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Mickey Tastes the Jade Sword
I empty a couple of spoonfuls into a bag, and check my gun before leaving the house. I’ve been bringing my own for as long as I can remember. Back when I was a rookie, it used to be Gunpowder, but then I started to experiment, tried White Monkey, before I went for something more refined, and now it’s Jade Sword all the way. You can guarantee if you don’t bring it, all you’ll find in their kitchen is regular tea-bags. Maybe it’s just the kind of people I’m associated with, but it seems no one likes to drink real tea anymore.
Take my partner, Frank. He only drinks black coffee out of big Styrofoam cups. That’s no way to drink it, and I’ll tell him that, just as soon as he picks me up.
“Frank. Frank. Where you been at Frank?” I say to him as I climb into his car.
“Had to stop and get a drink,” he says. Of course. One of those huge cups is balanced on the cup holder – too big to be really in it.
“How do you drink that crap?” I ask, for what must be the one-thousandth time.
“It tastes good,” he says.
“No it doesn’t.”
“It keeps me alert,” he says.
“No it doesn’t, it’s rotting your brain.”
And he just grunts at me, like he always does, and turns up the radio. We don’t talk again until we arrive. All that coffee, I guess it makes him kind of sensitive.
“So who is this guy?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.
“Don’t you read your emails?” he asks.
“Just give me a little reminder,” I say.
“Mickey Daniels. He’s withholding information regarding certain items that went missing during a job.”
“Jesus, the Jefferson Project? That guy?”
“That’s the one. So none of your screwing around. We need this information.”
I adjust my jacket as Frank knocks on the door. I figure I’m best to let him do the talking to start with.
“Hey Mickey,” he says, as the door inches open.
We don’t wait for an invite to enter. Mickey takes a few steps backwards. Frank gives him a shove back onto a low couch.
“Hey! Guys!” says Mickey, “it’s good to see you.”
You can already tell that his heart is racing, that his palms are starting to sweat.
“Yeah, real good, now this will be over quickly if you just tell us where we can find the goods” says Frank as I start to browse the titles on his bookshelf, and quickly loose interest in the conversation.
He’s got a lot of crap, a load of old detective novels and only one or two decent books, and those are nothing I’ve not read. I’m starting to get a thirst on, and Frank doesn’t look like he’s getting anywhere as he’s cracking his knuckles.
“You mind if I make myself a drink?” I say, interrupting a conversation that’s going nowhere fast.
“Hey, no, I’ll get it!” says Mickey, starting to push himself up off the seat.
“Hey, man,” says Frank, to me, knocking Mickey back down with a firm shove without even looking at him, “not yet.”
“How about I just put the kettle on?” I ask, but it’s not really a question at all, and I head into the kitchen.
Looking around the kitchen, I’m glad I brought my own again. He’s got nothing more that some shop’s own-brand in ‘round bags’ as if that makes any difference when you’re drinking low-grade crap like that. At least he has proper white cups though. Nothing gets to me more than a cupboard full of dark mugs. Frank pretty much had to drag me away from one place after I clubbed some guy to death with a big black Darth Vader mug that played the Star Wars theme whenever you lifted it.
By the time it’s boiled, Frank has pretty much given up. He’s sat opposite Mickey, now rubbing his knuckles. I don’t need to see the other side of Mickey’s face to know it’s going to be marked.
“Fancy a tea then?” I say.
Mickey looks to Frank for an answer. He nods, Mickey follows. I look at Frank, and he grunts, as always, a no.
When I come back through with the two cups, Frank has moved Mickey to the table. He knows I like to sit properly for tea, not slouched on a couch. I place a cup by Mickey, and sit opposite. His eyes are bleary and his nose is streaming with snot, what a waste, he’ll hardly taste the tea at all.
“So my mother,” I say, looking directly into Mickey’s eyes, “used to read tea leaves.”
Mickey looks down at the tea, and goes to have a sip.
“Give it a swirl first,” I say, “get the leaves moving.”
He swishes the cup, his nervous hands letting some spill over the side. I sigh and shake my head then close my eyes and take a sip. It’s perfection. Mickey’s looking at his cup. He takes a drink and turns up his nose, the heathen.
