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Delivery to DCH

 
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FioHelston
Ancient Wyrm
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Joined: 30 Apr 2005
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Can Be Found: WestEnd, Rhydin
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PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2011 7:47 pm    Post subject: Delivery to DCH Reply with quote

Francie's Florals made a special delivery to the DCH offices on a Sunday. That's customer service!


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Mr. Cheatham
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PostPosted: Thu Jun 09, 2011 4:56 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Poor Abigail Smythe.

At an early age Abigail knew she was meant for bigger and better things than grubbing in the dirt all her life on the family farm.

One day she would go to the big city and make a name for herself.

The siren call of the city of Rhydin took hold of Abigail as a young girl. She would hang on every word of the travelling salesmen or the other farmers that had gone to market about the big city. Stricken with the big city bug, how she heard those words were colored. Rather than a warning of the dangers that lurked in the city she heard them as adventures. Little Johnny Sheck that lived two farms over had been sent home from the city in a pine box. Abigail knew his mistake. Johnny had run away when he was just fifteen, everyone knew you were not ready for the world until you reached that magic age of eighteen years.

The day after her eighteenth birthday with a suitcase full of clothes she had sewn herself. The pattern made from what she had seen in a fashion magazine from the city. The seed salesman thought it would get him a roll in the hay with the pretty young woman. Abigail got her magazine, the salesman got a look up the barrel of her daddy’s shotgun.

It was her destiny. That is what she told herself as she sat down behind the reception desk at Dewey, Cheatham and Howe that Monday after the election. Only a week in town and she had landed the job at the prestigious looking office. The man that hired her, Mr. Howe, had been a bit creepy but Mr. Dewey seemed nice enough. And then there was that dreamy Mr. Cheatham. Abigail smiled as she thought about him and leaned to smell the flowers left on her desk.

“Flowers from an illicit lover?” Wendall Cheatham was all winning smiles and handsome haberdashery as he strolled for the front desk.

Abigail blushed immediately followed by a shy smile and stammer. “No sir. There is nothing illicit. I mean. They are lovely. But not for a lover. They aren’t even for me!” In the day dream she was having when Cheatham had come over Abigail spoke far more eloquently and confident.

“Who are they for, then?” He picked out the card from the blooms and read it. Condolences from the newly elected governor. Between rumours, his own spies, reports in the newspaper and knowing his partner it was easy to see that 1+1= Howe. Cheatham tucked the card back into the flowers and flashed another smile at Abigail. “You will make sure Mr. Howe receives them as soon as he arrives this morning?”

Abigail nodded, sure that her new bob haircut danced prettily above her shoulders. “Yes, Mr. Cheatham.”

Cheatham turned to walk away and stopped. He knew that as soon as the poor girl delivered the flowers to Howe and Howe read the card that Abigail would be the victim of Howe’s wrath.

He turned and stepped back to the desk and leaned towards her. She looked up at him, breathless with those pretty doe brown eyes. “Abigail, I know it isn’t fair of me to ask you for a favor but could you run down to the coffee place down the street and grab me a grande mocha latte before the other partners get in?”

He made it sound like a secret they shared. It took less than an instant for Abigail to start nodding. Cheatham smiled and straightened as he dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. He held it out for her to take. When Abigail’s fingers touched his as she took the coin she felt a tingle run through her body. The farm girl knew nothing about magic. The shiver of a small protection spell easily mistaken for a shiver of thrill from the touch of such a handsome man. “And please, call me Wendall.”

It did not take the plethora of security monitors throughout the building for Cheatham to know some twenty minutes later that Howe had entered the building. Like speaks to like. Cheatham relaxed back in the leather desk chair and kicked his heels up to rest on the corner of his desk. He reached over and pressed the intercom button for Howe’s office then settled back to listen as he sipped his mocha latte and perused the daily racing form.

Background sounds bled through the speaker. Shoes on the carpet, the shuffling of paper. A few minutes later Cheatham heard as Abigail had entered Howe’s office. “Good morning, Mr. Howe. These arrived for you.” She sounded nervous. Cheatham smiled to himself.

The short silence had to be while Howe was reading the card. Cheatham heard the sound before the speaker could even register it, the sub-audible keen of a demonic roar starting.

For the next hour the soundtrack of Howe’s rage played out over the intercom. Every scream, howl, grunt, thump of body against the wall, splintering of wood, everything. Until the only sound left was the labored panting of Howe and the gurgle and whimper of what was left of Abigail Smythe.

Cheatham knew his partner. He knew how much Howe loved to feel the life ebbing beneath his hands from those he attacked personally.

Cheatham knew his own spells. He knew the small protection he had put on the girl would keep her alive through Howe’s assault. It would keep her alive long enough for that old obese body that Howe wore to reach it limits and fail him.

Through the speaker Cheatham heard Howe’s ragged breathing slowing and deepening. It sounded like he was finally catching his breath, catching a second wind. But then came a final gurgle and the unmistakable sound of a death rattle breath as Abigail Smythe finally died on her own.

“Now?! Now you f*cking decide to die?! You f*cking whor........” Cheatham turned off the intercom in the middle of Howe’s rant over the dead body. He picked up a pen from his desk and circled a name of a pegasi in the fifth race “Abby’s Sunset. 50 to 1. I like those odds.”






A couple of weeks later two of the cemetery workers were struggling with the bulk of a marble headstone. “It don’t make no sense, Charlie. Why a stone for one of these graves?”

“I don’t know Ned. Alls I know is it was paid for and we was paid.” Charlie looked around them as they set the stone in place. They were in what looked like a garden of white sticks. White sticks with the initials JD and a number written on them. This was where the city buried those that were never identified, all the Jane and John Does.

Charlie and Ned stepped back. They had it centered and seated well. It was a rather nice stone, pricey from the look of it, 50 to 1 odds paid well, and engraved with the identifier that had been on the stick.

Ned clapped Charlie on the shoulder. “Right, let’s go spend some of that tip at the tavern.” They both gave a nod to the headstone and walked away. That was the extent of the funeral of Abigail Smythe.

Poor Abigail Smythe. She came to the big city to make a name for herself. And she did.

That name was Jane Doe 12479.
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