach.

Alyssa leaned forward, all school girl posture, prim and proper, but her face as stern, serious, pulled taught. "I need an in with the Joint Chiefs." Ken moved to open his mouth, but she blocked him, "No, listen. I know you aren't Santa Claus. I'm not asking for a favour or a present, I'm trying to make a deal, so just listen."

Shrugging, Ken grinned. "Go ahead. Elevator pitch."

"This will take more than an 'elevator pitch,' Kenneth." She was frowning. Good. Let her be the rattled one. They had a name for Alyssa Ross when she first started at Olympus. 'Waterboard.' When it got back to her, the young analyst had assumed it was because 'being around her was torture.' And that was part of the double-entendre. But the real reason was simple. Someone had remarked that she had something stuck up her ass. And it had been Ken who had shot in, "Yeah. A waterboard." It was good that she was nervous and flustered.

Ken feigned confusion, "Oh, it's 'Kenneth' now is it? When you keep me waiting for fifteen minutes it's 'Mr. Gary'. And now you want your prick sucked and I'm 'Kenneth'? Please." He got to his feet, and began to button the button on his suit.

He expected her to rise to her feet, to plead, but she only leaned back in her chair. "Oh, please," she said, one eye-brow raised. "You wouldn't have come here in the first place if there wasn't something you wanted from me. Don't act like a spoiled child, Ken. Make a deal with me. Tell me what you need."

To bend you over that desk and fuck you silly. "I want back in at Olympus."

"Jesus Christ, Kenneth. Move on."

He slammed his fist down on the desk. "No! No. Alyssa, I was with this company from the start. I was here when Dino built this place. You were playing with Polly Pockets or ponies or whatever when we started from nothing, and I want back in. This isn't just a paycheck to me, my blood is in these walls."

"You are a former CEO. It would be unseemly."

Kenneth laughed uproariously. "You do know what this company does, right?"

"Don't patronize me, Kenneth."

"Or are you worried your dick doesn't measure up to mine? Think I've come to try and steal back the throne? You can relax, I'm over it. It was a bitch move, but it was crafty. Way I see it, you've won the right to this office, fair and square. I'm not gonna fuck with ya."

It was her turn to laugh. A chuckle, a giggle. He loved the way her slender fingers covered her mouth as it emanated from her full lips. "I know you don't respect me or my intelligence, but Jesus... You think I believe that? Listen, fine. You're back on at Olympus if you want."

He opened his mouth to protest, and then the last sentence sunk in. "Wait, what? Really?"

"Absolutely. As a lobbyist and liaison at the Capitol. I need an in with the Joint Chiefs. See, we've come full circle. Was that so hard?" She leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers, a coy pixie's smile on her face.

God, he wanted to smack that grin off of her face. Or fuck it off. He grit his teeth for a moment, and then sighed. "Fine, if that's the only way I'm getting on board, I'll do it. See, you back-stabbing bitch? That's how much I love this place."

"Oh, climb down off the cross, you will be handsomely paid. You'll make more than me - not on paper, of course."

"Naturally." Did this bitch think this was his first rodeo? "So what do you need from me? Or rather, what do you need me to get for you from Washington?"

She pivoted in her chair from side to side, that impish grin still on her face. Her eyes were so blue, and her chin came to tiny little point. "What do you know about Tamba Olecha?"

"It doesn't ring a bell," Ken lied. He wanted to hear what she knew, or at least what she thought she knew. Alyssa either fell for his lie, or was willing to humour him. Either way, she reached for a small black remote. Her projector came down, and a video from her PC began to play. It was silent, but Alyssa narrated from her desk.

"Tamba Olecha," Alyssa said as a young black male appeared on the screen. "A warlord in the DRC." A young black man was on the screen, in army fatigues. He might have been handsome, but he was scowling in the photo. "One of many, though there are fewer and fewer each day." The video cut to Olecha standing over a tied and restrained man. He raised a crooked dagger high, and plunged it into the man's chest. The video cut again to fingers, ostensibly Olecha's, tearing it in half. Then, the fingers brought it to a pair of lips, and Olecha's waiting maw ate a chunk of it.

Ken didn't flinch. "Pleasant fellow," he purred.

Alyssa ignored him. "Olecha is poised to set up a government in the DRC. The first since the Poyyo Administration fell in 2017. He's united something like a half-dozen tribes, has the support of most of the old generals."