“So as much as you don’t want to tell us what you did with it, Mr Daniels,” I say, “I’m afraid it’s out of your power.”
It’s in his head, he’s picturing the exact location he put it. As much as he doesn’t want to tell us, it’s all he can think about.
“Come on, drink up,” I say, “we haven’t got all day.”
He starts to tip the cup back. “Not too fast, you’ll swallow the leaves!” I say. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.
Frank is pacing back and forth behind him, looking down into the cup at each pass. He stops on one side, and gives me a nod.
“You see, with Tasseography, I could gather all sorts of information by the pattern left in your tea leaves.”
I stand up and point into his cup, “Look,” I say, and as he looks down I draw my gun and fire a single shot into the top of his head.
“It’s not really my thing though,” I say to his slumping corpse there are far more accurate methods.”
I walk round the table to the blood splatter on the wall. As always, Frank placed him where I would get the best reading. I tilt my head to the side slightly and stare for a moment.
“It’s at the library. And I’m pretty certain it’ll be in the crime section.”
Frank heads for the door. I sit back down to finish my tea. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.
I empty a couple of spoonfuls into a bag, and check my gun before leaving the house. I’ve been bringing my own for as long as I can remember. Back when I was a rookie, it used to be Gunpowder, but then I started to experiment, tried White Monkey, before I went for something more refined, and now it’s Jade Sword all the way. You can guarantee if you don’t bring it, all you’ll find in their kitchen is regular tea-bags. Maybe it’s just the kind of people I’m associated with, but it seems no one likes to drink real tea anymore.
Take my partner, Frank. He only drinks black coffee out of big Styrofoam cups. That’s no way to drink it, and I’ll tell him that, just as soon as he picks me up.
“Frank. Frank. Where you been at Frank?” I say to him as I climb into his car.
“Had to stop and get a drink,” he says. Of course. One of those huge cups is balanced on the cup holder – too big to be really in it.
“How do you drink that crap?” I ask, for what must be the one-thousandth time.
“It tastes good,” he says.
“No it doesn’t.”
“It keeps me alert,” he says.
“No it doesn’t, it’s rotting your brain.”
And he just grunts at me, like he always does, and turns up the radio. We don’t talk again until we arrive. All that coffee, I guess it makes him kind of sensitive.
“So who is this guy?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.
“Don’t you read your emails?” he asks.
“Just give me a little reminder,” I say.
“Mickey Daniels. He’s withholding information regarding certain items that went missing during a job.”
“Jesus, the Jefferson Project? That guy?”
“That’s the one. So none of your screwing around. We need this information.”
I adjust my jacket as Frank knocks on the door. I figure I’m best to let him do the talking to start with.
“Hey Mickey,” he says, as the door inches open.
We don’t wait for an invite to enter. Mickey takes a few steps backwards. Frank gives him a shove back onto a low couch.
“Hey! Guys!” says Mickey, “it’s good to see you.”
You can already tell that his heart is racing, that his palms are starting to sweat.
“Yeah, real good, now this will be over quickly if you just tell us where we can find the goods” says Frank as I start to browse the titles on his bookshelf, and quickly loose interest in the conversation.
He’s got a lot of crap, a load of old detective novels and only one or two decent books, and those are nothing I’ve not read. I’m starting to get a thirst on, and Frank doesn’t look like he’s getting anywhere as he’s cracking his knuckles.
“You mind if I make myself a drink?” I say, interrupting a conversation that’s going nowhere fast.
“Hey, no, I’ll get it!” says Mickey, starting to push himself up off the seat.
“Hey, man,” says Frank, to me, knocking Mickey back down with a firm shove without even looking at him, “not yet.”
“How about I just put the kettle on?” I ask, but it’s not really a question at all, and I head into the kitchen.
Looking around the kitchen, I’m glad I brought my own again. He’s got nothing more that some shop’s own-brand in ‘round bags’ as if that makes any difference when you’re drinking low-grade crap like that. At least he has proper white cups though. Nothing gets to me more than a cupboard full of dark mugs. Frank pretty much had to drag me away from one place after I clubbed some guy to death with a big black Darth Vader mug that played the Star Wars theme whenever you lifted it.
