My NanoWriMo — Chapter Five
Colonel Claudius Flintlock-Estuary strode confidently out of his personal helicopter, barely noticing the unfashionable haircut it gave him on the way out. He strode across the dull concrete of the roof and shook hands with the burly man waiting for him at the top of the staircase leading down into the skyscraper.
Marshal Pantislavsky recoiled at the touch of the colonel’s tiny beautiful hands, but kept his disgust as well hidden as he could. Pantislavsky was nothing if not diplomatic, especially when the stakes were this high.
Pantislavsky was a broad, middle-aged man, with deep black eyes and an afro of distinguished grey. His neck was thick and bore testimony to the many years he had spent slaving in the central Kyrgyz magnesium mines. There, many miles underground, he had seen how low man could sink in pursuit of alkaline earth metals. Only in a literal sense though: his experience in the mines had provided no information regarding human depravity or greed, and he had lots of fond memories of the friendships he made down there. He thought of his mining days as the best ones of his life, and he yearned to recapture the carefree sense of joy that came to easily back then.
It wasn’t just his neck that was thick: Pantislavsky had legs like tree trunks, arms like wheat silos and a stomach like a beehive. His chin was longer than you’d expect from a man of his credit rating, and his ears stuck out just enough to make you feel bad for how he had suffered at school, without sticking out so far that you hated him for his extravagance. At this moment he was wearing a stern, determined expression on his too-large face, like a rhinoceros that had failed its driver’s licence test four times but had no intention of giving up now.
“Good evening, Colonel,” he said in sober tones, watching Flintlock-Estuary’s face carefully to see if the fact that it was morning would register on the smooth, impassive expanse of manskin that the colonel called his face, but which millions of starving immigrants had in the past called “The Great Freckly Desert”, for reasons that not only would not bear going into, but made absolutely no sense even when written down and read by professional voice actors.
As it happened, the colonel barely even flinched at the marshal’s chronological faux pas. He nodded curtly, and in a pleasant yet angry voice, replied, “Mr Pantislavsky. It is good to see you on this, the the third dawn of the season of the gosling.”
Pantislavsky allowed a slight smile to play around the edges of his navel. The game was afoot. He tilted his head to one side and answered playfully yet viciously, “Indeed, Colonel, for every victory won by the bluejay, the fishing cat steals one more soul for a postman’s supper.”
The colonel snorted. “Is this really what you brought me here for?” he demanded, holding up a bright blue plush octopus.
Pantislavsky shook his head wryly. “No,” he murmured. “This is.” He held up a bright orange plush octopus.
Colonel Claudius Flintlock-Estuary bowed almost imperceptibly. “Clearly, we understand each other.”
“Clearly. Shall we go downstairs?”
“Let’s.”
The two men shared a brief kiss, and headed down into the building. The staircase was long and winding and made of a brittle, meringue-like substance that caused bits to break off frequently as the two men descended it. “Security,” said Pantislavsky, without elaboration. Down several dozen flights they walked, passing myriad enormous paintings on the walls: Renaissance masters, 19th-century landscapes, cubist oils, surrealist portraiture, copyright-breaching prints of Gary Larson’s “The Far Side”. Every major art movement of the western world was represented, but Colonel Flintlock-Estuary paid scant attention to the spectacle. His mind was on larger things.
After what seemed like an age, they arrived at a wooden door, the kind of door that seemed to almost be begging to be opened. Pantislavsky obliged its eldritch desires, pushing it open with almost dictatorial authority, and then closing it behind them with equally tyrannical conviction.
Behind the door was another door, but this was different to the first door: it was lying flat on the floor. Flintlock-Estuary smiled. “Nice touch.”
“Thanks,” Pantislavsky simpered, finally allowed a hint of his inner sensuality to shine through. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Let’s.”
The two men sat on the door, cross-legged. Pantislavsky pulled a croissant from his jacket, tore it in half, and offered half of it to the colonel, who devoured it eagerly.
“Now, colonel, tell me: how is the shipment progressing?”
The colonel raised a significant eyebrow, the sort of eyebrow that screamed, “I know what you mean by ‘the shipment’, and this conversation is easily comprehensible to me.”
At that moment, the conversation became inaudible for narrative reasons.
