Book Excerpt

[Gobbo]

“A week from today marks the 7th anniversary of the tragedy of December 21st and CNN will be broadcasting live, with twenty-four hour coverage from Tsarion complex A. We will be…” The blonde anchor went on to talk about the anniversary event as Darryl’s eyes went on down to her shapely chest. CNN’s women aren’t just attractive; they’re this type of precision hotness that seems to seize his dick and his attention with surprising authority.

“Listen, T-bass, I think I’m fucked no matter how I look at it”

Darryl pulled his attention down from the small television tucked into the corner of Starbucks they were sitting in. The ‘TV Corner’ as some of the would be intellects had explained to him in a oh so cheerful mood. That is, before sauntering off with a copy of Cathay to the ‘Abstract Depression’ corner. “What do you mean?” The words came out without much thought as he struggled to recall what him and his partner were talking about.

“It’s the anger, you know…I gotta get it under control” reported his partner, Violet.

Darryl nodded slightly, reaching down to take a sip of his white chocolate frappachino as Violet reached down for another sip of her bottled water. He always had admired her ability to operate so lucidly, seemingly regardless of any sort of sleep deprivation. After eight years of service together, he couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a cup of coffee. Then again, as a detective he had always wondered about that at times. Either way, she was good enough cop; that is, except for the aforementioned temper. “What do you think leads to this anger boiling over?”

Violet shrugged slightly, exhaling. Her attractive face contorting into an expression of ponderance; the pale oval encapsulated by a few strands of her brown hair which escaped the confines of a purposefully messy bun atop her head. “I just feel…this angst all of the time.” She finally responded, her almost glowing violet eyes flashing up to focus on my own.

Darryl chuckled slightly, downing the rest of his caffeinated beverage. “Angst?” he asked, more to himself than anyone, staring at the cup in his aging hands. “I haven’t heard that word in a while. Anxiety on the other hand…” he trailed off as the familiar feeling began to rise, seemingly on cue. His eyes drifted down to his watch.

“But what is the difference between anxiety and angst?” his partner asked, also glancing down at her watch and sensing the shift back into ‘work’ mode. Violet paused to think about her own question for a moment before downing the rest of her water and beginning to get into her coat from its position behind her, draped over the back of her chair. When she was finished the coat was effectively on, though still draped over the back of the chair – an odd habit of Violet’s.

The difference? The question seemed rather redundant in Darryl’s eyes, which he rolled as Violet put her coat back on. She had always tended to be rather He was going to make an attempt at the question though, as he never liked to back down from these little debates the duo had to kill the time. That is, until he felt the subtle vibrations from the cell phone in his pants pocket. The sensation was disgustingly gentle; as if to say ‘Sorry man, not to intrude but…yeah, phone call’; a sensation which forbade the equally pleasant ring tone to follow should the gentle massage fail to awaken the great organic beast. “Hold on, Violet, phone” he announced, reaching down to his pocket for the device.

“It’s the sarg”

Darryl raised an eyebrow at this proclamation just as the melodic sounds which had long since lost their appeal began to play – a second before he flipped open the sleek apparatus. “Tobasco…”

“Hey, T-bass, listen, I need you two to get back here ASAP, looks like we’ve got some sort of incident at the Hospital.”

Darryl nodded into the phone, “10-4 Sarg” he said simply before clicking the phone shut and shoving it back into his pocket. Standing up he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair.

“What did he say?” his partner asked, standing and finally returning her coat to its rightful position next to her body.

“How did you know it was the Sarg?”

“Lucky guess…So what did he say?”

“Something at the hospital…” Darryl responded, starting to make towards the door. Over in the abstract depression corner he spotted Cathay boy crying about some injustice to the American dream or another. The aging detective took comfort in the fact that he was going to try and actually change one of them. He had read somewhere that ideas are bulletproof, but unfortunately for most people – they aren’t. “Anxiety is caused by other people” he exclaimed over his shoulder upon the completion of this thought.

“What?”

