The continuously updating book of stories

The collective : I

His laugh echoed in the room as he looked at the final finished manuscript, "It's time! I finally finished it!" Nearly a decade on it, nearly a decade full of research and sleepless nights and delicate questioning on a topic that is all too clear now. His smile grew wider, showing his rotting teeth, and he said, "I KNOW WHO YOU ARE NOW, YOU FUCKERS, AND SOON EVERYONE WILL DO TOO!"

"You know nothing, George."

His heart skipped a beat as he heard her voice. He scoffed, "No time to lose my composure," He turned to her with his smile still on his face and said, "Right on time, you cheeky bastard!" "We agreed you won't call me that love, I am your wife." He walked to the table and took a gulp of the whiskey left in the bottle; his eyes on her.

He thought the same when she first appeared out of nowhere in his room, wearing her picnic dress and smelling like her, but all that, the smile, that tulip tucked behind her left ear that never seemed to wither, all lost its charm.

Now he isn't sure about anything.

He pointed at her with the bottle still in his hand, "When did we ever agree on that, I wonder? For all intents darling, you are something else," she chuckled, unnerving him, "Same can be said about you too, slumped here in this place, either drinking, watching porn or the telly, then watching porn because some hot lass you saw there ruffled your feathers or writing that paper." She picked it up with an amused look plastered on her face.

"You can't stop me now. Everything has already been mailed and backed up. I only have to give them the manuscript for pleasantries," she didn't respond, still flipping through it. She smiled, "You were always smarter than you looked," she said, "You even managed to find out our name. However did you manage to do that?" He took his turn to not respond.

She sighed, "Look, Georgy, if we wanted to stop you, it would've happened a long time ago," He rolled his eyes at her statement. "Doesn't sound threatening at all!" he said. He snatched the paper from her hands and tried to make his way to the door.

Tried being the keyword.

The next moment he was in a car, in new clothes, and all cleaned up like nothing happened. "I thought we talked about not teleporting me without my consent?" "Consent!" she laughed, "Seems like the American in you is shining through," He tried to shrug her and the feeling of "death by teleportation" and rested his head on the wheel. "Well, c'mon then, the car isn't going to move itself, at least not now," "What?" she sighed, sensing his confusion.

"Look, you're stubborn as hell, so I thought it'd be better if we talked about this while on the ride there, and besides now you look like someone who could actually write a paper and not one who would wank off another man for some cheap bottle of scotch. Now drive."