You’re wearing a trenchcoat, picture it. Streetlights by the harbour don’t illuminate much when it’s this dark, just the ceaseless rain we get in these parts. Always muddy in town, tonnes of car accidents, very sad. About time you got your hands on a trenchcoat with the coating on it, sick to death of rain seeping in and chilling your nerves. Especially not on the job. There’s a lighter in your right coat pocket. With a leather-gloved hand you bring it up to your mouth, along with a cigarette. It clicks a few times. Empty. Fancy that. You throw it in the gutter and cross the street, away from the harbour, back into town, a job well done.
The barrel you’re holding up is red, surely that means it’s flammable or explosive, right? That’s how it always worked in the films. She seems to think so. Enough that she is putting down the gun, thank God, and you’re keeping your cool because she has no idea you’re bluffing. However, the way you’re holding that lighter up under the barrel and the look in your eyes that says I’ll blow us all to kingdom come has her convinced. Kick the gun to me. Good. Now get on your knees. Now you have the gun, you drop the barrel. Two bullet casings hit the floor, and your job is done.
He’s got a mahogany desk and the green lamps. The top left drawer is where he keeps the Scotch, and two glasses. He’s got a Beretta in the top right drawer, most likely not loaded. The fountain pens sit in a little holster as well, pointing towards you. He passes you a manilla folder. Aloof and disengaged, he barely looks at you as he gives you the assignment. Her name is Martine, she’s had her hands in the cookie jar, and it’s up to you to find the cookies, and bring them back, as it were. He’s wearing one of those coats that keeps all the water out.
Distilled Orthopraxy 