By the time it’s boiled, Frank has pretty much given up. He’s sat opposite Mickey, now rubbing his knuckles. I don’t need to see the other side of Mickey’s face to know it’s going to be marked.
“Fancy a tea then?” I say.
Mickey looks to Frank for an answer. He nods, Mickey follows. I look at Frank, and he grunts, as always, a no.
When I come back through with the two cups, Frank has moved Mickey to the table. He knows I like to sit properly for tea, not slouched on a couch. I place a cup by Mickey, and sit opposite. His eyes are bleary and his nose is streaming with snot, what a waste, he’ll hardly taste the tea at all.
“So my mother,” I say, looking directly into Mickey’s eyes, “used to read tea leaves.”
Mickey looks down at the tea, and goes to have a sip.
“Give it a swirl first,” I say, “get the leaves moving.”
He swishes the cup, his nervous hands letting some spill over the side. I sigh and shake my head then close my eyes and take a sip. It’s perfection. Mickey’s looking at his cup. He takes a drink and turns up his nose, the heathen.
“So as much as you don’t want to tell us what you did with it, Mr Daniels,” I say, “I’m afraid it’s out of your power.”
It’s in his head, he’s picturing the exact location he put it. As much as he doesn’t want to tell us, it’s all he can think about.
“Come on, drink up,” I say, “we haven’t got all day.”
He starts to tip the cup back. “Not too fast, you’ll swallow the leaves!” I say. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.
Frank is pacing back and forth behind him, looking down into the cup at each pass. He stops on one side, and gives me a nod.
“You see, with Tasseography, I could gather all sorts of information by the pattern left in your tea leaves.”
I stand up and point into his cup, “Look,” I say, and as he looks down I draw my gun and fire a single shot into the top of his head.
“It’s not really my thing though,” I say to his slumping corpse there are far more accurate methods.”
I walk round the table to the blood splatter on the wall. As always, Frank placed him where I would get the best reading. I tilt my head to the side slightly and stare for a moment.
“It’s at the library. And I’m pretty certain it’ll be in the crime section.”
Frank heads for the door. I sit back down to finish my tea. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.
Thanks for reading. :o)
Ha! Very good, nice twist.
Mickey Tastes the Jade Sword
I empty a couple of spoonfuls into a bag, and check my gun before leaving the house. I’ve been bringing my own for as long as I can remember. Back when I was a rookie, it used to be Gunpowder, but then I started to experiment, tried White Monkey, before I went for something more refined, and now it’s Jade Sword all the way. You can guarantee if you don’t bring it, all you’ll find in their kitchen is regular tea-bags. Maybe it’s just the kind of people I’m associated with, but it seems no one likes to drink real tea anymore.
Take my partner, Frank. He only drinks black coffee out of big Styrofoam cups. That’s no way to drink it, and I’ll tell him that, just as soon as he picks me up.
“Frank. Frank. Where you been at Frank?” I say to him as I climb into his car.
“Had to stop and get a drink,” he says. Of course. One of those huge cups is balanced on the cup holder – too big to be really in it.
“How do you drink that crap?” I ask, for what must be the one-thousandth time.
“It tastes good,” he says.
“No it doesn’t.”
“It keeps me alert,” he says.
“No it doesn’t, it’s rotting your brain.”
And he just grunts at me, like he always does, and turns up the radio. We don’t talk again until we arrive. All that coffee, I guess it makes him kind of sensitive.
“So who is this guy?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.
“Don’t you read your emails?” he asks.
“Just give me a little reminder,” I say.
“Mickey Daniels. He’s withholding information regarding certain items that went missing during a job.”
“Jesus, the Jefferson Project? That guy?”
“That’s the one. So none of your screwing around. We need this information.”
I adjust my jacket as Frank knocks on the door. I figure I’m best to let him do the talking to start with.
“Hey Mickey,” he says, as the door inches open.
We don’t wait for an invite to enter. Mickey takes a few steps backwards. Frank gives him a shove back onto a low couch.
“Hey! Guys!” says Mickey, “it’s good to see you.”
You can already tell that his heart is racing, that his palms are starting to sweat.
“Yeah, real good, now this will be over quickly if you just tell us where we can find the goods” says Frank as I start to browse the titles on his bookshelf, and quickly loose interest in the conversation.
