The Tale of a Secretary, Interlude III: The Death of General Decency
Prerequisites:
Committee report
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter I: Scenery of Salvation
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter II: Introduction to a Diligent Task
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter III: The Smiling Man
The Tale of a Secretary, Interlude: Mr. Reed's Everyday Life
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter IV: Trahison D'être
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter V: Reaching the Rubicon
The Tale of a Secretary, Interlude II: Existential Angst
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter VI: Eschatology Blues
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter VII: That Which Hath No Name
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter VIII: Affirming The Shadows
"Sloth is an affront to general decency," the note read. "You have been given generous leeway in your official undertakings, yet your procrastination runs the risk of becoming detrimental to our cause. Though we may be lenient in matters of discipline, it lies in your self-interest to note that the people are not."
The young scribe chuckled and said quietly to himself: "General Decency is dead. He saw it fit to off himself before that last desperate cavalry charge against indifference."
The writer's quarters were in disarray, with various items of clothing lying on the floor mixed with heaps of animal hair of unknown origin. The room seemed to defy the second law of thermodynamics. Were he to enter the kitchenette, he would surely meet his demise under a mountain of dirty dishes.
Fighting his way through his ramshackle living space to throw this thinly veiled threat in the rubbish bin, he stopped at the window. On the street outside, five storeys down, he noticed his companion talking to another man. The man looked up to reveal his face, and shot off a smile that sent the adrenaline pumping through the writer's veins.
"No... no... it can't be!", the writer thought, horrified.
"Honey! Get away from that man!", he screamed at the top of his lungs. "I will be right down!"
He darted against the door, unluckily enough tripping on a pile of clothes, and was sent flying against an open drawer of the couple's wardrobe, busting his underlip open. Quickly getting up and bursting through the door and down the staircase, he cursed under his breath:
"No... not him..."
As it would turn out, The Smiling Man rarely made mistakes, and the abduction of the writer's spouse was not one of those occasions. When the writer crashed out into the busy streets, there was no sign of his sweetheart.
"Honey?"
He grabbed a passerby by the collar and inquired, rather rudely:
"Have you seen a woman in a red dress? She was standing right here talking to someone just a moment ago. Answer, gods dammit!"
"I beg your pardon? Please let go of me, and no, I haven't seen anyone.", the man answered and was quickly on his way.
The writer sank down to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
"No... not him..."
In many works of contemporary fiction, a disturbing young girl, more often than not dressed in a nightgown, serves the role of the bearer of bad tidings or a harbinger of worse things to come. The girl who was now approaching the crouching writer was, however, dressed in a Victorian fashion.
"Do you realize now?" her soft high-pitched voiced declared. "You can't run from them."
The writer slowly parted his fingers and beheld the girl through the cracks between his fingers. He was quiet.
"You know what to do if you want to see her again." the girl continued.
As she turned around to walk away, the writer grabbed her wrist rather violently.
"Who?", the writer exclaimed.
"Let go of her before I call the City Guard, you awful man!", a woman yelled from across the street.
He let go and collapsed on the street. The tempest that had been brewing for the last couple of days swept in over the city. As the rain emptied the street, the writer laid on his back and stared at the tenebrous sky.
Committee report
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter I: Scenery of Salvation
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter II: Introduction to a Diligent Task
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter III: The Smiling Man
The Tale of a Secretary, Interlude: Mr. Reed's Everyday Life
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter IV: Trahison D'être
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter V: Reaching the Rubicon
The Tale of a Secretary, Interlude II: Existential Angst
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter VI: Eschatology Blues
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter VII: That Which Hath No Name
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter VIII: Affirming The Shadows
"Sloth is an affront to general decency," the note read. "You have been given generous leeway in your official undertakings, yet your procrastination runs the risk of becoming detrimental to our cause. Though we may be lenient in matters of discipline, it lies in your self-interest to note that the people are not."
The young scribe chuckled and said quietly to himself: "General Decency is dead. He saw it fit to off himself before that last desperate cavalry charge against indifference."
The writer's quarters were in disarray, with various items of clothing lying on the floor mixed with heaps of animal hair of unknown origin. The room seemed to defy the second law of thermodynamics. Were he to enter the kitchenette, he would surely meet his demise under a mountain of dirty dishes.
Fighting his way through his ramshackle living space to throw this thinly veiled threat in the rubbish bin, he stopped at the window. On the street outside, five storeys down, he noticed his companion talking to another man. The man looked up to reveal his face, and shot off a smile that sent the adrenaline pumping through the writer's veins.
"No... no... it can't be!", the writer thought, horrified.
"Honey! Get away from that man!", he screamed at the top of his lungs. "I will be right down!"
He darted against the door, unluckily enough tripping on a pile of clothes, and was sent flying against an open drawer of the couple's wardrobe, busting his underlip open. Quickly getting up and bursting through the door and down the staircase, he cursed under his breath:
"No... not him..."
As it would turn out, The Smiling Man rarely made mistakes, and the abduction of the writer's spouse was not one of those occasions. When the writer crashed out into the busy streets, there was no sign of his sweetheart.
"Honey?"
He grabbed a passerby by the collar and inquired, rather rudely:
"Have you seen a woman in a red dress? She was standing right here talking to someone just a moment ago. Answer, gods dammit!"
"I beg your pardon? Please let go of me, and no, I haven't seen anyone.", the man answered and was quickly on his way.
The writer sank down to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
"No... not him..."
In many works of contemporary fiction, a disturbing young girl, more often than not dressed in a nightgown, serves the role of the bearer of bad tidings or a harbinger of worse things to come. The girl who was now approaching the crouching writer was, however, dressed in a Victorian fashion.
"Do you realize now?" her soft high-pitched voiced declared. "You can't run from them."
The writer slowly parted his fingers and beheld the girl through the cracks between his fingers. He was quiet.
"You know what to do if you want to see her again." the girl continued.
As she turned around to walk away, the writer grabbed her wrist rather violently.
"Who?", the writer exclaimed.
"Let go of her before I call the City Guard, you awful man!", a woman yelled from across the street.
He let go and collapsed on the street. The tempest that had been brewing for the last couple of days swept in over the city. As the rain emptied the street, the writer laid on his back and stared at the tenebrous sky.
