Stop Story: The Gold Mask

This is a game I'm sure we all used to play as children. One person starts a story until the other says stop and then they continue it until the other person says stop and so on.
(It should look like this: :argue: except not so angry)
However nobody is here to say stop so you just end when you come to a breaking point or even abruptly.

The only rule is that you can't end the story.
Allow me to begin:

I sat down. Across the table I looked at a befuddled man. He looked up at me. The caged yellow light cast a shadow on his handlebar mustache. Where should I begin?
“Please, do tell me how you did it, Mr. Worth. How is it that you managed to pull off the biggest crime of the 20th century and keep it hidden for over 13 years?" I asked him. He smiled a bit, finding humor in my wording or something. He blinked very slowly, pausing as his eyes were closed, you could tell he was remembering every detail. He opened his eyes followed by his mouth. He answered slowly, not that the words were slow, he was just pausing every now and again. STOP

Your turn.

" I thought...maybe no one would find out. You figure...when you pull something like that off..you'll get away with it. But...obviously...I didn't. Say,.." he said wiping a yellow stain from that all to obvious mustache, "you'd think the state could afford something...better...like...like... Grey Poupon. What's the matter...with them? Don't they think ...I'm WORTH it? Anyway...back to...my story...STOP
Your turn

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Steven Hunley

" I thought...maybe no one would find out. You figure...when you pull something like that off..you'll get away with it. But...obviously...I didn't. Say,.." he said wiping a yellow stain from that all to obvious mustache, "you'd think the state could afford something...better...like...like... Grey Poupon. What's the matter...with them? Don't they think ...I'm WORTH it? Anyway...back to...my story...STOP
Your turn

---

Haha, I love it.

"I was in Egypt at the time. . . trying to decode hieroglyphics I found. . . in a tomb. . . when I was just an apprentice." I nodded, this was starting to make sense. "I knew it was going to tell me the whereabouts of another tomb." He began talking at a normal pace now, only pausing to nibble on his sandwich. "I was working up late one night, so close to finishing and began placing my finger on where I believed this tomb to be. I looked outside; it was raining softly. I got up from my chair and. . ."

"And. . . ?" He was chewing for a moment. He was obviously a man of good manners, not speaking with his mouth full and all.

Mr. Worth continued, "I just had to go to the window, you know, to see the rain. It only rains once every several years in Egypt. As I remember it," He shut his eyes, "I then poured myself a whiskey or gin or something and returned to my studies. After about another half hour working on the maps, I realized that this tomb was not more than 15 kilometers away. I grabbed my coat, put on my safari hat and headed out." He finished his sandwich and licked his fingers. The low hum of the lightbulb was the only sound filling this gap of silence. "The rain had picked up considerably causing some puddles to form at the entrance to the tomb. I spotted the entryway fairly easily, just because I had an eye for these things by then. I climbed inside and grabbed a piece of dry wood. I couldn't find anything for fire to catch, so I tore a length of cloth from my shirt, I'd still have the jacket for the way home. I wrapped the cloth around the wood and lit it so I could see. The flaps of the flames echoed throughout the tunnel. I walked for 10 minutes or so until I saw a doorway. It was short because something had collapsed so I had to crouch down to enter. Inside, you would not believe what I had seen. . ." He was staring at the air in front of him.

"What had you seen?" The light reflected off of his now watery eyes. "Mr. Worth. . . what did you see? What was it. . . that was in there?"

He looked me in the eyes now. He whispered painfully, "Nothing."

"Oh," I nodded awkwardly and broke the eye contact. It was silent for some time, then out of the blue he began speaking again as if he had never stopped.

"I made my way back through the rain. It had died down by now. When I got back the mail had already came. There was a letter there from my investors. They told me that if I had nothing to show for my works in the next 3 weeks, they were going to stop my funding. . . I couldn't let them do that. I was thinking of some sort of loophole while sifting through the rest of the mail. One of them caught my eye, an exhibit was opening in London displaying many of the artifacts that had been excavated from Egyptian tombs; I was invited. I decided then and there. I had to steal them." STOP

Your Turn.

P.S: Sorry I'm a story hog, but I was on a roll tonight.

P.S.S: Still Your Turn

Worth continued. "They were having it at the British Museum. I went a day early to the preview to check it out. Huge colored banners were hanging up at the entrance with hieroglyphics on them and a few cartouches. The cartouches were accurate, but the glyphs were all wrong. One translated as something like "dead cats for sale". I guess they got a little mixed up. I mean I could read them right?" He smiled. "That's why I'll never get a tatoo from a Chinaman. Who knows what they'll put on your arm. I went inside and there was so much stuff it took me two hours to see it. But it was all pretty standard stuff. None of it was too valuable. I mean,.." and he leaned over quite near me and said in a whisper," what was I gonna do? Stuff a mummy in my pants and run out the door? Not bloody likely! Then I saw it. It was in the last room. The funery mask of Tutankhamen. Wow. Solid gold and worth it's weight. And as an antiquity? Priceless. It really made me drool." As he said this last bit he wiped his moustache with the back of his arm. His eyes glazed over. "Here was something worthy of a Worth!"
stop
Somebody take a turn

I chuckled at his pun, wondering if he had said that for years or just had a quick wit. I like it when people have a quick wit, it makes my job much less boring. Someone was knocking at the door. I excused myself, Mr. Worth still drooling over that artifact silently. I cracked the door open as to not let in a lot of light into the interrogation room. I gave an inquisitive look to the man at the door, he was looking at his clipboard and wasted no time for formalities.

