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This is the first in a series of chapters in a sequel to a story I did last year on FoG Chat, though the responses were less than helpful. I'll be posting more in here or in other threads, but I hope you enjoy the first chapter.
--
CHAPTER ONE :: THE CALL
--
RM18 paced the floor. Cyclone, annoyed with the inane tappity-tap-tap of his shoes, kicked him in the ankle. Silence ensued, as RM18 contemplated how to get him back. It was a mighty sore kick, and it couldn’t go without some good ol’ fashioned revenge. Cyclone, paranoid because of this repetitive cycle and past experience, kept his distance for the next few hours. RM18, in this time, had returned to pacing. Both, then, were considering violent acts. Then the phone rang.
In a white room, somewhere in Asia, a man could be seen dressed up as a chicken screaming ‘Aeroflot, bu-cluck!’ at the top of his voice. Another man, behind an adequately sized Perspex screen, in a different room even, was giving him advice on what he should maybe say instead. Still, the chicken man continued, losing his dignity at quite a speed.
Quite conversely, Grix Thraves was quietly going back and forth on a swing connected to the underside of an upstairs terrace. Barren lands surrounded him, and what sounded like warfare could be heard distant in the background. He took a swig from a bottle secured to his side, and wondered what could have been if he’d only said ‘yes’ to that lucrative advertising deal with Schl-PAM! (for all your exaggerated 69.5 font size comic book-style word needs). He took one more swig, and as he fell from depression to unconsciousness, a car drove up, through out a letter, and drove off.
Back in the white room, the chicken man was pondering his future. There must be more to life than screaming the title of Russia’s premier airline followed by an au-natural hen sound. However, on second thoughts, there probably wasn’t. And so it continued, with the man behind the Perspex losing patience. He wanted a chicken, not a thinker. A chicken!
An innocent looking girl stood close to the sea. Fright was spread across her face, as the waves hit the beach. She could see a shadow behind her, one she had seen far too many times to mistake. She ran forward, the water enveloping not only her, but her soul and mind. As the depth got bigger, air was little in supply. The shadow had turned into a figure, and picked her up out of the sea. The person muttered, and took her back up the dull beach and grey sky to the lonely house. A woman appeared, a smile across her face. She was holding the phone.
The chicken man, by this point, was understandably concerned. In that last 30 minutes he had just questioned his entire livelihood. So, taking off his costume to reveal a tall character, he walked out, muttering something about being ‘better than this’. The man behind the perspex, whilst looking distraught, was delighted; alas, the problem man was gone! And striding down the stairs into a busy street, his mobile phone rang.
Grix was rousing from his drunken sleep, and through blurred vision, saw the envelope that lay on the dusty mud path. After eventually getting up and finding balance, he stumbled over to the letter, picked it up, and read.
“To Mr Thraves,
Please find enclosed a map and a mobile telephone number. Please call this number from the payphone to your direct right”
It was at this point he looked right. ‘Right’ enough, there was a payphone. Weirdly, it was the first day he had noticed it. This, however, was because it was placed there the previous evening by to conspicuous men.
He continued reading
“Follow the instructions given to you. Tell no one of this letter, and no one of the phone call. Burn the letter and the mobile number as soon as you have read and called them respectively. Please note :: this message, contrary to popular film, will not self destruct in 5 seconds”
Grix chuckled. Then was sick.
RM18, the chicken man, Grix and the man with the smiling wife all found themselves listening to the same man, a 5 way conversation if you will. The voice spoke.
“Every single one of you was separated from each other. And it was for a good reason to; if you communicated, you would be killed,”
The heavy breathing of the 5 listeners was evident.
“However, an occasion has risen which requires all of your immediate attention. The events of 4 years ago where a mysterious S.P.A.M project, codenamed ‘Shaneo’, was destroyed, have recurred. Incentives for S.P.A.M Riddance officers have been reduced, so the dying population of S.P.A.M [e r s] are destroying the very essence of our existence. We must stop this destruction. Meet in London, England, at 0600 on the 20th of this month at the Earls Court tube station”
A gentle click signalled the end of the call.
