Gentleman Ghost

Discussion in 'Creativity' started by Bone2pick, Nov 29, 2016.

  1. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #1 Bone2pick, Nov 29, 2016
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 11, 2017
    Birthright


    The conference room smelled of robust coffee.  The espresso machine in the corner had been brewing since the first employees arrived at a quarter after seven; it was just past ten now.  Orville had a steaming untouched cup resting on a coster beside him, but it would have to wait.  The woman perched on the leather armchair across from him demanded his full attention.  


    She had introduced herself as Bastet when she was escorted into the conference room.  Orville noticed her attempt to conceal her age lines and guessed she was in her early forties.  Her hair, likely dyed, was silky black and pulled tightly away from her face.  Once seated she straightened her midnight blue handkerchief dress and settled her large handbag across her lap.  


    "You can change your name but you can't change your blood."


    She mentioned his name again.  It's the only reason she was brought back to speak with him.  As soon as his men's suit store—O.L. Fields—opened its doors for business Bastet had sauntered in.  When she asked one of the salesmen if she could speak with the owner, the well instructed employee replied that Orville wouldn't be in the store today.  But Bastet knew better, and she dropped the right name—an old dead name that Orville's family had tried to bury long ago.


    "I have the same name that was printed on my birth certificate the day I was born."


    "It was a lie then, and it remains a lie today."  


    Orville shifted uncomfortably but relaxed after locking eyes with Bastet.  Despite her words her expression was free of condemnation.  All of her mannerisms smacked of a cat and mouse game, and she was obviously set to play the cat.  Orville thumbed his college ring.


    "What difference is it to you?"  


    Pleased with his question she smiled and unfastened her handbag.  With both hands she  carefully revealed a brass and ivory jewelry box.  She took a moment to pet the container and then she gently placed it down on the table in front of her. 


    "Inside this box, Mr. Fields, is an heirloom—an artifact that needs to be reunited with it's bloodline."


    Orville furrowed his manicured brow and peered down at the ornate jewelry box.  He could see his own reflection clearly in its polished trimmings.  His finely tailored steel gray suit looked just as debonair painted in brass.  He swiveled his armchair back to Bastet.


    "It's bloodline?  You're beginning to sound mystical."


    "I ought to, I'm a mystic."


    He shook his head and sighed, but her smile continued to grow.   


    "Do you believe in the occult Orville?"


    It wasn't a question he was prepared for.  In his hesitation she began to search his face for the truth, which agitated him. "I'm rather agnostic about all of it."


    She nodded and reached out to tap her glossy fingernails across the jewelry box.  Then she pushed it closer to him. "You won't be for long... Inside this box is a foci."


    "Come again?" Orville scooted to the edge of his seat.  


    "A foci, a material link to the spirit realm.  This one is yours Orville, it's your birthright."


    He reached for the box but stopped short; his fingers flexed apprehensively in midair.  Then he snatched his hand back to stroke his tie as he chuckled. "Ah, I see where this is going now. You're selling me something."


    Bastet lifted herself gracefully out of her armchair and shook her head. "It's not mine to sell, I'm merely delivering it.  And for that I've already been compensated."


    "By whom?"


    She peeked at her cellphone and then tossed it back into her handbag.  Then she leaned forward until their eyes were level.  That's when he caught the scent of her perfume—the espresso had overwhelmed it until then.  Her next words were a breathy whisper.


    "You're not ready for that answer today, but you will be.  Until we meet again."  


    With that she sauntered out of the conference room.  Orville didn't bother to say goodbye.  He waited a few minutes before he stood up and addressed the jewelry box.  The lid was lifted and his artifact was revealed: a green glass monocle affixed with a silver chain.
     
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  2. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #2 Bone2pick, Nov 29, 2016
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 11, 2017
    My Price Is...