"Mr. Worth's questioning?" he questioned.

"Yeah."

"We just got word from some investigator going through papers. Ask him who Alice Jennings is."

I thanked him and returned to the ever so patient Worth. I didn't bring up Jennings yet, but was planning on asking after his story.

"So then what happened? After you saw the funery mask?"
Stop

Someone besides Steven and I have got to chime in here.

"I looked at it, and even though the mask was of a boy-king it looked rather feminine. It looked like a girl I once knew," "Who was that?" I asked.
"Alice Jennings." I couldn't believe he said it! It was just what I wanted to hear. "What about her?" I said. "Well," he continued, "she was pretty alright, but like the mask, like the gold mask, cold and distant. She wouldn't put out. Like some of those geeks on one of those writer's websites. All they want to do is read, not write." He wiped his mustache with a gesture of disgust then continued, " Know why?" he asked me looking deep in my eyes.
"why?" I said. "Cause when it comes down to it they can't write their way out of a wet paper bag. 'Cause they got no balls, not even the women. She was exactly the same. Wouldn't participate." "So what happened to her?" I asked. He answered, "I dumped her, what else?" I knew then I was interviewing a man's man.

I really thought that would work.
Anyways...

I was still wondering what Alice Jennings had to do with the crime. I decided it could wait, it would present itself when it would present itself. "Please, continue."

"Very well. I needed some sort of team. Fortunately I knew this chap working as an assistant to the city planner. He was young and naive and I easily manipulated him into giving me the blueprints to the museum."

I could tell Mr. Worth was intelligent. I'd probably need to find out the name of this 'chap' to arrest him or fire him or something, but I decided that could wait as well. Mark of a true procrastinator? Or was I just engulfed in the story? Probably a little bit of both. He continu STOP

Me too, anyways,
"Of course you realize I didn't dump her right way. I was too dumb for that. I needed her for the robbery. She was an integral part of the plan. A girl as pretty as Alice can be quite useful in providing a distraction. And that's what I would need at first, a distraction. A sort of mis-direction, the kind a magician uses when he pulls a rabbit out of a hat. Or, in my case , puts a solid-gold mask of Tutankhamen into it, making it disappear. So she had a use, as did the city planners assistant, who provided me with plans of the museum and those to the sewers of London, a slimy rat-filled lot of sewers they are, I must say." With that he looked straight at me and asked politely, "Say Gov'ner do you think we could have a cup of tea? It's nearly four." STOP

My wireless was down for a week and then like forgot about this. But now I'm back.

I was enjoying my tea as I handed Mr. Worth his. His hands were somewhat shaky and his lips were too when he was going for the first sip. I didn't know what accounted for the shaking, if it was just age or he was somewhat nervous. He sure didn't appear nervous as I was questioning him. My thoughts were interrupted as took a sharp breath in. The liquid had burned him and he leaned back setting the cup steaming on the table, allowing it to cool.
"I hate the sewers, they were never good to me throughout the whole experience. And I'm not a man who forgets," He was right, he didn't seem like a man who would forget, maybe forgive, but never forget.

Mr. SH, take it away...

"Just thinking about them sewers makes me nervous. I don't know what's worse, the stink of all the rotten fish and chips, the smell of stale Guinness, or the creeping crawling rats." He continued. "Of course that was our only avenue of escape. Hell, in Paris the sewers are O.K. They're a regular tour they are." He picked the teacup back up, and taking a sip, strained it through his mustache like a filter. Now I'd discovered what stained it yellow. The warm mug of tea felt good in his hands. "That's a proper cup that is! " he remarked with glee, "Alice made a proper cup and that's no lie. But speaking of lies and Alice, now I'm warmed up proper, let me get back to my story."

"I had gotten everything ready, everything was in place: the date was set, we had gotten the blue prints and the maps to the sewers, times of tours that day, and some important names. Everything seemed to be ready, everything but Alice. Alice had disappeared for a week or so at that time and I never quite figured out what she was hiding, probably a man, knowing Alice. When she finally returned we only had two days left. We spent six hours coming up with a good enough distraction, and twelve hours acting it out and perfecting it between those two days. Finally, by the end of it all, I was almost half confident in our plan," he chuckled and I smiled back politely.

"We put the imitation throw up in the baby's bottle. The idea was when we were in the proper room, one of us would claim the baby had thrown up on the floor, and Alice would splash the contents there in the confusion. It would make a mess all over the floor." He said this with great relish. "They'd want to clean it up immediately of course, especially right there on the smooth floor, it would create a hazard." He took another sip of tea. "The janitor would unlock the broom closet, to get his mop, giving us a place to hide until the museum was closed. Then, we'd have the whole place, and the gold mask, to ourselves. That's how we planned it."