Ken nodded, "Ah, but he's not the only one in such a fortuitous position, is he?"

"You're smarter than you look," she replied.

"You're about as smart as you look," he said, and let her work that one out.

Though again, the young woman ignored him. "Tippu Tipp. An alias, but I'm not sure of his real-name." Another black man appeared on the screen, though this one was older, a wiry grey beard on his face, an eyepatch over his eye. "Tipp has support in the Democratic Republic, but not as much. But he does have -"

"The Chinese."

"Are you fucking wasting both of our time, Kenneth?" she grumbled, turning the feed off. The projector made a small whirring sound as it rolled back up.

Ken shrugged, feigning innocence. "I just wanted to see that we had the same information, Miss Ross. But, I'm not sure I see your point. The DRC is a shit-hole, except where it isn't. And it is where it isn't because of warlords and government officials already bought and paid for."

Alyssa smiled, "You should have shut your mouth and let me keep going with my presentation. Because, see, that's where you're wrong. My contacts in Lahore have confirmed that there are, about to be discovered, vast gold reserves that are untapped there. And not just that. New diamond mines, and even an underground fresh water reservoir. And, yes, oil. It's a veritable cornucopia of natural resources."

Now that was interesting. Bombing for oil had become passe after the Obama Administration. His successor had been unwilling to either go to war or drill domestically. His successor had deigned to drill, baby, drill. Still, it was the icing on the cake. But the real meat was the gold, the water. After the 2019 financial crisis, gold was worth it's weight in, well... you know. And water. Water was quickly becoming everything. It was only a matter of time that the US Government moved into Canada for all of their water, but no President wanted "invaded Canada" as part of his or her legacy, and so the buck was passed. Yes, the Joint Chiefs would be very interested in this.

Ken pretended to mull it over. "I see, I see." Then, when he felt he had played the part sufficiently, he chimed in. "How sure is your contact in Lahore? Be straight with me: who is your contact in Lahore?"

"A professor. A real prodigy type. He works with Doctors Without Boarders, but he's clandestinely a surveyor. He goes into places like this, pokes around, sees what he can find, and then sells that information to the highest bidder."

"And that was you." Suddenly, Alyssa's ineptitude was making sense. She wasn't fucking up - she was making investments.

She must have sensed his praise bubbling beneath his surface, because she smiled, her first smile that seemed genuine, not for show or condescension. "That was me. I plan on, with the permission and, er, military assistance of the US government, to support Tamba Olecha. Tippu Tipp is a real fundamentalist-type, and, as I said, already in bed with Beijing."

"Does Fang know about the cornucopia, do you think?"

She shrugged, "That's what I was trying to ascertain. I still don't know. That's the problem with these Chinese - they've got their fingers everywhere, so when you find one under your bed, it could mean everything, or nothing. But, either way, we've got to move fast."

Ken again pretended to think. Then, eventually, he stood up and offered his hand. "I accept your job offer, Miss Ross."

"Welcome back to Olympus, Mr. Gary. And, please. Call me Alyssa."

* * * * * *

Alyssa Ross was a fucking wreck. How had he ever found that weepy bitch attractive? She kicked and screamed as the large young man in the cheap suit lifted her off of her feet. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN'T! YOU CAN'T! I'M THE CEO! I WORKED SO HARD!" Her face was beet-red, a snot bubble filled and burst.

Kenneth Gary, Founder, CEO, and Director of Titan Industries, only grimaced. "Jesus Christ, Miss Ross, get ahold of yourself. Your severance was more than generous. There is no reason your children's-children's-children's-children can't be one-percenters. You're acting as if I've killed your best friend! The simple fact is, dear, that I rose, and you fell. You plummeted. The Sword of Damacles was above your head, and someone cut the thread." He chuckled, and all gathered chuckled with him, but that seem to make the young woman cry all the more.

"My blood is in these walls!" she shrieked as the security guard pulled her out of the room finally. Kenneth peered up at her as she said that, and he thought he saw the bitch grin and wink. No. Couldn't have.

He ignored her, and turned to his guests. "Ladies, sirs. Forgive that outburst. I am ashamed to say that Miss Ross was once a valued and trusted colleague. I took her under my wing. She showed promise, but it would appear she has crumbled under the pressure. Pray for her, will you Reverend?"

