One Offs: Random Rambles of a Crazed Fool

Blackfin: Three

He stands in the shadows, with his face downcast, behind a sitting handsomely dressed man who just crossed his legs out of frustration as the sitting man watches a portlier gentleman pace the space before him.

'I just can't believe it,' he repeats. The longer he repeats the sentence the softer his voice becomes and the more it is apparent the words are meant as a comfort to himself rather than his companions.

The sitting man, not a patient man but allows Mortivotravik the grieving room he needs, reaches forward taking the American whiskey. Brown liquid burns on the way down, giving him warming sensation after it hits his belly.

'Do you know, Mr. Ramsey, if Blackfin completed the job?' Sergei Mortivotravik shots an accusatory glance at his guest, dressed all in black minus the stark white tie.

Slowly, David Ramsey takes another swig of the imported American whiskey and twirls the glass around slowly focusing on the giant vein in the forehead of the other man. It seems to dance at the speed of his annoyance at the longer this silence grows. The frozen stone cubes in the glass continue to clink together the more David continues not to answer.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Mortivotravik cannot bear the sound any longer and slams his hand on the back of one half of a pair of matching chairs across from Ramsey. 'Fucking answer me -fucking asshole!-'

Like this is a spring day with the sun shining and they are without a care in the word, Ramsey slurps the whiskey in his mouth and picks up notes of citrus, vanilla, and oak. 'Interesting,' he comments and puts the glass down with a small clink against the glass table to Mortivotravik's annoyance.

'To my knowledge, Blackfin does not care who they kill as long as anyone is willing to pay. This is common knowledge, my friend.'

Sergei runs a frustrated hand through his thinning hair. 'What of the network? Do we know who is pulling the strings?'

Ramsey holds his hand out toward the man behind him, palm up. The shadow hands him a file from a worn satchel. Quickly, the man disappears completely in the shadows behind Ramsey. 'From the autopsy report, there was nothing left in the body's system to indicate your brother was drugged, but all the findings indicated that he was. Looks like the entry point was the upper right thigh: small spiderweb penpoint mark. Here. Read it yourself, Sergei.'

Chubby fingers grip on the paper report shakily as eyes rip across the paper as if he is in a deep REM cycle. The paper rattles as the man stumbles backward against his desk. He mutters, 'The Widow.'

'Precisely, my guess,' confirms Ramsey as he clears his throat, a slight tickle that was not there before has begun. 'Er.. hmm.. According to sources, she is under Greenhouse protection.'

The glass is in his hand again as he knocks back the rest of the liquid trying to move the tickling sensation downward. Maybe it is a hair from that damned cat? As soon as the notion of rationalizing the sensation, his companion coughs. Deep, rattling his entire body.

It is not until the man from the shadows moves from behind Ramsey to sit at the desk of Mortivotravik. The usually meek assistant loosens his black tie, unbuttons the top two buttons of his dress shirt, and plops unto the soft Italian leather chair. He props his feet on the desk, not taking any care of what he knocks over.

'Gentlemen,' he says, clapping his hands together as a boyish smile creeps across his face, 'since you both are going to be dead anyway, allow me to introduce myself to you. Greetings from the one and only Blackfin.'

-🗡- 

Lord Williams sits in the well-lit dining room whilst enjoying his midmorning breakfast and reading the newspaper. The steam from his porridge wets the back of the paper as it is angled over it causing some of the ink to run. Not bothering to hide her annoyance, a roll of bothersome sounds escapes his gilded bird - a vulture disguised as a peacock.