--
CHAPTER ONE :: THE CALL
--
RM18 paced the floor. Cyclone, annoyed with the inane tappity-tap-tap of his shoes, kicked him in the ankle. Silence ensued, as RM18 contemplated how to get him back. It was a mighty sore kick, and it couldn’t go without some good ol’ fashioned revenge. Cyclone, paranoid because of this repetitive cycle and past experience, kept his distance for the next few hours. RM18, in this time, had returned to pacing. Both, then, were considering violent acts. Then the phone rang.
In a white room, somewhere in Asia, a man could be seen dressed up as a chicken screaming ‘Aeroflot, bu-cluck!’ at the top of his voice. Another man, behind an adequately sized Perspex screen, in a different room even, was giving him advice on what he should maybe say instead. Still, the chicken man continued, losing his dignity at quite a speed.
Quite conversely, Grix Thraves was quietly going back and forth on a swing connected to the underside of an upstairs terrace. Barren lands surrounded him, and what sounded like warfare could be heard distant in the background. He took a swig from a bottle secured to his side, and wondered what could have been if he’d only said ‘yes’ to that lucrative advertising deal with Schl-PAM! (for all your exaggerated 69.5 font size comic book-style word needs). He took one more swig, and as he fell from depression to unconsciousness, a car drove up, through out a letter, and drove off.
Back in the white room, the chicken man was pondering his future. There must be more to life than screaming the title of Russia’s premier airline followed by an au-natural hen sound. However, on second thoughts, there probably wasn’t. And so it continued, with the man behind the Perspex losing patience. He wanted a chicken, not a thinker. A chicken!
An innocent looking girl stood close to the sea. Fright was spread across her face, as the waves hit the beach. She could see a shadow behind her, one she had seen far too many times to mistake. She ran forward, the water enveloping not only her, but her soul and mind. As the depth got bigger, air was little in supply. The shadow had turned into a figure, and picked her up out of the sea. The person muttered, and took her back up the dull beach and grey sky to the lonely house. A woman appeared, a smile across her face. She was holding the phone.
The chicken man, by this point, was understandably concerned. In that last 30 minutes he had just questioned his entire livelihood. So, taking off his costume to reveal a tall character, he walked out, muttering something about being ‘better than this’. The man behind the perspex, whilst looking distraught, was delighted; alas, the problem man was gone! And striding down the stairs into a busy street, his mobile phone rang.
Grix was rousing from his drunken sleep, and through blurred vision, saw the envelope that lay on the dusty mud path. After eventually getting up and finding balance, he stumbled over to the letter, picked it up, and read.
“To Mr Thraves,
Please find enclosed a map and a mobile telephone number. Please call this number from the payphone to your direct right”
It was at this point he looked right. ‘Right’ enough, there was a payphone. Weirdly, it was the first day he had noticed it. This, however, was because it was placed there the previous evening by to conspicuous men.
He continued reading
“Follow the instructions given to you. Tell no one of this letter, and no one of the phone call. Burn the letter and the mobile number as soon as you have read and called them respectively. Please note :: this message, contrary to popular film, will not self destruct in 5 seconds”
Grix chuckled. Then was sick.
RM18, the chicken man, Grix and the man with the smiling wife all found themselves listening to the same man, a 5 way conversation if you will. The voice spoke.
“Every single one of you was separated from each other. And it was for a good reason to; if you communicated, you would be killed,”
The heavy breathing of the 5 listeners was evident.
“However, an occasion has risen which requires all of your immediate attention. The events of 4 years ago where a mysterious S.P.A.M project, codenamed ‘Shaneo’, was destroyed, have recurred. Incentives for S.P.A.M Riddance officers have been reduced, so the dying population of S.P.A.M [e r s] are destroying the very essence of our existence. We must stop this destruction. Meet in London, England, at 0600 on the 20th of this month at the Earls Court tube station”
A gentle click signalled the end of the call.
I hope that doesn't put people off, it's just what I used for the last story. A pleasant contimuation, if you will.
Thanks for reading :)
Thanks for reading :)
When I read user names I thought about stopping.