    Cigar and cigarette smoke filled the suite with a dirty haze.  The sliding glass balcony door was wide open but the polluted air couldn't be cycled fast enough.  Every grumpy face around the poker table had something they were puffing on.  Spanish guitar notes, courtesy of Juan the door guard, did little to liven the mood as he strummed an acoustic six string from his stool.  The monthly high stakes poker game in the penthouse of the historic Olive Tree hotel was always a tense affair.  


    Every invited player (and make no mistake, an invitation was required) was connected on some level to one of Gotham's organized crime syndicates.  Tonight there was Sergio Diaz, a Columbian captain; Ray "The Diceman" Carrozza, an Italian soldier; Donnie Heung, a triad enforcer, and half a dozen other made men.  Needless to say the top brass over at Gotham PD would love to have the present company behind bars, but they'd need a swat team or two to bring them all in, because these players would never come quietly.  


    The game had only been going a few hours before the guitar strumming door guard was smashed off his stool onto the floor.  Every head in the suite turned to find Juan crumpled and unconscious draped over his instrument.  Sergio—Juan's captain—cursed and leapt up to check on his downed soldier.  That's when another player started screaming that he had saw someone: a man with a cape and cane lurking behind Juan.  But no one was there now.


    And then, despite the suite not having one, a clock began to chime.  A sputtered hollow chime that sounded like the machine was gasping for breath. The first few seemed to come from the bar near the balcony.  The next ones crept closer.  Weapons were drawn and cocked.  Next, footprints—without a visible body above them—pressed into the green felt of the poker table.  They stalked towards the center and the chandelier above their heads lurched and began to swing.


    "For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."


    The voice—an unseen man's voice—was unnatural; a haunting echo trailed his every word.  Finally the monster revealed himself: atop the table was a corpse costumed in a cape, a tattered Victorian suit, a top hat, and a glowing monocle. He squeezed a cruel looking cane in one hand and clutched a mangled antique clock in the other.  His ghoulish lips were spread into a grin as he stared down at the terrified mobsters.  Then he let the clock crash on the table, for it chimed no more.  It was midnight in Gotham.    


    Pistols barked and banged but hit nothing.  He had shifted into an apparition—an ethereal version of his horrible self.  Then he was gone, even his footprints.  Ray Carrozza was the first to flee and the first to die.  The monster reappeared beside Ray armed with a burly handgun and put two bullets into The Diceman's ribs.  He vanished again before Ray's body hit the tile floor.  


    "You can throw your life away, or you can buy mercy.  My price is every dollar you walked in with."


    Not one of the ruthless bunch gave a second thought about fighting the ghost; they coughed up every last quarter.  And while each man emptied his pockets their phantasmal tormentor howled with laughter.  


    "I've come back to Gotham cads... Gentleman Ghost has finally returned."


    [​IMG]
     
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  3. Dusky

    Dusky Succubus

    MORE PLEASE
     
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  4. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One



    Thanks for reading.  
     
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  5. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #5 Bone2pick, Dec 2, 2016
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 11, 2017
    First Assignment
     


    The fiber optic sight at the tip of his Smith & Wesson was zeroed in on center mass.  Orville, with both hands wrapped firmly around his weapon, stared down at the bright red dot.  He remembered to exhale before squeezing through his cylinder.   


    The boom of the mighty .357 magnum was hushed by his foam earplugs.  After the eighth shot was fired Orville thumbed the cylinder release and slapped the expended shells out.  Then he snatched a waiting speed loader off the table and pushed a fresh set of rounds in.  He finished his reload with a rehearsed flick of his wrist to swing the cylinder back in place.


    Orville aimed and emptied his pistol into the target for a second time.  After the final round was fired he removed his earplugs and checked to make sure he was empty.  The paper silhouette was conveying back for inspection when he heard a pair of boots clicking across the range floor.


    "Was that two wheels?" 


    The question came from Leslie Riddle—the owner of the gun range, and more importantly, Orville's most trusted ally and confidant.  Orville nodded as he studied the tattered target. 


    "Nice groups."


    "I loosened the trigger."


