BPAL: Intrigue
He's been to a hundred bars just like this one. Somewhere in a steamy jungle, a dilapidated building stands alone, a single bastion of civilization in the wilds of... of... fuck. Where is he?
Ultimately, it doesn't matter. It's the same routine every single time.
He's wearing all the right things, but looks out of place anyway. He wears his crisp, white linen suit and a white straw fedora awkwardly. He carries a metal briefcase, which, by the grace of God, will leave with him when he leaves here. Whereas most of the men who occupy this bar are, dark, swarthy sorts, the kind that all stand with their hips pushed a little bit forward, the better to see that they are armed and heavily so, he is short and pale, clearly uncomfortable with the gun holstered under his left arm.
When he steps through the doorway (the door has long since rotted off its hinges in this humidity), every last one of the patrons of this particular bar turns and stares. There is dead silence for a moment while he looks around, spies his contact, and crosses the room while conversations slowly filter back, quiet words whispered to one another while glancing significantly in his direction.
His contact - names are meaningless at this stage - is seated at a small round table in the back, his chair leaning against the wall. He sits down, nervously nods at the contact. The contact raises dark eyebrows, produces two metal briefcases, identical to the one he carries. They make the transaction swiftly, each one opening their respective cases just enough to view the contents inside, closing them quickly.
The Contact's gaze is drawn to a point behind him, and he turns to see what could be more interesting than the large amount of cash that has just been remanded to the contact's possession. A woman sits at a table in the middle of the room, a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. She picks up one of the dark, fleshy teardrops, cuts the top off with a small knife, then cuts the fruit in half. The fruit is pink inside, a color of life, of sex. The musky scent wafts towards him, and he realizes that it's a fig.
She sets down one of the halves, and with the other, brings it to her mouth. Her tongue flicks in and out teasingly as she tastes it, running it up and down the crevass in the middle, her eyes rolling back and eyelids fluttering.
He barely notices the knife that has slid between his ribs, the sharp twist, until he has fallen to the floor, blood pooling beneath his white suit, darkening the floorboards. His last moment of awareness is the scent of the jungle, of cocoa, and of the figs.
Edit: Technically work safe, but the easily distracted may want to wait until they get home.
Ultimately, it doesn't matter. It's the same routine every single time.
He's wearing all the right things, but looks out of place anyway. He wears his crisp, white linen suit and a white straw fedora awkwardly. He carries a metal briefcase, which, by the grace of God, will leave with him when he leaves here. Whereas most of the men who occupy this bar are, dark, swarthy sorts, the kind that all stand with their hips pushed a little bit forward, the better to see that they are armed and heavily so, he is short and pale, clearly uncomfortable with the gun holstered under his left arm.
When he steps through the doorway (the door has long since rotted off its hinges in this humidity), every last one of the patrons of this particular bar turns and stares. There is dead silence for a moment while he looks around, spies his contact, and crosses the room while conversations slowly filter back, quiet words whispered to one another while glancing significantly in his direction.
His contact - names are meaningless at this stage - is seated at a small round table in the back, his chair leaning against the wall. He sits down, nervously nods at the contact. The contact raises dark eyebrows, produces two metal briefcases, identical to the one he carries. They make the transaction swiftly, each one opening their respective cases just enough to view the contents inside, closing them quickly.
The Contact's gaze is drawn to a point behind him, and he turns to see what could be more interesting than the large amount of cash that has just been remanded to the contact's possession. A woman sits at a table in the middle of the room, a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. She picks up one of the dark, fleshy teardrops, cuts the top off with a small knife, then cuts the fruit in half. The fruit is pink inside, a color of life, of sex. The musky scent wafts towards him, and he realizes that it's a fig.
She sets down one of the halves, and with the other, brings it to her mouth. Her tongue flicks in and out teasingly as she tastes it, running it up and down the crevass in the middle, her eyes rolling back and eyelids fluttering.
He barely notices the knife that has slid between his ribs, the sharp twist, until he has fallen to the floor, blood pooling beneath his white suit, darkening the floorboards. His last moment of awareness is the scent of the jungle, of cocoa, and of the figs.
Edit: Technically work safe, but the easily distracted may want to wait until they get home.