I looked down at my cup of tea, now wincing as I couldn't help but see a similarity between the dark liquid and the image of the throw up in my mind's eye.

My half-trance-like state was broken by the sound of Mr. Worth chuckling, who, I assumed had seen my disgust and understood the connection.

He put his teacup down and, once more, began, "We met at the museum, the day of, with just minutes before the official ribbon cutting ceremony. I - in a beige suit, my hair slicked back, wearing round, Freud glasses - and Alice - in a short red dress with a large, diagonal sun hat and a baby carriage. She looked so stunning, we hardly needed the vomit at all. As the Head Curator's speech came to a close, we looked at each other as if to confirm our commitment. The ribbon was cut and we walked through the rooms at the leisurely pace set by the majority of the visitors."

STOP

Worth paused for bit while he took breath. I was just about to ask, when he began tell the story again. He took out cigar, ''is OK if I smoke'' I nodded. Pushed a small tin astray like one you were allow to used in cafe forward him.

''As we head in and out of glass cases, we made so we end at the gold mask, Alice was really excite about get hands on it but did you know that I have photograph memory so I didn't need the blue prints. I need them just make sure that knew right way out and to London horrid system of sewers which is more like a maze''.
Me, Alice looking around that other artifacts, with some I must admit with great interest the information plaques. Every so often check on carriage, with our cunning eyes. Just waiting for right time to put the plan oops sorry my plan in action.

Stop. I hope OK and set in with story.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by zoolane

Worth paused for bit while he took breath. I was just about to ask, when he began tell the story again. He took out a cigar, ''is it OK if I smoke?'' I nodded and pushed a small tin ashtray like the ones you're allowed to use in a cafe toward him.

''As we weaved our way through the glass cases, we made it so that we would end up at the gold mask together. Alice was really excited about getting her hands on it. I have a photographic memory so I didn't need the blue prints. I needed them just to make sure that we knew the way out through London's horrid maze of sewers.
Alice was looking around at other artifacts, some of which, I must admit, had interesting information plaques. Every so often, we would check on the carriage with our cunning eyes. . . Just waiting for right time to put the plan in action.

---

I like it a lot! I hope that you don't mind that I quickly edited your segment of the story.

As we walked through the exhibit we were astounded at the variety of artifacts. There were his alabaster vases. Over there was his gold-leafed bed.
The sounds that we heard from the crowd were all "Oohs and Ahhs."

The incredible worth of the exhibit was staggering. There was the value of the materials themselves and the archialogical value as well. It all added up.
Finally we came to the glass case with the mask itself. It was impressive.
We stood there, both of us dumfounded, each of us in awe.

Alice reached in the perambulator to adjust the baby's blankets and tripped the device that started to play sounds of a baby cooing. The stage was set. We were ready for action.

She looked up at me and smiled. "Get with it,Worth!" she whispered. "I'm ready to rock!"

STOP

"She was speaking literally of course, and the carriage began to oscillate by means of Alice's hands. The sloshing mixture of liquids in the hollowed baby doll would allow a reaction to transpire. If you are familiar with any chemistry, this is simply known as the activation energy."

I nodded while trying to remember back to my high school years. I was familiar with the concept.

He proceeded, "Besides causing the reaction to take place, shaking the carriage gave a reason for why the baby might spew; although, as Alice pointed out to me, a baby hardly needs a reason to do such a thing."

I smiled. I also began to realize that a soft spot had formed for Mr. Worth in my chest. I didn't know how to feel about it, for it had never happened to me before. Typically, in a questioning such as this, the event follows a strict Q and A format - not an elaborate story. Worth felt, to me, like you might feel towards a distant relative who you only met once or twice before. Nonetheless, I was beginning to feel fond of the old Englishman.

"After a few seconds of rolling, the vomit launched out of the doll and onto the floor. As if that was not enough to cause a stir, Alice shrieked and grabbed the doll wrapped up in the blanket and made way for the washrooms. As for me, I saw the janitor rushing with his mop and bucket, and pushed the carriage around the corner to the closet. I collapsed it, hiding it and myself under a pile of rags. Alice arrived there quickly, after disposing of the doll. We were still and quiet under those rags for a good twenty minutes until we heard the janitor return with the mop and lock us in. I smiled and assumed that Alice had too, although I couldn't've seen my hand in front of my face if I bloody-well tried. Phase One was a success."

STOP

Worth continued:

That't where I went wrong. As soon as I realized I couldn't see my hand in front of my face I concluded Alice couldn't see it either. I started to grope. Minutes past as I clutched and felt myself grab at the darkness. I felt something soft and warm. Next to it was something else soft and warm. Twin soft and warms it what they felt like to me.
Suddenly I felt a stinging sensation across my face and heard a loud, "SLAP!"
It was Alice. She knocked me against a wet mop hanging on the wall.
"Keep your hands to yourself Worth," she whispered. "I mean business!
What a woman!

The next thing I noticed was the glow of a watch dial there in the dark. It was after nine o'clock. We listened for sounds. There were none. The museum was closed. The coast was finally clear. We got out.