    Leslie nodded and then slipped a hand under his blazer.  He retrieved four manila envelopes which he tapped against Orville's chest.


    "Everyone's here."


    Before he collected the envelopes Orville holstered his gun and combed his fingers through his wavy hair.  His red locks almost touched his shoulders; it was time for a trip to the barber.  Together they strolled through the empty range (it was after hours) and into the lobby of the gun store.  


    Out in the lobby's center, four familiar faces were huddled around a wooden high top table.  As expected there was Ira Hodge, Andre Poole, Harvey David House, and Gene Berger—Orville and Leslie's old fraternity brothers from Vanderbilt.  In college the bunch developed an addiction to bamboozling their way through their academic responsibilities.  After graduation those same cravings clung to them during their various business endeavours throughout Gotham. 


    "Gentlemen, thank you for being on time.  You know how I hate to be kept waiting."


    Leslie, who had walked behind the nearest display case, called back to Orville.


    "You mean you don't subscribe to the fashionably late theory?"


    The bunch chuckled.  Orville grinned and approached the high top.


    "Not in business Leslie; time is money.  And speaking of money..."  He tossed the envelopes onto the table.  Each one had a name scribbled across it.  "You can all walk out of here with twenty thousand dollars in cash—your sign in bonus—today.  And that's just a taste of what's to come." 


    The four men took a moment to search for their own envelope, but once found no one dared to pocket their bonus; the terms of the offer needed to be heard. When they looked back to Orville he was rotating his emerald monocle between his thumb and index finger. 


    "You've all seen this.  I've shown everyone in this room some of the things that I, and I alone, can do with it."


    Leslie made his way over to the bunch with a bottle of bourbon and half a dozen shot glasses. Orville began to slowly orbit the table.


    "I had schemes brewing before, but when this came into my life it changed everything... Boys, the powers that be have been fighting for control of Gotham for decades, and I've just been handed the key to the city... Make no mistake, I'm not afraid to use it.  And I'll sink anyone down to the mucky bottom of the Gotham River who dares to get in my way."


    Orville exhaled gently over the artifact, polished it against the bicep of his sports coat, and then dropped it back into his breast pocket. A sliver of it's silver chain still peeked out.


    "You can take the money and get in on the ground floor of a revolution, or you can walk... I can always think of another way to invest the twenty grand."


    Everyone laughed.  


    "So, what's it going to be gentlemen?"


    No one hesitated, they were all in.  Leslie, with an enormous smile, poured out six shots.  Orville shook his head in amusement.  


    "Why am I not surprised?"


    They toasted and tossed back their drinks with glee.  Orville was relieved he wouldn't have to murder any of his present company.  He licked his lips clean and then cleared his throat.


    "Consider those who've come before us: Catwoman, Bane, Mr. Freeze... Each one has an alias, as do I.  Your first assignment is to come up with your own."
     
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  6. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #6 Bone2pick, Dec 13, 2016
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 13, 2016
    You'll Tell Them Everything...


    Brian, a rookie security guard employed at Empire Bank, never saw the swing coming.  He couldn't make sense of the overwhelming pain that just detonated across his groin.  All he could do was topple forward, moan like a banshee, and clutch his genitals.    


    Before the assault Brian's attacker had moseyed along a row of darkened teller stations. With each haunting step closer towards his victim his spectral cane twirled faster inside his corpse-cold grip; months of practice had made the villain deftly proficient with the weapon.  The dim overnight lighting of the bank passed straight through his form.  He didn't even cast a shadow when he wound into his golf swing.    


    The other guard on duty, a retired Gotham beat cop, hurried to help his crumpled coworker.  But he too hit the carpet after an imperceptible cane hooked his ankle.  A follow up strike to the back of his balding crown zapped every ounce of fight out of the old boy.  That's the moment when Gentleman Ghost shifted into visibility. 
     