He’s got a lot of crap, a load of old detective novels and only one or two decent books, and those are nothing I’ve not read. I’m starting to get a thirst on, and Frank doesn’t look like he’s getting anywhere as he’s cracking his knuckles.
“You mind if I make myself a drink?” I say, interrupting a conversation that’s going nowhere fast.
“Hey, no, I’ll get it!” says Mickey, starting to push himself up off the seat.
“Hey, man,” says Frank, to me, knocking Mickey back down with a firm shove without even looking at him, “not yet.”
“How about I just put the kettle on?” I ask, but it’s not really a question at all, and I head into the kitchen.
Looking around the kitchen, I’m glad I brought my own again. He’s got nothing more that some shop’s own-brand in ‘round bags’ as if that makes any difference when you’re drinking low-grade crap like that. At least he has proper white cups though. Nothing gets to me more than a cupboard full of dark mugs. Frank pretty much had to drag me away from one place after I clubbed some guy to death with a big black Darth Vader mug that played the Star Wars theme whenever you lifted it.
By the time it’s boiled, Frank has pretty much given up. He’s sat opposite Mickey, now rubbing his knuckles. I don’t need to see the other side of Mickey’s face to know it’s going to be marked.
“Fancy a tea then?” I say.
Mickey looks to Frank for an answer. He nods, Mickey follows. I look at Frank, and he grunts, as always, a no.
When I come back through with the two cups, Frank has moved Mickey to the table. He knows I like to sit properly for tea, not slouched on a couch. I place a cup by Mickey, and sit opposite. His eyes are bleary and his nose is streaming with snot, what a waste, he’ll hardly taste the tea at all.
“So my mother,” I say, looking directly into Mickey’s eyes, “used to read tea leaves.”
Mickey looks down at the tea, and goes to have a sip.
“Give it a swirl first,” I say, “get the leaves moving.”
He swishes the cup, his nervous hands letting some spill over the side. I sigh and shake my head then close my eyes and take a sip. It’s perfection. Mickey’s looking at his cup. He takes a drink and turns up his nose, the heathen.
“So as much as you don’t want to tell us what you did with it, Mr Daniels,” I say, “I’m afraid it’s out of your power.”
It’s in his head, he’s picturing the exact location he put it. As much as he doesn’t want to tell us, it’s all he can think about.
“Come on, drink up,” I say, “we haven’t got all day.”
He starts to tip the cup back. “Not too fast, you’ll swallow the leaves!” I say. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.
Frank is pacing back and forth behind him, looking down into the cup at each pass. He stops on one side, and gives me a nod.
“You see, with Tasseography, I could gather all sorts of information by the pattern left in your tea leaves.”
I stand up and point into his cup, “Look,” I say, and as he looks down I draw my gun and fire a single shot into the top of his head.
“It’s not really my thing though,” I say to his slumping corpse there are far more accurate methods.”
I walk round the table to the blood splatter on the wall. As always, Frank placed him where I would get the best reading. I tilt my head to the side slightly and stare for a moment.
“It’s at the library. And I’m pretty certain it’ll be in the crime section.”
Frank heads for the door. I sit back down to finish my tea. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.
I empty a couple of spoonfuls into a bag, and check my gun before leaving the house. I’ve been bringing my own for as long as I can remember. Back when I was a rookie, it used to be Gunpowder, but then I started to experiment, tried White Monkey, before I went for something more refined, and now it’s Jade Sword all the way. You can guarantee if you don’t bring it, all you’ll find in their kitchen is regular tea-bags. Maybe it’s just the kind of people I’m associated with, but it seems no one likes to drink real tea anymore.
Take my partner, Frank. He only drinks black coffee out of big Styrofoam cups. That’s no way to drink it, and I’ll tell him that, just as soon as he picks me up.
“Frank. Frank. Where you been at Frank?” I say to him as I climb into his car.
“Had to stop and get a drink,” he says. Of course. One of those huge cups is balanced on the cup holder – too big to be really in it.
“How do you drink that crap?” I ask, for what must be the one-thousandth time.
“It tastes good,” he says.
“No it doesn’t.”
“It keeps me alert,” he says.
