"What is this? Get me outa this stinky sack!" President Beckham barks, "Dean, is that you?"
"Shut up. I don't no who is dzis Din that you speak of. You arr lucky vi didn't duck-tape your arrogant head." James Dean expertly mimics a Russian accent. The humvee makes it way through the quiet desert as Christian Adorn steers it on, a professional air about him. In it are four other men, all wear full military gear and stoic expressions upon their faces. They haven't uttered a single word since James Dean met them. At some point he thought they are all deaf. All his valiant efforts to humour them have failed miserably. He is not giving up that easily though.
"Do you guys everr smile?" Dean asks, thickening his Russian accent.
"Please, let them be." Christian Adorn speaks for them, purposely deepening his voice.
"Not you too man," Dean whines with his Russian accent, " you don't seriously expect us to be quiet ze whole drive. Vi can't be quiet, vi arr Russians, vi talk as much as vi shoot."
"That's not entirely true," one of the quiet men pipes in, " some of us Russians are rather quiet and introverted."
"There vi go," James Dean smiles, " an actual conversation. Now, how else do vi keep ze convo running smoothly?"
"Have you folks took a moment to actually think about what you're doing? Cause from here on there is no turning back. I'm the goddamn president for God's sake, somebody's bound to notice I'm missing. Maybe somebody's on your tail as we speak. Oh you're in deep shit boys, you're in deep shit, oh I fear for you. By Jupiter you shall all be decapitated by tomorrow. I shall be under Miami Florida sunny skies getting suntan upon suntan with hot females gushing at my mature bare chest."
******************
Chris Blake absentmindedly turns an HB pencil on his right hand as he sits in his office. His thoughts drift towards his family back at home, he longs for his mother's cooking as a nostalgic sensation overwhelms him. A knock upon his door startles him, quickly replacing a nostalgic Chris Blake with a professional one.
"Come in" he answers. The door is gracefully opened by a porcelain white hand, the owner of which enters with a warm smile upon his face. The man wears a black tuxedo, a black tie and a white shirt. Another man, of short stature and alert manner, enters right after the first. He too wears the aforementioned outfit. His smile is rather constricted. The first man to enter extends a hand to Chris, introducing himself as Tobey Grey.
"And my friend here is Charles Griffiths," he continues. Charles Griffiths extends his hand towards Chris, a professional smile upon his face. "We, Mr Blake, are about to make you an offer you cannot refuse. Now, do tell me about your current position in the company."
Chris clears his throat. "Well, uhm, I'm the head of the graphic design team."
"Ah, graphic design. I'm a bit of a designer myself, the architectural kind."
"Mr Grey, I don't think you came all the way here just to discuss professions."
"Concise are we? Very well then, I shall get to the point. We've heard a lot of wonderful things about you Mr Blake, you're a man of many talents. We are interested in one of them in particular, project management. We want you, Chris Blake, to be project manager for Grey Shipping and Logistics and we promise to triple your current salary."
"Sounds too good to be true, besides I can't just leave my job. I love it too much."
"Mr Blake, we can either do this the easy way, or the hard way."
"Wow, really? This how business is done now?"
"Here's a contract binding you to Grey Shipping and Logistics for the next three years. Now, just sign on the dotted line."
