Hey, why the hell not? I don’t have anything better to do today.
From Create Your Own Story
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<br><br>You get up from the couch and follow him to his car. | <br><br>You get up from the couch and follow him to his car. | ||
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| - | The car rolls along a narrow, dirty road in Boston. To the right of the road is a wall of dilapidated buildings. Some of them appear to still be in use by squatters looking for free housing, others by criminal syndicates, but most are completely empty and falling dangerously into disrepair. Their dirty brick walls are crumbling and large holes are torn in the roofs. You wonder why Harvey is bringing you to this run down and dangerous part of town. What business | + | The car rolls along a narrow, dirty road in Boston. To the right of the road is a wall of dilapidated buildings. Some of them appear to still be in use by squatters looking for free housing, others by criminal syndicates, but most are completely empty and falling dangerously into disrepair. Their dirty brick walls are crumbling and large holes are torn in the roofs. You wonder why Harvey is bringing you to this run down and dangerous part of town. What business could he possibly have here? |
| - | <br><br>Harvey | + | <br><br>Harvey turns toward a shabby-looking warehouse at the end of the street and into the narrow opening where a big bay door used to be. You both get out and Harvey leads you out of the building towards the side of the warehouse. You follow him, looking all around you nervously. It is deadly quiet, with the only sound being the familiar white noise of the bay. You feel uneasy about the place. Harvey approaches a bunch of drums crowded around the side of the warehouse. He rolls one drum away and pulls up a flattened cardboard box lying on the ground, revealing a hatch. He looks over his shoulder before opening it and steps to the side. “You first,” Harvey wispers to you, motioning to stairs. You see a row of dark stairs leading into a dimly lit corridor. You step down, though with reservation, not saying a word. Slowly, you make your way down the stairs and into the wet concrete corridor. Harvey follows you, closing the hatch behind him. “Go on,” he says to you. “It’s the door at the very end of the corridor.” |
| - | <br><br> | + | <br><br>You walk down the stretch of the corridor with Harvey following. Water splashes underneath your feet. You can hear the echoes of mice resonating down the corridor. There are plenty of dark shadows along this stretch of concrete. You feel even more uneasy in this place than outside. But Harvey is here, and if he is okay in this place, it must be safe. After trudging down the corridor for what felt like a half hour, you are greeted by a large metal door with peeling green paint. Harvey reaches up and twists off a burnt out light bulb above the door. He shakes the bulb and a key falls out into his hand. He turns to you and says, “Listen, bud. I’m not really a flight attendant.” |
<br><br>“What?” you exclaim. “What the hell do you do, then?” | <br><br>“What?” you exclaim. “What the hell do you do, then?” | ||
<br><br>“I’m a contract assassin,” he says. | <br><br>“I’m a contract assassin,” he says. | ||
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<br><br>“It’s a good job, man. I get to travel a lot. There are always people who need my service. And the pay is great.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, what do you say? You interested?” | <br><br>“It’s a good job, man. I get to travel a lot. There are always people who need my service. And the pay is great.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, what do you say? You interested?” | ||
| - | *[[ | + | *[[Why not?]] |
| - | *[[ | + | *[[No way! I’m looking for a job that will pay the bills, not get me killed.]] |
[[Category:Agent Black]] | [[Category:Agent Black]] | ||
Current revision as of 18:31, 21 August 2016
“Hey, why the hell not?” you say. “I don’t have anything better to do today.”
Harvey jumps up from the couch. “Great,” he says. He trots over to the door saying, “I’ve got my car parked outside this building. Come on.”
You get up from the couch and follow him to his car.
The car rolls along a narrow, dirty road in Boston. To the right of the road is a wall of dilapidated buildings. Some of them appear to still be in use by squatters looking for free housing, others by criminal syndicates, but most are completely empty and falling dangerously into disrepair. Their dirty brick walls are crumbling and large holes are torn in the roofs. You wonder why Harvey is bringing you to this run down and dangerous part of town. What business could he possibly have here?
Harvey turns toward a shabby-looking warehouse at the end of the street and into the narrow opening where a big bay door used to be. You both get out and Harvey leads you out of the building towards the side of the warehouse. You follow him, looking all around you nervously. It is deadly quiet, with the only sound being the familiar white noise of the bay. You feel uneasy about the place. Harvey approaches a bunch of drums crowded around the side of the warehouse. He rolls one drum away and pulls up a flattened cardboard box lying on the ground, revealing a hatch. He looks over his shoulder before opening it and steps to the side. “You first,” Harvey wispers to you, motioning to stairs. You see a row of dark stairs leading into a dimly lit corridor. You step down, though with reservation, not saying a word. Slowly, you make your way down the stairs and into the wet concrete corridor. Harvey follows you, closing the hatch behind him. “Go on,” he says to you. “It’s the door at the very end of the corridor.”
You walk down the stretch of the corridor with Harvey following. Water splashes underneath your feet. You can hear the echoes of mice resonating down the corridor. There are plenty of dark shadows along this stretch of concrete. You feel even more uneasy in this place than outside. But Harvey is here, and if he is okay in this place, it must be safe. After trudging down the corridor for what felt like a half hour, you are greeted by a large metal door with peeling green paint. Harvey reaches up and twists off a burnt out light bulb above the door. He shakes the bulb and a key falls out into his hand. He turns to you and says, “Listen, bud. I’m not really a flight attendant.”
“What?” you exclaim. “What the hell do you do, then?”
“I’m a contract assassin,” he says.
“A hitman?”
“It’s a good job, man. I get to travel a lot. There are always people who need my service. And the pay is great.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, what do you say? You interested?”