Fortunately, I have nothing better to do at the moment, so I read the rest.
Very nice. I look forward to the next part.
:^)
Fortunately, I have nothing better to do at the moment, so I read the rest.
Very nice. I look forward to the next part.
:^)
This is the first in a series of chapters in a sequel to a story I did last year on FoG Chat, though the responses were less than helpful. I'll be posting more in here or in other threads, but I hope you enjoy the first chapter.
--
CHAPTER ONE :: THE CALL
--
RM18 paced the floor. Cyclone, annoyed with the inane tappity-tap-tap of his shoes, kicked him in the ankle. Silence ensued, as RM18 contemplated how to get him back. It was a mighty sore kick, and it couldn’t go without some good ol’ fashioned revenge. Cyclone, paranoid because of this repetitive cycle and past experience, kept his distance for the next few hours. RM18, in this time, had returned to pacing. Both, then, were considering violent acts. Then the phone rang.
In a white room, somewhere in Asia, a man could be seen dressed up as a chicken screaming ‘Aeroflot, bu-cluck!’ at the top of his voice. Another man, behind an adequately sized Perspex screen, in a different room even, was giving him advice on what he should maybe say instead. Still, the chicken man continued, losing his dignity at quite a speed.
Quite conversely, Grix Thraves was quietly going back and forth on a swing connected to the underside of an upstairs terrace. Barren lands surrounded him, and what sounded like warfare could be heard distant in the background. He took a swig from a bottle secured to his side, and wondered what could have been if he’d only said ‘yes’ to that lucrative advertising deal with Schl-PAM! (for all your exaggerated 69.5 font size comic book-style word needs). He took one more swig, and as he fell from depression to unconsciousness, a car drove up, through out a letter, and drove off.
Back in the white room, the chicken man was pondering his future. There must be more to life than screaming the title of Russia’s premier airline followed by an au-natural hen sound. However, on second thoughts, there probably wasn’t. And so it continued, with the man behind the Perspex losing patience. He wanted a chicken, not a thinker. A chicken!
An innocent looking girl stood close to the sea. Fright was spread across her face, as the waves hit the beach. She could see a shadow behind her, one she had seen far too many times to mistake. She ran forward, the water enveloping not only her, but her soul and mind. As the depth got bigger, air was little in supply. The shadow had turned into a figure, and picked her up out of the sea. The person muttered, and took her back up the dull beach and grey sky to the lonely house. A woman appeared, a smile across her face. She was holding the phone.
The chicken man, by this point, was understandably concerned. In that last 30 minutes he had just questioned his entire livelihood. So, taking off his costume to reveal a tall character, he walked out, muttering something about being ‘better than this’. The man behind the perspex, whilst looking distraught, was delighted; alas, the problem man was gone! And striding down the stairs into a busy street, his mobile phone rang.
Grix was rousing from his drunken sleep, and through blurred vision, saw the envelope that lay on the dusty mud path. After eventually getting up and finding balance, he stumbled over to the letter, picked it up, and read.
“To Mr Thraves,
Please find enclosed a map and a mobile telephone number. Please call this number from the payphone to your direct right”
It was at this point he looked right. ‘Right’ enough, there was a payphone. Weirdly, it was the first day he had noticed it. This, however, was because it was placed there the previous evening by to conspicuous men.
He continued reading
“Follow the instructions given to you. Tell no one of this letter, and no one of the phone call. Burn the letter and the mobile number as soon as you have read and called them respectively. Please note :: this message, contrary to popular film, will not self destruct in 5 seconds”
Grix chuckled. Then was sick.
RM18, the chicken man, Grix and the man with the smiling wife all found themselves listening to the same man, a 5 way conversation if you will. The voice spoke.
“Every single one of you was separated from each other. And it was for a good reason to; if you communicated, you would be killed,”
The heavy breathing of the 5 listeners was evident.
“However, an occasion has risen which requires all of your immediate attention. The events of 4 years ago where a mysterious S.P.A.M project, codenamed ‘Shaneo’, was destroyed, have recurred. Incentives for S.P.A.M Riddance officers have been reduced, so the dying population of S.P.A.M [e r s] are destroying the very essence of our existence. We must stop this destruction. Meet in London, England, at 0600 on the 20th of this month at the Earls Court tube station”
A gentle click signalled the end of the call.