Once out, we turned the corner and headed back to the glass case. The museum floor was lit by moonlight that entered through a series of large window panes. I stared at the golden mask, transfixed, feeling Alice's breaths landing on the back of my neck. I turned around after a short while; Alice pulled a bobby pin out of her hair and silently placed it in my hand. I laid my jacket on a nearby bench, rolled my sleeves up and began to work on the lock. The breaths stopped.

The lock was not much more difficult than the one's I got the better of in high school - they just took time. I slowly tinkered with the latch paying close attention to any adjustment in the pins resistance. After some time, the lock gave in and I unfastened it. I tilted the hinged case back with much care. There it was, glowing in the starlight. I liberated Tutankhamun's Mask and reluctantly hid it in the soft folds of my jacket.

Quietly, I looked around the room. All I could see of Alice was her well-defined silhouette against the phosphorescent London exterior. She looked out the window. I placed our prize under my arm and slowly walked up to her side.

If any woman had any claim to a well-defined silhouette it was Alice.
She was a regular monument to femininity. Statues should have been cast in her honor in bronze. She was a cold one alright. Casting that cool look out the window, keeping an eye out for the heat.

"I've got it."

"Can we leave now?" she said. "I can't stand rats. I want to get this over with."

"Let's blow this joint," I returned, trying to do my best to sound like a gangster.

"You're wonderful. But hold on just a minute. I've got something special for you."

She turned her head upward and pressed her lips against mine. The woman was intense. I didn't know then she was just hugging me to find out where I'd stashed the mask on my person. That was Alice for you. Making like she was thinking only of you but really taking care of herself at the same time. I thought we were going to do something X rated right there on the museum floor. But she broke it off and stepped back and re-fixed her hair.

"Ok big boy, let's go."
She was an ice-cube for sure my Alice was. Yet she was a bit of allright. I'd thaw her out on my own sweet time. Right now I had work to do. I never indulge myself when I'm at work. It's one thing to steal something and another thing to get away with it. That's what I had to concentrate on now. Not thawing out an icecube woman.

We descended down the stairwell until we reached the basement. The entrance to the sewer system was exactly where it was depicted to be. I lifted the man-hole cover and hopped down into the sewers. I looked up to see Alice clearly, but because of the difference in lighting, she could only see my adumbrated face. A wince of reluctance crossed her face but sure enough, she jumped in after me.

The hole was left open so that the museum light could guide us back if need be, in addition to the reasons of the time and effort required to put it back on. We started walking in the direction of Alice's raggedy tenement on the outskirts of the city. I had planned on spending the night there and the following morning I would run the mask down to the head investor's home and drop it off the day before they would cut my funding. However, the closer we got to Alice's, the more it became apparent that there were flaws in my plan: Surely, the Museum would report the stolen mask by morning; Surely, my investors would be notified. It seemed as though, now that we actually possessed the mask, it was worse to have it than to not. It was a scary thought to end up in prison over this.

Alice didn't seem too thrilled either, and after we had been walking in silence for a long while, she announced that she did not want to go home. I knew that she had some financial and domestic problems, but she never brought it up and I was smart enough not to ask her about it. I could tell, however, by the vulnerability in her voice that she was serious.

"Alright," I told her and I picked her up as we crossed the sewage stream. I did not know where we were headed at this point, but figured that we had had enough of the sewers. I held her up to the ladder rungs, which she latched on to. She climbed up and slowly lifted the man-hole cover. We had not heard the echoing roar of a car engine for the better part of an hour and felt that the coast was clear. She peeked her head out and then proceeded to climb up and out - I followed.

We got out into a wide alley. Although it was still dark outside, it was nothing compared to the pitch black of the sewer underground. Again, we walked without direction in silence; the unspoken question on both of our minds, What in God's name should we do?

Soon, Alice answered. She explained that we could sell it to an old friend of hers, Dufarge, a wealthy casino owner, in the North of France. He would certainly purchase it. Getting out of the country sounded pretty good to me so we went for it. We headed to the train depot and purchased two tickets across the channel into France.

As we waited for the train to arrive, Alice rested on my shoulder.
STOP

P.S. - I know that the Channel Tunnel was not open to passengers until 1994. I also know that London was not connected to it until 2007. However, this is fiction, so please imagine that it was in use sometime earlier in the 20th century.

But before she fell asleep the train was ready to leave for Dover. We boarded at once. It was off-season and the cars were only half-full. In our oaken apartment there was only the two of us. Within minutes we'd left the glare of foggy London behind and headed towards the white cliffs. The night was black all through the countryside and stars twinkled gaily in the dark velvet above. The click of the tracks grew hypnotic with their rhythmic sound of click click, click click. I hadn't realized how dog-tired I was. All the nights I'd spent up plotting and planning. And now we were making our escape.

Alice was asleep in the green velvet seat opposite. There was nothing to fear. I felt safe, and with the rhythm sounding click click, click click, I found my eyelids almost impossible to keep up. I was losing the battle with Morpheus. He was about to have his way with me.
I feel alseep right there in my seat, while images of the English countryside reflecting across the window moving from right to left, right to left, as the train headed towards the east and the coast.