    He disarmed his downed victims and then secured them with a roll of duct tape from his overcoat.  Then, after snatching the bank keys, he danced across the lobby and over to the entrance.  He knew exactly which key was required because he'd stalked the branch (invisibly) for over a week.  As soon as the doors were thrown open his crew, outfitted in fine suits and eerie phantom masks, stormed in.  


    Besides his phantoms two hostages were escorted at gunpoint into the building: the branch manager and the security supervisor.  They were captured earlier in the evening because their fingerprints were needed to access the main vault.  Like a well drilled team the phantoms hurried the hostages in front of the vault's identification locks.  The manager and the security supervisor, both completely drained and horrified, complied and unlocked the vault.


    An unearthly cackle oozed off the lips of the mastermind behind the crime.  Everything had gone according to plan: the kidnapping, the sabotage of the surveillance cameras right before the guard ambush, and the obedience of the hostages.  The ghost shambled over to the sweat soaked manager while his crew filled suitcases with bricks of cash.


    "When the police speak with you in the morning, I'll be near.  Out of sight, but seeing... A wraith breathing down your neck making your hair stand on end."   


    To hear his voice was to hear a nightmare.  The fat manager wimpered under the ghost's monocled gaze.


    "I won't say anything.  I swear to God I won't!"


    The villain shook his ghoulish face and snarled.


    "You'll tell them everything or you'll regret it! Inform the police a ghost has come back to Gotham to settle an old score."


    The manager's head bobbled in agreement.  His tormentor turned to walk away but then whirled back towards his hostage and hooked his cane behind the man's thick neck. The manager flinched and yelped when the spectral weapon fell on his clammy flesh.


    "One more thing... Tell them I'm just getting started."
     
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  7. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #7 Bone2pick, Dec 19, 2016
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 19, 2016
    4830 Legion Lane  


    Gravel crunched under low profile tires as the pearl white Audi rolled to a stop.  A moment later the purr of the sedan's high performance engine went silent.  Historic buildings, cloaked in the shadows of upper Gotham, stood indomitably around them.  They had drove to an old (and often forgotten) ward of the city.  Orville and Leslie Riddle exited the car and approached the property.


    "Isn't she beautiful?"
     


    Leslie remarked as he pocketed his sunglasses.  Orville buttoned up his double-breasted jacket and peered up at the rows of dusty bricks leading up to the building's roof.  It was midday, but the autumn wind still had bite.  


    "She's primordial... What year was it built?"


    "Construction started in 1868, right after the war.  The army commissioned it."


    Orville paced in front of the three roller doors—each one big enough to accommodate a small delivery truck—facing the street.  He shoved his palm against one of the heavy-duty steel panels of the door; he was pleased to discover he couldn't budge it.


    "How many square feet?"


    "Counting the loft and basement, sixteen four and change."  


     Orville swiped a hand across a nearby faded brick and smiled at the red masonry powder that clung to his fingers.  He clapped his hands clean before facing his partner.


    "The neighborhood is objectionable, but for our purposes that's a benefit.  I'm sure it helped keep the sticker price down too?"


    Leslie grinned and nodded.


    "I practically stole this old place.  It had been collecting dust on the market for years."  He pulled a bulky set of keys from his pants pocket and tossed them to Orville.  "Ready to take the tour?" 


    Orville, with a twinkle in his eye, took a minute to appreciate the antique key set.  Then the pair walked around to the building's entrance.  When the largest key clicked into its matching lock from a bygone era, the metal door drifted open under its own weight. Orville finally laid eyes on what would soon be his lair.


    "Well done Leslie, well done.  We're going to do tremendous things here."


    [​IMG]
     
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  8. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #8 Bone2pick, Dec 27, 2016
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 28, 2016
    Unrighteous Symphony


    Triangled halogen work lamps cast a harsh pool of light into the center of the room. A smattering of folding chairs were arranged under the lights but only two men were seated.  The marina where the sit-down was being held was still under construction.  Tarps jostled over empty door frames courtesy of a row of open windows facing the ocean; the breeze carried the scent of the Atlantic with it.  Along with the smells of the sea in the room were the aromas of fresh drywall and spackling.  


