engineer1984
11-27-2014, 12:43 AM
The rotating desk fan. Always that rotating desk fan. Has to be metal, has to be loud, and it has to be there. The room has to be hot and the walls have to decorated with old peeling wallpaper.
The room should be square with a square table with white men and one of them should wear glasses, dark rim ones. That's preferable.
If the room could be muggy, we'd really be in for a treat. Maybe a full blown assassination attempt. Because the men would be sweating. Sweating buckets, in fact. Their white collared shirts would be pit stained and the lousy plain ties would be loosened around the neck. From fear or from the heat we shall never know, but we can only guess both.
Young white men, probably Harvard types. The one that is standing swings a fist, pinky side down, onto the table. Thud! What a solid table they found in such a **** hole. But never mind that, this one is angry. The one in the glasses is quiet. He's found that God's will to make him blind somehow matches up very well with his desire to act quietly and thoughtfully. We couldn't have written a better script.
The angry one is glaring now, but completely silent. He's waiting for a response. It's good he was born with 20 / 20 vision because glasses look bad on a leader. The others look down into their laps, one of them runs his dominant hand through his thick black hair and sighs. A few others are fidgeting and giving each other glances.
There seems to be no agreement here except that it's hot. And even in that respect the alpha would probably say no if he could get his body to agree with his mind.
One of them finally speaks up, a fidgety one, and says something useless in a sort of useless way. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to hear from someone that was dragged here, not one that chose to be here. With that lame whiny voice that is almost asking a damn question. The actual room feels like it is staring at him, even the fan points at the young man and stops. More silence.
Another yell from the leader and now both his hands are on the table palms down with fingers splayed. He's giving it to them now, the pussies. Giving 'em hell.
Glasses is quiet, has been the whole time and continues to be. At one point there must have been greetings, but maybe he was quiet then too. Must be a real hoot to talk to on the phone.
The leader gives an ultimatum and clearly no one is comfortable. You get the feeling that the air isn't as uncomfortable as the energy even though that room looks really ****ing uncomfortable. But you're starting to forget that the air is hot. You're starting to forget that the sweat could just be due to the cranked up humidity.
Finally, and right on cue, the silence is broken by Glasses. Yeah, the good looking square jawed Glasses guy with the thick brown hair.
He says something that everyone likes. Well, maybe like is the wrong word. They all feel relieved to hear whatever he says. They were feeling uncomfortable and this guy, well he made their ****ing day. The group gives that collective sigh while sitting back into their chairs. At ease, Harvard, at ease.
The lead man is wide eyed, unbelieving. 'What the ****..?' he's probably thinking '...is this guy and where does he get off?'
But the damned thing about it is that the plan sucked anyway and the script was all wrong. Glasses wasn't there and neither was ol' Harvard Dean's List 20/20 vision. The truth of the matter was that everyone was entirely too hungry for someone else's blood.
The truth was that on June 28th 1914 Princip walked out of his favorite deli just in time to see Franz sitting there in a stalled convertible. Princip wanted blood and never seemed too bothered by the fact that it wasn't his own.
The room should be square with a square table with white men and one of them should wear glasses, dark rim ones. That's preferable.
If the room could be muggy, we'd really be in for a treat. Maybe a full blown assassination attempt. Because the men would be sweating. Sweating buckets, in fact. Their white collared shirts would be pit stained and the lousy plain ties would be loosened around the neck. From fear or from the heat we shall never know, but we can only guess both.
Young white men, probably Harvard types. The one that is standing swings a fist, pinky side down, onto the table. Thud! What a solid table they found in such a **** hole. But never mind that, this one is angry. The one in the glasses is quiet. He's found that God's will to make him blind somehow matches up very well with his desire to act quietly and thoughtfully. We couldn't have written a better script.
The angry one is glaring now, but completely silent. He's waiting for a response. It's good he was born with 20 / 20 vision because glasses look bad on a leader. The others look down into their laps, one of them runs his dominant hand through his thick black hair and sighs. A few others are fidgeting and giving each other glances.
There seems to be no agreement here except that it's hot. And even in that respect the alpha would probably say no if he could get his body to agree with his mind.
One of them finally speaks up, a fidgety one, and says something useless in a sort of useless way. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to hear from someone that was dragged here, not one that chose to be here. With that lame whiny voice that is almost asking a damn question. The actual room feels like it is staring at him, even the fan points at the young man and stops. More silence.
Another yell from the leader and now both his hands are on the table palms down with fingers splayed. He's giving it to them now, the pussies. Giving 'em hell.
Glasses is quiet, has been the whole time and continues to be. At one point there must have been greetings, but maybe he was quiet then too. Must be a real hoot to talk to on the phone.
The leader gives an ultimatum and clearly no one is comfortable. You get the feeling that the air isn't as uncomfortable as the energy even though that room looks really ****ing uncomfortable. But you're starting to forget that the air is hot. You're starting to forget that the sweat could just be due to the cranked up humidity.
Finally, and right on cue, the silence is broken by Glasses. Yeah, the good looking square jawed Glasses guy with the thick brown hair.
He says something that everyone likes. Well, maybe like is the wrong word. They all feel relieved to hear whatever he says. They were feeling uncomfortable and this guy, well he made their ****ing day. The group gives that collective sigh while sitting back into their chairs. At ease, Harvard, at ease.
The lead man is wide eyed, unbelieving. 'What the ****..?' he's probably thinking '...is this guy and where does he get off?'
But the damned thing about it is that the plan sucked anyway and the script was all wrong. Glasses wasn't there and neither was ol' Harvard Dean's List 20/20 vision. The truth of the matter was that everyone was entirely too hungry for someone else's blood.
The truth was that on June 28th 1914 Princip walked out of his favorite deli just in time to see Franz sitting there in a stalled convertible. Princip wanted blood and never seemed too bothered by the fact that it wasn't his own.