Dover might be the last either one of us saw of England for some time,or as the French call it, Angleterre. The next stop would be Calais, with only the steamer between. I dreamt I wouldn't get sea-sick. I never got on well with ships. Not even in my bathtub as a child.

I woke up as the locomotive came to a standstill. I judged that Alice had woken up at some point, due to her change of position. Her eyes were still closed but her head was supported by the green cushion behind her, and now the blinds were closed.

The train gradually gathered speed. The cadence of the tracks had changed, and I concluded that we had moved onto a different set of rails. The wheels now knocked in a steady rhythm, every fourth knock accented.

I peeled the blind from the window and scanned outside the train. It was light now, or lighter, rather, and I noticed seagulls flying overhead and knew we were close to the end of the line. I tapped Alice's thigh to wake her up, but she was already alert for the most part.

"Ready?"

I nodded. We stood up and left our compartment. The train's breaks engaged and screeched to a strenuous halt. We hopped off the steps and quickly disappeared into the mass of people.

I was hungry. I'm always hungry after a good train ride.

"Alice, can we get French fries?"

"Why not?" she replied. "This is France isn't it?"

That was Alice for you, always with a smart remark. We were walking towards a small cafe in the station. You know the kind. The kind that sell day-old stale croissants to unsuspecting tourists. A young girl was selling flowers right outside the door. Alice stopped and gave her a couple of francs. She chose a red carnation and attached it to my lapel with a bobby pin pulled out of her hair.

"What's this for?"

"It's for Dufarge's driver. It's so he recognises us."

Alice smiled. I knew right then I was in trouble. Foreign country. Shaky woman. Hot mask of King Tut hidden under my coat. Interpol would be looking for us in every corner of the continent. The Serte too. I just knew it. I can smell trouble coming from a mile away. In this case, a kilometer.

"Damn Alice," I said with a tone of disgust," you know I hate this cloak and dagger stuff."

And I really did too. Although, I didn't show it to anyone - anyone but Alice that is. We waded through a sea of French-speaking people until we came to the curb. Alice stood there with her harms crossed, I stood there eating my chips.

Soon a black car arrived. An old, well-dressed gentleman climbed out of the drivers seat and walked around the vehicle. He dipped his head slightly as he opened the door for Alice and myself. Alice thanked the man and entered the car while I finished my snack, threw out the paper pouch, and dabbed my mustache with a handkerchief. I joined Alice in the car. The car began.

Alice rested her right hand on my thigh. I looked at her but her attention was elsewhere so I focused the bulk of my observations on the driver. He was professional - making each turn with a specific purpose; he weaved through cars with ease. I looked back at Alice who was looking out the window and saw that she was holding back a smirk. I nudged her:

"What are you grinning about?"

She looked at me and giggled, "We're actually doing it."

The car slowed down with its turn signal ticking. On our right, an iron gate, between two brick columns, was slowly opening. A sign on the closer column displayed two words: Jacque Dufarge

Who was this mystery man that Alice had kept a secret? Why had she never mentioned him before this?

The gravel driveway wound it’s way between well-manicured lawns at first, and later up and around terraced gardens with graceful trees and flower beds spotted with fountains. Another thought entered my head. I wondered just what kind of an offer he was prepared to make us for the mask of an Egyptian boy-king who’d died thousands of years ago.

“We should expect a good price Alice.”

“That’s what I want too,” she answered, and squeezed my thigh even tighter. “And I always get what I want.”

Her perfume that day appealed to me. And the color of her lipstick seemed just right. Again, I noticed that her skirt was exactly the right length and seemed to show just enough of her legs.
Alice was good at making the best of what she had. Sometimes she’d give you just what you wanted. And that was exactly what she planned now.

She scooted over making sure that I could feel her warmth. Every single inch of her seemed as near as possible. Then she kissed me. Just like that, she kissed me.

It may have been the foreign country. You know how romantic people feel when they’re in France. It may have been the perfume or the length of her skirt or her touch. It may have been that stale croissant I ate on the train doing flip-flops in my stomach. But my head started swimming. My body lost all control. When it did the mask fell out of my coat and onto the floor of the car with a thud. It reminded me where we were.

Alice composed herself. Alice was always good at composing herself.

“Well soon see what he’s offering,” she whispered as she pulled away and started fixing her hair,
“we’re here.”

The car stopped. In front of us was his house. But it wasn’t just a house mind you. It was one of those French country houses left over from the age of Marie Antoinette. A museum, a hotel, a funky chateaux.

The chauffeur opened my door and Alice and I followed behind, walking side by side. His pace was relaxed which allowed me time to admire the amazing architecture. The base was made of stone and the second story was made of stucco; it was simply beautiful.

The chauffeur opened the front door for us and we were handed off to a butler as our driver disappeared to his quarters. The butler led us through the well-lit mansion. It was several degrees cooler inside the house than it had been outside moments before. Tasteful masterpieces littered the goldenrod walls. The largest was the portrait of a powerful-looking man - obviously the master of the house. He wore a self-approving grin on his clean face and a set of half-lens glasses resting on his nose. He looked right at you, but unlike other paintings, his eyes did not follow.