“Your question: The difference between anxiety and angst – that’s my answer.” By now he was standing at the glass doorway, staring through the Starbucks logo into the busy fall streets of LA. “Anxiety is caused by other people…”

[Gobbo]

It wasn’t that he hated the man before him; rather for Humphries, he hated the fact that he was so petrified of Donaldson. This was an environment of information and fear. In the ‘real’ world he could do pretty much whatever he wanted, but in this world -at work- he could not do anything of which he would be scared of the negative ramifications, as they were often quite negative. This is a type of fear which stems from a direct path to personal death; and when you live as a ghost, no one wants that.

What actually happened to the mother? Humphries hoped nothing malicious, but whatever it was that fat fuck Donaldson sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him.

It was with that in mind that Humphries now decided that what he truly hated the most was being in a room with someone who so clearly struck unadulterated fear into the heart of Donaldson. Up until this point, Humphries hadn’t even considered such a thought.

The third man had not spoken yet; he simply stood at the doorway of the small office, deep underground the Antarctic continent in the Xel Lungold Facility . Besides the three men the only other occupants of the small metal room were a couple chairs, a desk and an unassuming computer which purred contently.

No cameras.

“Agent Donaldson, of course knows who I am, or rather…what I represent.” The man started. He was oddly dressed; wearing a white suit with a red stripe running down the center third of the front of the attire. Underneath the suit jacket the stranger wore no shirt; rather his broad chest seemed to be littered with different tattoos. He looked Native American, though strangely, with short blonde hair. As he walked into the room the seated agent could tell he wasn’t an overly muscular man, but he moved with a rigid attentiveness almost as if cautious of the very air flowing around him. He slided past the chair Humphries was sitting in to stare at Donaldson for what bordered on an unusually long time. “Which is a group known as the Incognito Cless.”

The words seemed to physically affect Donaldson; a wave of nausea flashed across his face.

There was no doubt in Humphries’ mind this new red-stripe suited character was an assassin. The thing about assassins is that they always work for someone. The question at hand was: Who? That seemed to often be the question in this world.

“What is this about?” Humphries inquired cautiously, glancing up to the Cless’ eyes. There was a certain intensified quality which gleaned from the silvery iris’ which locked onto Humphries’ stare as soon as it washed over the tattooed man. Humphries wasn’t sure but he thought he saw the silvery specks within the glistening oval start to oscillate before he looked away. Even as he checked out the grey linoleum of the floor around his feet he could feel the Cless’ stare continuing to examine his person.

“As you have so failed to suspect, the reason I am here is to tell you ‘what this is about’” the ironically named assassin responded as Humphries raised his eyes again. “The both of you” he added, glancing over to the older Donaldson. The killer had a strange accent, it was hard to place.

He nodded his balding fat head. Humphries gave a small nod.

The Cless continued, pacing about the small room slightly. “Agent Tully Humphries was sent to recover a small child from the St. Augustine Hospital on Tuesday for the disturbance it caused. It is the same child which is down the hall being cared for by the nursing staff here; the same child which the nurses have affectionately named ‘Simon’ due to his…psychic abilities.” At this point the Cless moved back around to Donaldson’s side, seemingly to emphasize what he was about to say. “The reason he is important goes beyond psionics in the sense that both of you are aware of, though.” He paused at this statement in thought.

Humphries was almost sure he could see those silvery specks in his corneas moving.

“Anyways – the point.” The assassin continued, “Set up a nursing unit for him in a level 5 prison and start preparing a convoy with the usual psionic safeguards as he will be moved shortly.”

Humphries nodded thoughtfully, beginning to sink into thought about what would need to be done. For a second his fascination with the child he had transported actually alleviated some of the tension. “Any idea where he’ll be moved to…Mr… Cless?”

“You can call me Red” he motioned down with his head to the red stripe, “and prepare for somewhere in Northern Ireland.”

Humphries nodded.

Donaldson scowled.

“I suspect the child was pleasant for your trip to Xel Lungold?”

“Humphries nodded; proceeding cautiously, “Yes…actually, I was surprised at his intellect for…a newborn.”

“I tip of advice, Tully Humphries: Don’t think ill thoughts towards the culmination child. You saw what happened to the last person who did.”