Name
“Now, Mr. Sherman, you must understand the seriousness of your work.”
Outside, the wind howls. I hear it clearer than the bass voice of the man in front of me. And I smoke, because it’s the only way to keep myself from howling like the wind, but for a different reason. My work. Some say I need to retire. I’m too jumpy and too quick with my gun. They say that if it wasn’t for the pills I’ll be raising hell with the rebels. But I’m not and I won’t and most of the time I can’t understand what they say, so I smile and walk away, because this is my way of dealing with things. I walk away. But my work. I’ve heard this before. My work is as universal as breathing itself. It’s a cycle of life, my line of business, where seriousness is top priority and where time is the only true capital. I listen to the wind, taking out the cigarette to let the smoke pass through my lips instead of cussing. The weatherman promised storm as he cheerily asked his blond blue-eyed companion if her plans would be affected. She said no. She always said no, even behind the cameras when he asked her again out for dinner. I know her kind. She’s waiting for a prince instead of taking her chance with the stocky thirty-year-old man. That’s life I guess. It begins to rain.
But he doesn’t care for the storm outside. He only cares about my work and that’s why he calls me Mr. Sherman. But I know down deep in the recess of his pompous mind he calls me ‘scum.’ I can’t very well blame him. I am scum not to realize the seriousness of my work because here I am starring at the window instead of the photo of my new assignment. They all look the same, with those same blood shot sleepless eyes and horror permanently stuck on their faces. Yes, they all look the same.
I hate the rain and I hate this man even more. His hairy knuckles rap on the table to bring my attention. I ignore him just like the rain ignores the fact that this is the middle of February. Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman. Really, it has a nice ring to it, but it’s not mine. I am nameless in the eyes of each beholder and this Mr. Sherman is just a left over of the rotting corpse that was once my father. He also tried a hand at this business, but cancer got the best of him where bullets didn’t. Sometimes I hope I’ll be as lucky.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll keep the brat safe,” I say in turn, turning my eyes to look at the big fat face of the president of my agency. He doesn’t blink and doesn’t skip a beat to let the smoke curl near my face to hide my smile.
“Not a brat. If it were a brat I wouldn’t have to send three of my best agents, Mr. Sherman,” he informs me, his index finger fixed to the page of the contract. I stick the cigarette in my mouth to stop myself. Another second and I would scream bloody murder. He huffs, looks me over and stamps my name away for two years to trade my time for something called money. I get a fuzzy feeling in my guts again. He never learns. He always signs away my father… not me, not Imp.
“Now, Mr. Sherman, you must understand the seriousness of your work.”
Outside, the wind howls. I hear it clearer than the bass voice of the man in front of me. And I smoke, because it’s the only way to keep myself from howling like the wind, but for a different reason. My work. Some say I need to retire. I’m too jumpy and too quick with my gun. They say that if it wasn’t for the pills I’ll be raising hell with the rebels. But I’m not and I won’t and most of the time I can’t understand what they say, so I smile and walk away, because this is my way of dealing with things. I walk away. But my work. I’ve heard this before. My work is as universal as breathing itself. It’s a cycle of life, my line of business, where seriousness is top priority and where time is the only true capital. I listen to the wind, taking out the cigarette to let the smoke pass through my lips instead of cussing. The weatherman promised storm as he cheerily asked his blond blue-eyed companion if her plans would be affected. She said no. She always said no, even behind the cameras when he asked her again out for dinner. I know her kind. She’s waiting for a prince instead of taking her chance with the stocky thirty-year-old man. That’s life I guess. It begins to rain.
But he doesn’t care for the storm outside. He only cares about my work and that’s why he calls me Mr. Sherman. But I know down deep in the recess of his pompous mind he calls me ‘scum.’ I can’t very well blame him. I am scum not to realize the seriousness of my work because here I am starring at the window instead of the photo of my new assignment. They all look the same, with those same blood shot sleepless eyes and horror permanently stuck on their faces. Yes, they all look the same.
I hate the rain and I hate this man even more. His hairy knuckles rap on the table to bring my attention. I ignore him just like the rain ignores the fact that this is the middle of February. Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman. Really, it has a nice ring to it, but it’s not mine. I am nameless in the eyes of each beholder and this Mr. Sherman is just a left over of the rotting corpse that was once my father. He also tried a hand at this business, but cancer got the best of him where bullets didn’t. Sometimes I hope I’ll be as lucky.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll keep the brat safe,” I say in turn, turning my eyes to look at the big fat face of the president of my agency. He doesn’t blink and doesn’t skip a beat to let the smoke curl near my face to hide my smile.
“Not a brat. If it were a brat I wouldn’t have to send three of my best agents, Mr. Sherman,” he informs me, his index finger fixed to the page of the contract. I stick the cigarette in my mouth to stop myself. Another second and I would scream bloody murder. He huffs, looks me over and stamps my name away for two years to trade my time for something called money. I get a fuzzy feeling in my guts again. He never learns. He always signs away my father… not me, not Imp.
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29.02.2024 в 07:02Посетите также мою страничку
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