We were led outside to a patio and after my eyes adjusted to the outdoors we saw a portly figure eating breakfast alone. I walked toward and as he looked up, Alice began to run after him squealing with convincing joy. He needed a moment to stand up, but after he did they embraced. He was a lot older than I had imagined, probably in his mid-fifties. His hair was turning white in sections, which had even managed to pepper his mustache and isolated chin beard. What surprised me most was that he was wearing a three piece suit and seemed comfortable in the hot sun. He introduced himself to me and shook my hand.

"Jacque Dufarge."

"Timothy Worth."

"Well met." There was a short lull in the conversation before he started speaking again, "Alright, I have been excited all morning for your arrival. I thought that we could walk around the gardens and discuss business."

I nodded and we set off, allowing him to set the pace, which was very leisurely.

"So, you brought with you the prize, no?"

"We did."

"May I see it?"

I pulled out the mask. It wasn't as beautiful as when I had seen it the other times, but beautiful nonetheless.

Dufarge raised an eyebrow. The bright sunlight reflected off of the lustrous mask.

"How did you ge-" Dufarge stopped himself, "Nevermind, I do not care to know."

A pair of peacocks walked in front of us. "Dooo-farge?" Alice requested his attention.

"What? Oh, yes, sorry," he glanced at them and then back at the mask, "These grounds double as my menagerie and game farm as well as the gardens." He paused for a moment, "I am prepared to offer you something well worth your while, especially," he looked up at Alice and I now, "considering that you two are, presumably, in moderate danger."

He then offered us a large sum of cash, more than either of us had expected, and then added that we would be allowed to stay in his home for a week (he looked at Alice) and then we would have to leave (he looked at me), but we would be permitted to stay in his casino hotels until we had a plan. To sweeten the deal further, he promised to have someone forge documents for us so that we would be clean in the eyes of the law for our next steps.

Alice and I looked at each other for a moment and smiled. I looked back at Dufarge and accepted the offer, just like that.

"Great," he said. And so we continued our walk around the grounds.

The garden was extensive. It took some time for him to show it all. It was just what I needed to think. Time.
I mean he was a casino owner wasn't he? And there's one thing casino owners know. The longer you stay in their presence the more money you leave behind. Maybe that was why he was so generous with his hosptality. He had a lot to gain.

He seemed so friendly, maybe overly-friendly.

And Alice, what about Alice? She was acting much too comfortable.

What exactly was their relationship anyway? Did they have a history? What sort of a history? An intimate sort? I didn't like thinking about that.

He caught my glance and smiled. It was a smile both sweet and sinister. The kind a spider gives a fly. When I turned to look at Alice, guess what I saw?
The same expression on her lips. This thing between them was praying on my brain just like a mantis. This thing was getting ugly.

That's the problem with most insects. They're ugly.

Being in this extensive garden was taking on a whole new feel. A feel I didn't care for. Not one bit.

We reentered Dufarge's home and he quickly tasked one of his maids with leading us up to a guest room of her choosing. She chose this beautiful golden room. It was equipped with a luxurious bed, several small surfaces, a large window, and a wardrobe opposite the bed.

"Clothes!" Alice exclaimed and rushed to the wardrobe.

I noticed the maid secretly scoff and then disappear before I got a chance to thank her. I sat myself down on the bed, removed my shoes, and rested my head on the neatly tucked pillow. I saw an appetizing bowl of oranges, but was too comfortable now. I was most interested in the window, though, mainly because of its size. The sun was bright, and illuminated the room completely. The view outside was of the front lawn that we walked by only an hour or two before. I was very comfortable in the bed, but not so much with Dufarge and Alice.

I turned to look at my toes and watched them wiggle in my socks. Then my gaze wandered up. Alice was undressing right before my eyes. My toes stopped moving gradually. Alice was naked. Her back was beautiful. Smooth. Sultry. Her spine dipped slightly into her body and I followed it down the curvature of her body until I reached a point where my feet blocked the view, so I parted them and allowed them to fall naturally to either side. That, my friend, was pure beauty.

I watched until she finished dressing. She turned around and saw me, of course, gazing out the window. She took a deep breath.

"Ready?" she smiled.

"What for?"

"Why, dinner, of course," she explained and added, "...Dufarge invited us..."

I nodded and headed out the door with her, picking up an orange, peeling it, and splitting it with Alice.

I was hungry and could eat a horse. Not that I would mind you, it's just an expression. You wouldn't say it in France though, they'd think you were serious. The French picked up eating horsemeat when Napolean retreated from Moscow that time in the winter. Horsemeat and frozen croissants. What a meal. And the French are supposed to be so good with food. It made me sick. But not sick enough to pass on dinner.

The dining room was impressive. DuFarge collected art of all sorts. All kinds. The silverware had been used by Louis and Marie Antoinette right before she said the infamous line,

"Let 'em eat cake."

The plates were used by the Pope. The walls had a Chagall on one side and a Gauguin on the other. The crystal chandelier over our heads had hung in the Summer Palace in St. Petersburg right before they shot the Czar.

To tell you the truth the whole place made me uncomfortable. It gave me the creeps.

