Thursday, February 3, 2011

Cloak and Dagger Fan-fiction: Prologue

 Praça do Comércio is the more annoying entrance to the main street of Rua Augusta. The Merchant hated Lisbon; he hated all of Portugal. The bastard of Barcelona and Naples he considered Lisbon, a city that could not pull off a decent coup was lessened in honour and glory in the proverbial halls of revolutions he had read and dreamt of. 

"Quero comprar um galo?" 
"No, I do not want to buy a fucking ceramic cockerel!" hissed the Merchant at the street vendor. 

The startled man backed up instinctively and the Merchant eased away without a glance. The main street was bustling with people and activity has always been such cover for the shady business that they were about to participate in. Speaking of they, he approached the pebbled pathway to the entrance of the apartment building oozing with Euro-ness. He climbed the stair-case to the third of the four floors in the place. He approached the designated door and removed his fedora before ringing the bell.

"Who is it?" 
"Your mother," replied the merchant to the first test.
"Mother...How did you get here?"
" a a G6."
"Who had a little lamb?"

The sounds of chains and bolts being removed were followed by the tiny click of the door being unlocked.

"You are late Merchant," was the greeting given to him by the man standing in the door way. "You should have come earlier." The Merchant's reply sent chills down his spine.
"Thats what she said."

They entered the room where the prisoner was kept.
They had had no form of communication with the blindfolded prisoner of any manner or form. No words were spoken in his presence. He was only made to hear and sense his environment.

Day 1: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Left without a word.
Day 2: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Left without a word.
Day 3: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Left without a word.
Day 4: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Lit a match 5 feet away from the prisoner...Prisoner screamed out everything from diplomatic-cover serial number to under-wear size...(small).

The Merchant walked with ominous steps towards the prisoner, whose ears twitched at the sound.
"Who was it? Who discovered my organization in Glasgow?"

What little colour had returned to the prisoner's face, drained again at an accelerated rate. The Merchant knew this was the time to let the information sink. To let him, the prisoner, know the extent of his own knowledge extracting that which he needed.
"Glasgow. Who knew?"

Prisoner clenched every muscle consciously clench-able before saying the words that would echo images of destruction into their minds' eyes. 

"Pink Hitler. It was Pink Hitler!"

Tyrant. Genius. Spy. These are the chronicles of one child of revolution who shook the clandestine world.