Short Stories

The Nameless Game

I thought the feeling would feel.. how should I say, wonderful? Something better than it did?

With his body at my feet and my eyes fixed on the wall ahead, I never imagined that it would turn out this way. The total insanity, the bloodlust, the forgetfulness and the oh so terrible lies. Was it all worth it at all? Would it ever be worth it?

"Mr. Bellegarde, your next appointment is waiting." I looked over to see my new secretary, snapping out of my thoughts and taking a deep breath. She was nothing special, nothing perfect. Some might even classify her as pretty, even beautiful. I would never waste such words on her as that. A tight bun, pulling up her dark auburn hair, a white button up shirt pressing her small breasts to her chest, a tight pencil skirt wrapped around her waist and hips. She wore heels that looked to swell around her ankles.

I nodded, blinking and looking around.

His dead body was not at my feet now, as it was weeks before, I was not covered in blood, merely dressed in a suede suit, a dark grey colour with a matching tie, and socks.

"-so what we are saying is that you really need to focus on the product at hand. Everything needs to be- Bellegarde, are you listening to me?" The voices droned on around me, one in particular stuck out, the voice of a stupid American Capitalist who wanted my business.

"Should we postpone this until next week?" Another spoke up, peering at me over his large oval glasses. His face was pudgy, so were his large hands that moved up like claws and adjusted his dirty glasses. His mouth was pressed him a thin line, making the lips disappear.

.

.

.

Breaking into the FBI headquarters in Washington DC was much harder done than said. Especially when you were an lowly immigrant from France, a sort of spy by night, but a great one none the less.

It took skill and precaution, research, many many, how you say, colleagues some on the inside and some, the outside, always ready to give you what you want with the right payment, of course.

However, when I first conceived the plan, it sounded so stupid, so pathetic, I pushed it away deep in my mind, so far back, that I assumed it was lost. Forever.

But all ideas involving that one stupid plan resurface somehow, and this one, oh this terrible, horrible, so perfectly twistedly fantastic idea came back at a full and powerful blast that burned into my skull. It was stuck there 24/7, mocking me, making me wonder and fantasize about the concept. And oh no, it did not stop there, lord no. And when it struck me once again, it festered into something disgusting, reminding me of this bitter and distasteful loathing of one person and one person only: Sebastian, my brother.

Oh that bastard had it easy; leaving France for America without any complications, and no condolences. In short, he was a snake, and I wanted him dead.

So when I say I want him dead, it is not in the childish way one would wish on a parent when one was punished or called out for bad, immature behaviour, but in the way where I was and continued to be completely and irrevocably serious. Down to a T serious.

But enough of that. I could honestly rant all day about what a tyrant he was, except I bet nobody wants to hear those boring details.

So let us set the scene. It was 2007 and it was a grey day in Montmartre. Hell, everything was grey in Montmartre, the deep dark streets of it, however. From the buildings, to the streets, to the people, and the food, it was grey as a storm and just as pitiful. I sat in a grey chair at a grey diner surrounded by grey people. I know right? Lots of grey.