"What's to eat?" I asked and shifted in my seat.

"Anything you like," said Dufarge. He lit a cigarette. The lighter was Faberge.

"I'll take a Big Mac and some fries," I answered.

I was only trying to be funny.

Nobody laughed.

Heya guys, i must congratulate both of you for writing such a gripping story. Its really hard to believe that two guys are writing the story and that the plot wasnt completely formulated well beforehand since the parts merge so incredibly. Please do continue. Eagerly awaiting for the next bit.

Thank you Nikhar! On with the story:

In fact, it seemed as though my remark had gone unnoticed. Dufarge closed his lighter up and took a puff on his cigarette.

Cigarettes always intrigued me. The way a smoker draws on it is the loudest form of silence in my mind. The way Dufarge was pulling on the smoke was not desperate by any means. He was controlling the nicotine, not the other way around. It's the way these sorts of things were meant to be used.

In any case, he asked Alice if she was impressed with the room. She of course said yes, and added that not much had changed. My eyes were bouncing around the room as those two continued their conversation without me. I knew I should have been listening, considering how suspicious I was, but the room was too interesting for that. Even the ceiling was ornate.

The horse feeling came back again, and my impatience brought me back to the conversation. Dufarge was almost done with that cigarette by now, and he asked Alice if she was still dancing.

A pair of doors swung open and interrupted her. Two waiters and a waitress appeared, Dufarge pulled quickly on the cigarette and then put it out in a presumably pure silver ashtray. The meals were carried to each of us and simultaneously their covers were removed. Steam emerged from each of them.

In front of me was the biggest burger I have ever seen. Apparently my joke was not taken as one. And that was a good thing.

I ate my hamburger and should have noticed the sly glances flying back and forth between DuFarge and Alice but I was too busy Macking down.

A silver tray with a gilded top appeared. When the top was lifted it revealed a roll of sushi.

"What's that?"

"It's the finest puffer fish," chirped Alice, "You should really have some."

"It's a delicacy." explained DuFarge.

"Im up for anything," I answered. That's the trouble with me, always up for anything. Alice gave me a slice hand to mouth. I should have noticed, when she placed it in my mouth, that instead of wipping her fingertips on her lips, she wiped them off on her linen napkin.

Alll I noticed was the fire-engine red of her nails. Damn they were sharp and well-shaped! Just like her.

Another thing I should have noticed but didn't was that neither DuFarge and Alice had any. As Lou Reed says in the last line of his song Rock and Roll,

"Not one tiny bit."

The next thing I knew I was on my back staring at the ceiling. Something was missing. The chandelier from the summer palace. I turned my head to the right. No Gauguin. Then to the left. No Chagall. I got up on my legs built by Perelli or Michellin. Like rubber. The whole house was empty and when I got out the door and looked back a "For Rent" sign was in window.

Gee, sometimes a guy is just outa luck.

Well, it took me about an hour or two to get the faintest idea of what happened. I was disgusted and all I really wanted was a shower. A shower does wonders for your nerves.

So, back in the house I went. I snooped my way around the place looking for a bath. I found the bathroom, but there were no bath fixtures to speak of. No showerhead, no shower.

I headed upstairs in search of another bathroom. No dice. That one, too, had been robbed of its valuables. I searched the room that we were to stay in, hoping that a trace of Alice would be around. There was not. They even managed to remove the bed and the wardrobe and I wondered how that happened. I did however pick up a couple of soft, overripe oranges.

I felt alone especially in this big, empty house. I solemnly slogged down the steps of the staircase and out the back door. It was terribly dark out, but I needed a walk.

I stripped an orange and reflected some. A lot of this did not make sense. I didn't even know how much time had passed. The most puzzling of all, however, was that godforsaken 'For Rent' sign. It puzzled me for two reasons. One: it was in the worst location of all. Nobody could see that sign from the main road because the driveway was so long. And two: it was in English. France is a French country; they speak French there. So an English sign was out of place. How they even got one, I do not know; I never brought it up with either of them.

I deduced that they left it for me to find. To really make clear that they weren't coming back. They were gone for good.

By the time my orange was consumed, I was upset enough to simultaneously shed my clothes and run into one of Dufarge's former ponds. It made me feel a lot better to swim around in there. After a long while, I heard some rustling in the bushes a field away. I froze and then silently swam to shore, quietly collected my clothes, and frantically sprinted back inside.

I went hugged the walls as I found my way in the dark. I was looking for someplace to sleep when I came across the library. Inside, there was a coushionless couch. There were a couple of books scattered around the library floor. I picked up a small one by the couch but it was too dark to even read the title, so I placed it on my pile of clothes and dozed off.

When I awoke, it was light, but not bright. I picked up the book and read the title out loud: “Betting on the Muse – Poems and Stories – Charles Bukowski.” I dressed and stowed the small book in my coat pocket. I ate the rest of the oranges and headed out the back. On the lawn, sitting, with its eyes closed, was one of Dufarge’s peacocks. I had nothing to give it, nor was I feeling particularly charitable, so I strolled past it towards the garage in hopes of finding a forgotten car.