    Shadowy figures lurked near the edge of the light.  At the ocean side of the room half a dozen brutes in cargo pants and bulky jackets stood guard.  They were soldiers of The Thousand Eyes, a world-renowned criminal cartel who had recently taken root in Gotham.  And back in the rear of the unfinished room were four fellows outfitted in exquisite suits.  All of their faces were cloaked by rubber ghost masks—each one uniquely horrible in its appearance.  


    "I presume you're the boss of this crew?"


    The question came from Eli Murr, one of the seated men.  He had put on a pair of sunglasses despite the sun having set hours ago; the work lamps were overpowering.  His bushy Lebanese eyebrows furrowed when the masked man across from him shook his head.


    "No, I'm merely his mortal hand.  But he's here with us now, listening."


    Eli's eyes darted around in response and then his prominent lips sagged into a frown.  


    "Well, ask him to come and join us.  It's impolite to haunt business meetings."


    "I'm rarely polite."


    The unseen voice could make a corpse shudder.  The guards at the front of the room stirred and scanned for the other-worldly speaker, but he was beyond their vision.  Eli rolled his shoulders to release tension—the reply had sounded as if it came from just over his left shoulder.  A single bead of sweat traced down his brow.


    "And here I was told you were a gentleman?"


    Ever so slowly the villain conjured into visibility beside his lieutenant.  Both of his gnarled hands strangled the top of his spectral cane while he stood over his seated company.


    "Don't get fooled by my family name Mr. Murr—there's nothing gentle about me." 


    The ghost lowered his bloodless rotting face into Eli's space and grinned wildly under his glowing monocle.


    "But at least I look the part..."


    Eli leaned away from the ghost and wiped his forehead dry with his fingers.  He nodded quickly and then cleared his throat,


    "I heard all about the bank job, excellent work.  It's why I accepted your invitation to a sit-down"


    The bent ghoul hissed with satisfaction through his yellowed teeth before pulling out of Eli's face.  Then he danced back to stand next to his lieutenant.  


    "That was merely the first note of what will end up being my unrighteous symphony."


    By the time he had finished his sentence the ghost had vanished again.  Eli was forced to continue speaking as if he was communing with The Almighty.


    "I don't doubt that.  You've got the right gifts and a loyal crew.  But you must need our help for something?"


    "Help?  Mr. Murr, do I look like I need anyone's help?"


    The question couldn't have landed at a more absurd time—the Gentleman Ghost remained invisible. The only thing Eli could think to look into was the grim mask of the leering phantom across from him.


    "I suppose not.  But then, what do you want from me?"


    "I'm in the market for a fence—someone with connections and buyers outside the city."


    Eli finally smiled and snapped his fingers.    


    "Then you've come to the right guy.  Our organization has first-rate global connections, likely more than anyone else in Gotham."


    The fresh smile died on Eli's lips as the villain shifted back into view right behind him.  Once again the guards at the front of the room grunted and pawed at their weapons.  The trouble was, none of them were confident their firearms would be effective if things took a bad turn.  Gentleman Ghost laid an icy hand down on Eli's shoulder and then cackled when the man recoiled.


    "So I've heard.  And if that's true Eli, then you and I can make a fortune together."
     
  9. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #9 Bone2pick, Jan 3, 2017
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 3, 2017
    Recycling 


    The armored front doors of the transport clapped shut when a pair of Tyger Security guards climbed out.  Posted along the front and rear of their vehicle were two squad cars of the city's finest - Gotham City Police Department.  As the guards circled behind their transport the regular sounds of the district's morning bustle was there to greet them.  They had arrived eleven minutes ahead of schedule.  


    After an obligatory wave to the onlooking GCPD the supervising guard negotiated the digital hold lock.  To his right, the second guard knelt beside the transport's rear bumper and pulled a folding cart free that was stashed underneath.  He had the cart ready and waiting by the time the transport's hold door slid open along its track.  
     
