0
The winter of 2012 had been the coldest ever recorded in Simple City. It had snowed for two months, and there were no signs of thaw. But the City made from millionaires pursuits for millionaires’ pleasures still smoked, if time was money – this was infinity.
At 9.45am on November 18th, an immaculately dressed man strolled unnoticed into the marble-lined lobby (furnished in keeping with a crossing of the Rubicon theme) of McGrew Towers.
It was the tallest, the widest, the most powerful building in the City. 700 people worked there like rats in a daily marathon that never ended, never ceased, and only one person ever gained ground from, the most powerful and cold-hearted organ grinder that ever sat on the throne of executive power; Andrew McGrew.
18 elevators catapulted employees between the 666 floors of the Headquarters of his Empire, secretaries and brokers danced urgent caffeinated quick steps around each other on their way to their next important meeting.
They didn’t notice the immaculate man because he was in no hurry. He had all the time in the world. He meandered into a lift only one man could use, and whistled off key along to the sounds of Simon and Garfunkle drifting in his mind, as he headed to the top. He was often accompanied by the Sound of Silence, but could never get past the first line “hello darkness my old friend…” before blanking out.
Travelling up, he had time to consider how it was possible to hear a song over 100 times and still not know the words. Yet, other songs could pop into your head without the slightest tug on recall. Some tunes stick, some don’t, he concluded contently continuing to whistle; memory had never been an essential part of his life.
The platinum plated elevator door opened at his final destination, presenting 9 heavily armed guards with semi automatic weapons waiting and aiming to fire at him.
“Get on the floor! Face down.” Came the bass command from a 9ft security agent. He looked accustomed to making the demand.
The immaculate man smiled and casually lay down. Handcuffs were snapped on his wrist and he was pulled from the floor by the fine thread of his suit in 5.8 seconds.
“No one uses this lift except Mr McGrew.” The agent shoved the man against the wall. “State your name and purpose!”
“My name is Harold Masters. I am here to see Mr Andrew McGrew.”
“There are other lifts. No one uses this lift apart from…”
“Mr McGrew, I get it. I’m sorry. My mistake.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Oh, I don’t need one.” Harold winked.
His guard remained stoic. “Oh yes you do. Jack. Paul.” Two stubby men, made entirely of muscle and psychosis, stepped out of the crowd.
“See to it that this man is seen out. Now.”
“Oh” said Harold calmly. “Really, you do not want to stop me from seeing Mr McGrew. Not if you want to keep your job.”
He leant in and smiled with the charm of a Cheshire cat. “I think you will find that if you tell Mr McGrew I am here, and also tell him that I have the Prize he has been seeking, that you may very well get a raise. But if you don’t, well, I’m sure men of your size and power could find a job terrifying people again in no time.”
Harold smiled. This was not a threat; it was a certain promise.
The agent read him well. “Wait there.”
Three minutes later, Harold Master’s was ushered in.
No comments:
Post a Comment