The reverend nodded. "I sure will Mr. Gary," he said, beaming.

"So, Mr. Gary, did you ever expect to be back in your old office?" it was President Warsame who spoke now, smiling at him. President Sanchez had turned Kenneth Gary away that day, when, after meeting with Alyssa Ross, he had made the trek to the Capitol in his first - and last - mission as Government Liaison for Olympus. So, when Sanchez had said no, Kenneth Gary merely walked over to Congress, and met with the House Majority Leader. Warsame and Gary had made their pact that day, along with the Reverend, with the right union reps, generals. All very boring political stuff, Ken remembered. A crushing defeat in the Presidential Election saw President-Elect Warsame ascend. And when Tippu Tipp had his men perform clitorectimies on sixteen little girls, President Warsame had given an impassioned speech on how such a vulgar, violent warlord could not stand. Gary laughed later that evening, when he and his wife were at a fundraiser. "Olecha did twenty-two the other day," he had gasped with exasperation, and all gathered had laughed with him. "Better the devil you know," the Reverend had said after that, he seemed to recall.

Kenneth spoke to the President and the rest for a few moments longer, though all were busy men, and they soon parted. "Congratulations again on your acquisition of Olympus, Mr. Gary. I knew Dino. He'd be proud, even if you are changing the name."

"You never know, Mr President. When I bought it, I bought the name, too. The Titans ate the Olympians, but in the end, Zeus arose and defeated the Titans, and cut out his brothers and sisters from Cronus' stomach, and the Olympians reigned again."

Warsame smiled and clapped him on the back. "Well, I'll leave you to the branding and Graeco-Roman mythology."

"Thank you, Mr President."

* * * * * *

Leaning back, with a cold beer in his hand, Ken Gary flicked on the TV. Life was good. His wife Linda had taken the kids on holiday. The house was calm, quiet. And Ken Gary had gone from a multimillionaire to a multibillionaire, all thanks to that gullible cunt Alyssa Ross. Had she truly expected him to march up like some pimple-faced delivery boy and pick up her groceries from the Capitol? Was she really without some sort of contingency plan? The White House had had Tippu Tipp executed, by proxy, naturally. The cornucopia was there, and Warsame became a hero. And Ken Gary had that hero in his pocket, totally and fully. In all earnestness, Ken Gary was truly the President, though he didn't have to pander to the idiot masses for reelection.

Fuck I am on cloud fucking nine! he thought as he downed his whiskey. Then, a thought came to him. He dialed his chief of security, and told him what he had in mind. "I want her young," he said, "but not too young. 28 maybe? Auburn hair. Small tits. Tight ass. I want her in a pewter skirt suit. Bring her to my place, but for Christ's sakes be discreet."

"Yes, Mr Gary. Right away." When he finished the call, he poured himself another glass. "I'm gonna fuck that bitch twice today," he said aloud, and he smiled.

When he was done with the prostitute, he paid her and sent her on her way. "Goodbye, sweetheart," he said to her. She murmured something under her breath. She had cried, and now she gazed at him with eyes full of malice, and, beneath that, sadness. Good. She wasn't Alyssa Ross, but she had scratched the itch.

As she opened the door, she stopped and looked down at his front step. "You've got a parcel, dude," she said. Furrowing his brow, Kenneth paced across the room, still naked, his bare-feet slapping on the linoleum.

He shooed her off, into the waiting vehicle, and picked up the parcel and brought it in. There was a note attached. "Turn on the TV. CNN. Then, Open Me. Love, Waterboard." Curiosity getting the best of him, he turned it on.

"No...No...NO! FUCK NO!" he yelled, falling to his knees. A breaking news alert was on CNN, the young anchorwoman with a concerned look on her face.

"Yes, it appears that the initial story is correct. China has declared war on the United States of America, citing concerns of war-mongering, laundering, and corruption. And American ally, President Tamba Olecha of the Democratic Republic of the Congo has been captured by Maoist forces in that country. We will keep you up to date with all of the updates and - "

Kenneth hurled his remote at the television, shattering the wall-mounted flatscreen. He tore open the parcel angrily. Inside there was... nothing? Another note. He furrowed his brow, and turned the box upside down. The note fell onto the floor. A piece of what looked like hair was taped to it. He read the note. Her handwriting was as beautiful as she was. He read it aloud. "First, you ignorant fucking bastard, the Sword of Damacles was held up not by a thread but by a string of horsehair. And second, I cut it, not you. Have fun. Love, Alyssa Ross."