--
CHAPTER ONE :: THE CALL
--
RM18 paced the floor. Cyclone, annoyed with the inane tappity-tap-tap of his shoes, kicked him in the ankle. Silence ensued, as RM18 contemplated how to get him back. It was a mighty sore kick, and it couldn’t go without some good ol’ fashioned revenge. Cyclone, paranoid because of this repetitive cycle and past experience, kept his distance for the next few hours. RM18, in this time, had returned to pacing. Both, then, were considering violent acts. Then the phone rang.
In a white room, somewhere in Asia, a man could be seen dressed up as a chicken screaming ‘Aeroflot, bu-cluck!’ at the top of his voice. Another man, behind an adequately sized Perspex screen, in a different room even, was giving him advice on what he should maybe say instead. Still, the chicken man continued, losing his dignity at quite a speed.
Quite conversely, Grix Thraves was quietly going back and forth on a swing connected to the underside of an upstairs terrace. Barren lands surrounded him, and what sounded like warfare could be heard distant in the background. He took a swig from a bottle secured to his side, and wondered what could have been if he’d only said ‘yes’ to that lucrative advertising deal with Schl-PAM! (for all your exaggerated 69.5 font size comic book-style word needs). He took one more swig, and as he fell from depression to unconsciousness, a car drove up, through out a letter, and drove off.
Back in the white room, the chicken man was pondering his future. There must be more to life than screaming the title of Russia’s premier airline followed by an au-natural hen sound. However, on second thoughts, there probably wasn’t. And so it continued, with the man behind the Perspex losing patience. He wanted a chicken, not a thinker. A chicken!
An innocent looking girl stood close to the sea. Fright was spread across her face, as the waves hit the beach. She could see a shadow behind her, one she had seen far too many times to mistake. She ran forward, the water enveloping not only her, but her soul and mind. As the depth got bigger, air was little in supply. The shadow had turned into a figure, and picked her up out of the sea. The person muttered, and took her back up the dull beach and grey sky to the lonely house. A woman appeared, a smile across her face. She was holding the phone.
The chicken man, by this point, was understandably concerned. In that last 30 minutes he had just questioned his entire livelihood. So, taking off his costume to reveal a tall character, he walked out, muttering something about being ‘better than this’. The man behind the perspex, whilst looking distraught, was delighted; alas, the problem man was gone! And striding down the stairs into a busy street, his mobile phone rang.
Grix was rousing from his drunken sleep, and through blurred vision, saw the envelope that lay on the dusty mud path. After eventually getting up and finding balance, he stumbled over to the letter, picked it up, and read.
“To Mr Thraves,
Please find enclosed a map and a mobile telephone number. Please call this number from the payphone to your direct right”
It was at this point he looked right. ‘Right’ enough, there was a payphone. Weirdly, it was the first day he had noticed it. This, however, was because it was placed there the previous evening by to conspicuous men.
He continued reading
“Follow the instructions given to you. Tell no one of this letter, and no one of the phone call. Burn the letter and the mobile number as soon as you have read and called them respectively. Please note :: this message, contrary to popular film, will not self destruct in 5 seconds”
Grix chuckled. Then was sick.
RM18, the chicken man, Grix and the man with the smiling wife all found themselves listening to the same man, a 5 way conversation if you will. The voice spoke.
“Every single one of you was separated from each other. And it was for a good reason to; if you communicated, you would be killed,”
The heavy breathing of the 5 listeners was evident.
“However, an occasion has risen which requires all of your immediate attention. The events of 4 years ago where a mysterious S.P.A.M project, codenamed ‘Shaneo’, was destroyed, have recurred. Incentives for S.P.A.M Riddance officers have been reduced, so the dying population of S.P.A.M [e r s] are destroying the very essence of our existence. We must stop this destruction. Meet in London, England, at 0600 on the 20th of this month at the Earls Court tube station”
A gentle click signalled the end of the call.