“No it doesn’t, it’s rotting your brain.”
And he just grunts at me, like he always does, and turns up the radio. We don’t talk again until we arrive. All that coffee, I guess it makes him kind of sensitive.
“So who is this guy?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.
“Don’t you read your emails?” he asks.
“Just give me a little reminder,” I say.
“Mickey Daniels. He’s withholding information regarding certain items that went missing during a job.”
“Jesus, the Jefferson Project? That guy?”
“That’s the one. So none of your screwing around. We need this information.”
I adjust my jacket as Frank knocks on the door. I figure I’m best to let him do the talking to start with.
“Hey Mickey,” he says, as the door inches open.
We don’t wait for an invite to enter. Mickey takes a few steps backwards. Frank gives him a shove back onto a low couch.
“Hey! Guys!” says Mickey, “it’s good to see you.”
You can already tell that his heart is racing, that his palms are starting to sweat.
“Yeah, real good, now this will be over quickly if you just tell us where we can find the goods” says Frank as I start to browse the titles on his bookshelf, and quickly loose interest in the conversation.
He’s got a lot of crap, a load of old detective novels and only one or two decent books, and those are nothing I’ve not read. I’m starting to get a thirst on, and Frank doesn’t look like he’s getting anywhere as he’s cracking his knuckles.
“You mind if I make myself a drink?” I say, interrupting a conversation that’s going nowhere fast.
“Hey, no, I’ll get it!” says Mickey, starting to push himself up off the seat.
“Hey, man,” says Frank, to me, knocking Mickey back down with a firm shove without even looking at him, “not yet.”
“How about I just put the kettle on?” I ask, but it’s not really a question at all, and I head into the kitchen.
Looking around the kitchen, I’m glad I brought my own again. He’s got nothing more that some shop’s own-brand in ‘round bags’ as if that makes any difference when you’re drinking low-grade crap like that. At least he has proper white cups though. Nothing gets to me more than a cupboard full of dark mugs. Frank pretty much had to drag me away from one place after I clubbed some guy to death with a big black Darth Vader mug that played the Star Wars theme whenever you lifted it.
By the time it’s boiled, Frank has pretty much given up. He’s sat opposite Mickey, now rubbing his knuckles. I don’t need to see the other side of Mickey’s face to know it’s going to be marked.
“Fancy a tea then?” I say.
Mickey looks to Frank for an answer. He nods, Mickey follows. I look at Frank, and he grunts, as always, a no.
When I come back through with the two cups, Frank has moved Mickey to the table. He knows I like to sit properly for tea, not slouched on a couch. I place a cup by Mickey, and sit opposite. His eyes are bleary and his nose is streaming with snot, what a waste, he’ll hardly taste the tea at all.
“So my mother,” I say, looking directly into Mickey’s eyes, “used to read tea leaves.”
Mickey looks down at the tea, and goes to have a sip.
“Give it a swirl first,” I say, “get the leaves moving.”
He swishes the cup, his nervous hands letting some spill over the side. I sigh and shake my head then close my eyes and take a sip. It’s perfection. Mickey’s looking at his cup. He takes a drink and turns up his nose, the heathen.
“So as much as you don’t want to tell us what you did with it, Mr Daniels,” I say, “I’m afraid it’s out of your power.”
It’s in his head, he’s picturing the exact location he put it. As much as he doesn’t want to tell us, it’s all he can think about.
“Come on, drink up,” I say, “we haven’t got all day.”
He starts to tip the cup back. “Not too fast, you’ll swallow the leaves!” I say. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.
Frank is pacing back and forth behind him, looking down into the cup at each pass. He stops on one side, and gives me a nod.
“You see, with Tasseography, I could gather all sorts of information by the pattern left in your tea leaves.”
I stand up and point into his cup, “Look,” I say, and as he looks down I draw my gun and fire a single shot into the top of his head.
“It’s not really my thing though,” I say to his slumping corpse there are far more accurate methods.”
I walk round the table to the blood splatter on the wall. As always, Frank placed him where I would get the best reading. I tilt my head to the side slightly and stare for a moment.
“It’s at the library. And I’m pretty certain it’ll be in the crime section.”
Frank heads for the door. I sit back down to finish my tea. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.