Curling into a ball on the floor, naked and alone, Kenneth began to sob as his house phone and mobile phone began to ring.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Reffy’s Review:
Ref, this was a really heavy piece. I was basically doing a marathon of reading and judging today while I killed time at the permitting department and I actually had to stop and take a break after this to cleanse my pallet before moving on to Jor’s submission. Overall, really well written; putting it in (primarily) first person present was a bold choice and the italics breaking it up alluding to the future were an unfamiliar but intriguing mechanic which I quite enjoyed… For a while.

The beginning of the piece was really strong as the juxtaposition of present to future and ho-hum day to the promise of inevitable death created an atmosphere of anticipation which I really enjoyed. Unfortunately I feel like you spoiled it a little early. I think if you’d given yourself more time (as opposed to the self-imposed 16 minutes) you could have spent less time trying to convince me that the character was “already dead” even though there was clearly more action to come. That and the early mention of the “north tower” were the biggest weak spots in the piece. When you build your pacing into the story, make sure it makes sense. More than half the story occurred after those 16 minutes had expired. Honestly, a 3-2-1-Splat effect at the end would have really driven that timeline home.

Also worthy of not e was the way the colors inherent in the scene complimented the colors of the image prompt. Created a good symmetry.

That said, the character’s introspection and, at times, shocking lack thereof were very effective. When she was leaving a voicemail for her significant other, I got dust in my eyes or something… It hit me harder than I expected.

Once I realized what was happening, I was concerned you’d try to capitalize on the event itself to make your impact, but you didn’t. You kept the piece character-centric and that played to your advantage and kept the whole thing grounded and avoided the exploitation which would have been easy to slip into. This is definitely one of the best things you’ve written for AWR and it’s always good to see you break out of your whimsical shell because Dark Reffy shines brighter than I think you know.



Jor’s Review:

Is it weird to say that I genuinely felt like your story wanted to kick my ass? Rarely have I read something so overtly aggressive and implicitly offensive. I think the hardest part was that I really disliked both of your main characters and I wanted each to fail; so I suppose in the end I was satisfied by that. I’m not counting that against you as I assume by your early mention of Icarus and the idea that some people deserve to fall, that the fact that these characters were both deplorable people was intentional. So well done there.

Genre-wise I’m not wholly sure I know what you were shooting for and this is the biggest weakness of the piece. I got that there was an element of political/corporate intrigue involved; but we didn’t really get to see any of the intrigue, only the effects there-of. You removed the strategy and maneuver and only kept the hits essentially eviscerating the target genre. I think you overshot a little bit by trying to bring both characters down; I think the piece would have been stronger if you’d concentrated on the downfall of just one character and given us a little more substance there. When the characters in your political intrigue describe their actions as “boring political stuff” you’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.

As far as image use goes, I’m really only seeing it tangentially. Like you saw an image of something which appeared to be falling and tried to think of an abstract means of depicting a fall; and then when you did that you thought “that’s a little short, I’ll feed ‘em a metaphor with the Zeus and Titan’s story and do it again.” It felt like reading the same story twice. I had some issues with the near-futureness of this as well. I got this nagging feeling that it was placed in the near future just because that way you wouldn’t contradict existing history, but nothing appeared any different which, unfortunately sort of undermined the futurey aspect. Unless of course the idea that nothing with business or politics is likely to change in the future was some manner of subtext you had intended.

I dunno, you just made multiple mentions to dates that didn’t really bear any relevance to the story other than to establish it as “has not happened yet.”

Gonna give this one to Ref. Well done.

[Deleted]

Jun 26, 2014 2:13:17 GMT -5 ASGetty ((Zovo)) said:

Jor’s Review:

Is it weird to say that I genuinely felt like your story wanted to kick my ass? Rarely have I read something so overtly aggressive and implicitly offensive. I think the hardest part was that I really disliked both of your main characters and I wanted each to fail; so I suppose in the end I was satisfied by that. I’m not counting that against you as I assume by your early mention of Icarus and the idea that some people deserve to fall, that the fact that these characters were both deplorable people was intentional. So well done there.