    Secured inside the hold was a chest swaddled in ocean blue silk.  At the supervisor's order both guards fished out sealed plastic bags from their vest pockets, and then carefully tore the bags open to reveal fresh handling gloves.  All precautions were to be taken to protect the artifacts.  The chest—carved from whalebone and jacketed in sharkskin—was a treasure itself, but its contents were even more precious.  It encased ten coins.  Ten gold, ancient, and legendary coins from Earth's only sunken civilization - Atlantis.


    The Atlantean treasures were originally unveiled at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, but a deal was reached to move the coins here—the Gotham Museum of Antiquities.  A party, in honor of the city's extraordinary exhibit, was scheduled at the museum this Friday evening.  It was an exciting time for Gotham's history lovers.


    Together the guards scooped the chest and its silk wrappings out of the hold and lowered it like a newborn babe onto the waiting cart.  Then the supervisor, by speaking into his headpiece, informed the museum's staff the delivery was on its way.  That's when everyone noticed the growing roar of a massive diesel engine.



    From an adjacent backstreet a recycling truck lumbered into the museum's loading bay lot.  It was a giant pale monstrosity, identical to every other waste vehicle that pulled rounds around Gotham.  But this truck was off its route, and clearly so, because the museum's recycling bins weren't located at this end of the building.  The Tyger Security supervisor, intolerant of out of the ordinary events, began barking into his headpiece to the museum's staff.  Meanwhile a GCPD officer jumped out of his cruiser to shout at the truck to exit the lot.  That's when the supervising guard collapsed.


    At the time it was unexplainable, the man just lurched and keeled over as if he'd been smashed in the face.  But there was no one there to blame.  There was no evidence to get answers from near his unconscious body.  During those moments of confusion blood leaked from his broken nose and mixed in with puddles from last night's rain.  Eventually another police officer (from the rear patrol car) darted out of his cruiser to aid the bloodied supervisor, but he too was mysteriously struck down.  Could an invisible enemy be among them? Things took a worse turn when the recycling truck groaned, shifted into gear, and then barreled towards the front squad car.   


    There was no stopping twenty three tons of angry machine.  The lone standing GCPD officer was forced to leap out of the truck's way to save himself, only to watch in horror as it pinned his cruiser between itself and the loading bay wall.  As the officer fumbled for his firearm an unnoticed yellow taxi raced into the lot from the backstreet.  Doors from the intruding vehicle swung open and masked armed men deployed.  Two of the phantoms wielded machine pistols, and they sprayed their weapons at anyone who dared stand their ground.  A third phantom brandished a wicked long rifle—a drum fed AK47—and he perched himself over the hood of the taxi.  


    The buzz of automatic rifle fire might as well have been victory horns for the villains.  What little resistance remained had lost their appetite for battle.  The poor second guard had been the final victim of Gentleman Ghost, his throat badly bruised from a brutal cane choke.  Finally the mastermind appeared—grinning madly and gnashing his teeth—in front of the cart keeping the Atlantean chest.  After a devilish laugh he snatched up the treasure and then handed it off to one of his crew.  The phantoms then piled into their taxi and sped off while their boss dissolved into the morning air.


    Later, when the detectives sifted through the crime scene, they found a message written inside the hopper of the recycling truck: I WILL GIVE THEM NIGHTMARES.
     
  10. Bone2pick

    Bone2pick Minority of One

    #10 Bone2pick, Jan 11, 2017
    Last edited by a moderator: Feb 13, 2017
    Secrets


    Beautiful weather usually has a short lifespan in Gotham, and tonight proved no exception.  The pleasant breeze from earlier was gone.  In its place was a damp, goose-pimpling wind, and overhead a sea of swirling clouds had blew in to snuff out the full moon. By the time Orville finally killed the lights inside his suit store the first rumble of thunder sounded.  He made sure to grab an umbrella and heavy coat before he left.   