All that I found in that big four-car garage was an old ten-speed bicycle. As I wheeled it outside, the peacock was patiently waiting there for me. I hopped on the bicycle and pedaled slowly down the driveway. Looking back, the peacock was following. I paused at the end of the driveway to manually open Dufarge’s gate. The peacock caught up and again patiently waited for me.

A nasty idea popped into my head. Dufarge would want that big teal bird.

I held the gate open for the peacock and closed it behind. As I left the unoccupied palace, and closed the insigniaed gate, I wondered how the real-estate agent was planning to market a home with 'JD' stamped on everything.

Have you ever pedaled down a country lane in France with a peacock under your arm? I can, and I can tell you one thing Mon Ami. It's tough to steer.

But there was no way, no matter how tough the road, no matter how Van-Gogh maddenly bright the sun, that I was going to let go of that bird.

It was my key, my plan, my device to locate DuFarge. I recalled what he'd said while giving us the tour of the garden.

"See that bird?, he said proudly, " I 've raised it since it was a chick. It has the run of the place and will never leave. I wouldn't take ten million for it."

That's just it. It wouldn't leave the place. In such a hurry to leave they couldn't catch it in time. Probably hid out. Probably gave them sh*t too.

But it was my ace in the hole. When I reached the next village I called up one of my "friends" that worked for Le Monde. He was one of the origninal
"French Connections."

"Place me a full page ad, Frenchie," I told him. "Say I found a peacock named Louise in an abandoned estate for rent."

It was pretty funny, DuFarge naming "him" Louise. What a pair of huevos he had!

Now all I had to do was sit back, chug back some Perrier and Hennessy and wait. It always gripes the French when they know someone drinks Hennessy rather than Courvoisier. An English man makes the stuff!

Each little sip was sweet revenge. Oh was it yummy!

And as for the bird? " He weren't nothing special," as they used to say in the American movies.

He worked for chicken feed.

"I figured I had some serious waiting to do so I whipped out that book, you know, the Bukowski one, and I flipped through its pages. I stopped at one poem, The Laughing Heart, and read it," said Worth.

He sat across from me at the interrogation table. Somebody had turned the vents on and the moving air made the light swing again. Worth closed his eyes as if to channel his past. I think he mentioned something of a photographic memory before. He began slowly:

"The Laughing Heart," he cleared his throat.
"Your life is your life.
Don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
Be on the watch.
There are ways out.
There is light somewhere.
It may not be much light but it beats the darkness.
Be on the watch.
The gods will offer you chances.
Know them. Take them.
You can’t beat death but you can beat death in life.
Sometimes the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be.
Your life is your life.
Know it while you have it.
You are marvelous
The gods wait to delight in you," the man paused, "Now, ain't that a beauty?"

I smiled and we mutually paused for a moment.

"Well, I liked that poem a lot, I must say and I must have read it a dozen times in that old French pub. I was sitting by the window for some light. Something blocked the sun. It was a dark figure and it tapped on the glass. I stood up and headed outside. Children were flocking around Dufarge's bird, playfully harassing it, patting it on the head. I didn't bother with them. The figure obviously meant business and I wasn't going to keep myself, the bird, or the mystery waiting. STOP.

The dark figure cleared his throat,

"We saw your ad in le Monde. What's the price you're asking for the return of the bird?"

I felt like I was in The Maltese Falcon. I wanted to sound tough, just like Bogart's Sam Spade."

"I want back the mask, and the key to the estate for my inconvenience and expenses."

He had no expression on his face, he was giving nothing away for free.

"What if I just hit you over the head right now, and ran off with the bird?"

"Then you'd be..." and suddenly the day went dark.

When I woke up, the kids were tossing small green berries at my head as I lay there in the mud and rocks.
My cheek was pock-market from resting in the gravel.
The bird and the car were gone. The first thing I did was run off the kids and reach in my pocket. The tiny GPS unit was flashing a signal. I'd slipped a bug in the bird's food. Now, wherever he went, I could follow the electronic scent. I couldn't have been out for too long, the map made him only thirty or so miles away. I dusted off my clothes and hopped in the nearest car. If DuFarge wanted to play Gold Finger, I was willing to play James Bond.
I'd trail him to Switzerland if that's what it took.

And I certainly owed a bump on the noggin to old Odd Job there. My judo was probably as good as his. And for once, I'd have surprise on my side.

STOP

I'm beginning to wonder which of you will receive the royalties from this fine piece of literature...

Surprise, yes, but time? Not so much. I was woefully uneducated about a bird's digestive tract (I seemed to recall something about gizzards and rocks?), and I had no idea how much time I had before my plan went splat.

"Où allez-vous?" asked the driver of the taxi car I'd jumped into. Stupid Frenchies, why couldn't they speak English like the rest of the civilized modern world?

"You speak English?" I asked.

"Oui. Where are you going?" he asked, cigarette waggling between thin lips.

"Well, I'm not quite sure yet. But I'll give you directions as we go," I said, eyeing the blip on the GPS unit.

"Vous Américaine stupide," he muttered, and accelerated. The wild goose chase had begun, and I was going to snare me a peacock.

STOP
Was that all right?