Sigmund Deaves: Timepiece

Chapter 2: Objectivity

After conversing about the best way to deal with the emerging issue, Matt and Deaves adjourned the meeting. The President checked his stainless steel watch, three twenty-seven, while he traveled to the school's student parking lot. In space 144, surrounded by several empty spaces, there sat an ancient gray Ford Mustang from an era several years before the President's birth. He threw his bag into the back of the once-expensive car and stepped into the leather-clad driver's seat. Deaves took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking about potential next steps in the game between the Presidency and Jessica Ozark. Three possible next moves: (1) Do nothing. No. (2) Re-introduce the Challenger Rule and be seen as a hypocrite. What did I say when I canceled the previous Challenger Rule? Oh yeah, "Anyone who needs such a rule doesn't deserve the Presidency." (3) Make a new rule that requires a three day cool down period between challenges. This is the most likely, however, the members would lose some faith in me when they realize I'm afraid of this chick.

Deaves placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose before he turned the keys, turning the car on. It revved to life with only one clockwise rotation, signifying that the car had been upgraded sometime in the last few years. The President's father was particularly attached to this car so he added a myriad of renovations to it. Everywhere in the car had something declaring the decorating sense of a teenager in the eighties from the fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror to the eight-ball adorning the handle of the stick-shift. As far as Deaves could tell, nothing out of the ordinary occurred on his transit back home.

By the time the President pulled into his driveway, the conversation in his head was just winding down to close. A pawn storm that week could easily be subverted by a few En Passant maneuvers here and here. But that would open your bishop to a simple pin maneuver. Hey look, there's the house. The house was nothing particularly impressive, but it got relatively cramped with the nine people living in it. These people being: himself, his father, his mother, his grandfather, his grandmother, two younger brothers, his older sister, and his older sister's husband. After parking the Mustang, he stepped out and retrieved his bag. Deaves pressed a button next to the door which led into the house from the garage, causing a metallic whine to resonate through the house. However, the noise did nothing to lessen the screaming that invaded the President's eardrums as he entered the house.

His slightly older sister screeched something along the lines of, "Do something!" prompting the President to question, violently, just what was happening. Oh yeah, Mary and her fiance are here. "Sigmund!" she yelled when she saw the President, and for some reason one of them is screaming at me, "Grampa is in some sort of a coma and we can't wake him up!"

Sigmund, all thoughts of anything even remotely related to chess now out the window, scanned his sister's face. A remarkable amount of expletives rose in his mind out of fear when he realized the expression on her face was far too emotional to be fake. "Why are you talking to me!? Call 9-1-1!"

"Henry did that a few minutes ago," she said, referring to Sigmund's brother-in-law, "he told me to wait for the paramedics." Usually she was not the type to do what other people told her, but this was a special exception.

In a zombie-like trance of terror, Marie Deaves-Royce (spelled "Mary" by everyone else) scurried over to the house's front door. Before she could leave her brother called, "Oh yeah, so when did Henry call the ambulance?"

The President's expression tightened almost imperceptibly when she said, "About seven minutes." Mary would have asked about the reason for this question if her mind could have grasped any concept beyond waiting at the door at that moment. Sigmund hurried up the stairs in a panic very similar to the one projected by his sister until he reached his Grandparents' bedroom. He slowed to a contemplative stroll once he passed the threshold. His expression relaxed into a hard blank stare when only Henry and the silent form of his Grandfather faced him.