Definitely intended. You posted a dark picture, and so I felt I should construct a dark world, especially after my previous entry, which had clear heroes and villains. No one is "good" here, except maybe Mrs. Gary who never appears.

Genre-wise I’m not wholly sure I know what you were shooting for and this is the biggest weakness of the piece. I got that there was an element of political/corporate intrigue involved; but we didn’t really get to see any of the intrigue, only the effects there-of.

Yeah, that's the difficulty with these. I don't want to give you guys 6k+ offerings, so my previous two entries each had a lot of "jump cuts." Not sure how to change that. Short fiction is hard.

Off the bat, what I was shooting for was a modern retelling of the Sword of Damocles parable. The image looked like two things to me: Falling, and a Sword. And that instantly brought the sword of Damocles - a falling sword - to my mind

You removed the strategy and maneuver and only kept the hits essentially eviscerating the target genre. I think you overshot a little bit by trying to bring both characters down; I think the piece would have been stronger if you’d concentrated on the downfall of just one character and given us a little more substance there.

That was my original intention, to only have the woman fall, like Ref did. But the image looked like two things to me: the obvious woman falling, but my initial thought was that it looked like a sword. So, yeah, having two people fall, and the sword metaphor, and how the image draws your eyes in both ways (woman's hair and the darkness below her body, sword's blade and sword's pommel, her arms making the crossguard, etc.) was important to me going into this. I wanted there to be two people involved, rising and falling, the sword of Damocles hanging over both of them. The picture, for me, had two stories but it also had one story, and I was kind of going for that - the woman falling, and the sword. I guess I could have made it look better, perhaps be more obvious, but that was the intent. I also wanted it to look like Alyssa was the one "falling" but, then, in the final act, the rug is pulled out and all of these "falls" are actually one fall - Kenneth's. Even the name he chose for his new company - Titan - was meant to foreshadow that. Hubris, strength, and then the fall.

When the characters in your political intrigue describe their actions as “boring political stuff” you’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.

I definitely wasn't going for "political intrigue" as a genre, that was merely the back-drop. They could have been anyone. I kept things vague on purpose. I originally had them in the public sector, but changed it to the private to add more Olympus references and to specifically not have them involved in politics. In my mind, Olympus was a sort of shady natural resources developer, with ties to mercenaries and warlords and their hands deep in the government, but again, all of that was left out because I wanted it to colour my world, but not be the message of the story.

As far as image use goes, I’m really only seeing it tangentially. Like you saw an image of something which appeared to be falling and tried to think of an abstract means of depicting a fall; and then when you did that you thought “that’s a little short, I’ll feed ‘em a metaphor with the Zeus and Titan’s story and do it again.”

Well, I had Greek mythology all through this piece, to try and make the image of the Sword of Damocles more prominent, but that seemed to fail. The company being called Olympus, the mention of Icarus. My intention with all of these was to put the reader's mind-space those sorts of legends, to make Alyssa's parcel and letter pack more of a punch and not come out of nowhere. But I didn't want to shoe-horn it any more than I did. I guess that's a problem with writing anything, you can't influence how others will interpret it. My biggest worry was that I put in too much, and that might be true in some sense, but it appears based on your comments here that I might have put in too little. The Zeus and Cronus and Olympus thing was really just a conversation between the President and Kenneth. Just flavour and foreshadowing. I didn't even consider that a "fall" related to the picture when I wrote it.

I had some issues with the near-futureness of this as well. I got this nagging feeling that it was placed in the near future just because that way you wouldn’t contradict existing history, but nothing appeared any different which, unfortunately sort of undermined the futurey aspect. Unless of course the idea that nothing with business or politics is likely to change in the future was some manner of subtext you had intended.

Nah, just a setting, as with the intrigue. As I said, the "meat" of the story was the Sword of Damocles morality-play, about the precariousness of being in power, and, like Cicero insisted, that virtue is sufficient for living a happy life. Everything else was just another way to retell that. In a lot (all?) of my writing, my "theme" or message is pretty blatant - like in my first submission. More Lewis than Tolkien, if you know what I mean. I tried to go outside of my comfort zone with this one, and make it less obvious. But I need to find a happy middle, I guess.

Thanks!