    The neon glow of downtown Gotham painted the sidewalk in front of O.L. Fields.  Orville knew every shade and shadow that touched this part of the city.  He was more at home here than his apartment building.  He knew the names of the police officers who liked to park up the block and sip coffee from the corner cafe.  He even knew the street's specific scent, which was precisely what tipped him off when he first stepped outside.  The air carried a different smell tonight—a familiar perfume.   


    Bastet, the enchanting mystic who had gifted Orville his magic monocle, strolled out from underneath a neighboring awning and into the light.  She wore a powder blue overcoat above a pair of slim black pants, and a smile played at her plum lips. 


    "Do you have a moment?"  


    He couldn't help but flash a toothy grin before speaking. 


    "I'll make one for you."
     


    She winked before she moved closer and pulled her hands out of her coat pockets.  Orville followed her finger as she pointed past him to a circle of automobiles parked around a fountain at the end of the street.


    "I'm parked over there. Walk with me."  


    They couldn't have taken more than three steps before the rain started.  But hardly a raindrop had fallen on the pair before Orville snapped his umbrella into position.  Bastet was forced to huddle close to his chest, but that didn't seem to bother her.


    "I can't say I was surprised to hear about the museum." 


    There was silence for a few steps after that.  Orville caught his left hand tracing the impression of the monocle tucked inside his breast pocket.  He moved the hand over and pretended to adjust his tie.


    "Were you disappointed?" 


    "No, we all have our roles to play.  I understood what yours would be before I ever brought you the foci."  


    They paused at an intersection before skipping across to the other side.  Bastet's boot toe clipped the curb and she stumbled, but Orville caught her at the elbow.  She curled closer into his body as they strolled on.  


    "So what's your plan Orville—become the world's most wanted criminal?"


    He shook his head and then peeked down into her searching eyes.   


    "The world's too big a target, my sights are fixed squarely on this city."


    She looked away, but not before he saw her smile die.  


    "If you ask me, that's a mistake.  A ghost shouldn't look to grow roots."


    Her tone of voice had taken an about-face.  Orville was reminded that his company, as captivating as she was, was at minimum ten years his senior.  The couple's journey ended when they finally arrived at her rose red coupe. Orville opened her car door and then leaned close.  Her perfume was intoxicating.


    "I'm not going anywhere."  


    She sighed and tightened her lips but she didn't break eye contact. Rain continued to kiss against their umbrella while Bastet collected her thoughts.


    "Then consider who will inevitably come looking for you.  You're starting fires because you believe you can't be burned, but you can.  Everyone can." 


    She reach out and laid a hand over his breast pocket.  It stayed there for a few heartbeats before she pulled it back.  When it did one of her fingernails scraped against a link of the monocle's silver chain.


    "Why do you care what happens to me?"


    She recoiled a little as if insulted.


    "I have my reasons, but for now I'd like to keep them secret."


    Bastet turned and slipped into her waiting car.  He kept the door open so he could call down to her. 


    "Let me guess, you don't think I'm ready for the answer?"


    She laughed and shook her head.


    "No, I just enjoy keeping secrets."


    After goodbye waves were traded the coupe's door was finally closed and Bastet drove off into the soggy night.  Orville, with his toothy grin back in place, started the trip back to his own car.  He didn't get far before he whispered over his shoulder.


    "Me too." 






    This post will likely be the final entry into this thread.  I set out to put my mark on an obscure DC villain and I feel I've accomplished that.  Thank you for reading along (assuming some of you did) and if you'd like to leave a comment or criticism you're welcome to.  I'll leave you with a brief video explaining the origins and history of DC Comics Gentleman Ghost.   
     
  11. ewolf20

    ewolf20 the aspiring roleplayer

    you need to be an author man
     
    Bone2pick likes this.
  12. ewolf20

    ewolf20 the aspiring roleplayer

    And I learned something new today
     
    Bone2pick likes this.

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