PAUL PANICKED WHEN HE HEARD, the doorbell ringing the 2nd time. His first thoughts were the Dicksons returning after their flight was cancelled, or somewhat…
…but they won’t ring the doorbell, as they have the keys-to their own house…
… the telly’s noise was still playing in the living room… but Paul wasn’t listening as he was ‘still’ fixated with the weighty Glock in his palm. He wanted to put the gun back, into the wall-safe – but he did ‘not’… as he tugged the weapon at his back and pulled his shirt-over to hide it, like how-they-do, in the movies…
The teenager paced towards the main-door, and looked into the peephole…
… it was some door-to-door salesman-bloke… maybe wanting to sell life-insurance policies, clocking-up sale during an Easter Sunday, where folks are at home – for him to frighten them, with a sales-pitch, that they were ‘not’ the Christ, who-could came back from-the-dead…
Paul unlocked the door to shoo-him off...
… but to find an elderly-blonde haired gentleman, who was sharply dressed in a business suit, carrying a leather attaché-briefcase. He looked into the bright blue eyes of visitor… and Paul was mesmerized to notice that he was brutally-handsome for his age, of the Robert Redford-kind…
… the man introduced himself, in a British accent…
“Good evening-there, I’m Richard Bradbury and I am an attorney and I represent Lord Stamford’s estate – are your parents in?”
‘… it’s happening… they are taking Peter far-away…’ The teenager ‘only’ gawked…
“You must be Paul… are your parents in?” The lawyer repeated.
“No… they’re out…” Paul said while he tried to close the door…
… but the lawyer used his palm to block the door…
“Mind if I wait inside until your parents return home?”
Next-thing, he knew the man, was in the house of the Dicksons. Paul closed the door, while noticing his luxury-black 7-series BMW, parked outside the gate.
The teen regretted he had ‘not’ told him-that, the Mr & Mrs were out-of-town for the holidays, and the lawyer ‘would’ have left. And, he saw the tall-statured man, pausing to notice the house interior, before he made his way into the living-room. Paul knew Bradbury had his glimpse of the Dicksons’ messy dining table…with dirty plates and empty wine-bottles and leftover food.
Paul saw the lawyer unbuttoning the last button of his vest-coat before he sat at the same spot in the couch, where he had sat before, in the front of the telly… and was watching the news of the PM’s comment… of the now-happening Queensland’s earthquake.
Bradbury picked up the remote control from the coffee table in front, and switched off the television…
‘Whoa, I was watching that…who is he to ‘touch’ stuff in this house…?’
“What a tragedy…” The lawyer said.
The house was now dead-quiet… only the sound of the rotating second-hand, of the kitchen-clock…
Bradbury dropped his BMW car-keys on the tabletop, shifted the full glass of wine glass and plate of half-eaten cake aside, before placing his brown briefcase flat-on to-the low coffee table, and clacked it open, to take-out some paper documents…
… as Paul stood still, watching the man, as he noticed a glimpse of a black object in the leather briefcase that appeared to be a handgun. Cold-terror hit Paul instantly, as his heart was pounding hard-and-fast… and he felt weak in his knees with his head gushing of what-if thoughts… of the possibilities of a standoff happening, in the middle of the Dicksons’ house.
He breathe-in to calm himself… and refrained the urge to sit in Joe’s chair – as he stood-tall, to be alert despite he was tipsy. Paul built-up his courage, as they both were silent, in the room… and looking down at the lawyer comfortable in the white-couch, perusing the papers – while the half-opened attaché-case was in the opponent’s reach, to draw his gun…
‘… why is he having a gun…? Did his-Master had instructed him… to threaten the Dicksons, at gun-point, to sign those release papers, so that they-can-have Peter…?’
The kitchen-clock rhymed 4 times – it was 4 PM, and the house was soon-darkening, as Paul stood-still for the moment, observing the man, still reading meticulously at the document. Joe and Caroline had left him home-alone ‘today,’ in a vulnerable situation, to go to the airport…
… next, he thought was of his iPhone, which was charging in his room, upstairs…
… he had the urge to call them, to inform of the lawyer’s presence – but felt afraid to do so, as Bradbury would notice that he-too was hiding a weapon all-along, at the back of his pants.
‘… what if he ‘draws’ first…”’
Seconds were heard clicking in the background, as Paul was contemplating his thoughts-with his moves… the Dicksons had left him to be in charge, and he decided to man-up… in-whatever situations or circumstances were…
‘… Crickey… I have ‘not’ SHOT A MAN before…’
… he had killed demons and monsters BEFORE IN HIS-PERTH, with ease and no qualms… as his superhero persona of Gemini-Blue – BUT HERE IN PERTHLAND, he had his own doubts…
Noticing that he had spent almost a-whole 5 awkward-minutes, staring at the busy lawyer reading – Paul wanted to ease the tension-from within him, by talking-out his fears… at the same time, to gather intel… he-then cleared his throat, and built-up his courage and asked…
“… so, Mr Bradbury, is Peter is actually going to the UK? I reckon you’re here with the papers for the Dicksons’ consent, yea? If that is the case, I WOULD ‘NOT’ LET IT HAPPEN – my-twin would ‘not’ be Asmodeus’ pawn… err, Lord Stamford…”
The drunken-stupor Paul realized… he had MIXED-UP HIS ‘NAMES’…
The lawyer finally looked up, at the teenager, and shifted his sitting position… as he moved forward to put the document on the coffee table, as he smiled-wide and then chuckled…
“Fair enough-Paul… that is ‘so’ – but you can’t do ‘anything’ about-it – because YOU AND THE BLIND-ONE are ‘not’ the greatest superheroes of the land, in this realm…”
The lawyer had a crazy-mouthful of teeth… as he laughed – he looked weird like-a William Dafoe-kind… or even-to the Aussie’s Mr In-between, Scott Ryan’s looks … as the laughing man-in-the-couch, said-next…
“Mind if I drink your wine – you can go-eat-up your cake… that-nasty-stuff – where-you can lose a leg, feeding on-that, and end up in a wheelchair – I reckon you still-remember your wheelchair in Perth, Pauly?”
The gentleman-lawyer bottoms-up the glass, and cackled to his own-joke…
… the shocked, Paul saw the face of the lawyer morphing, into a hideous hairy-demon… with its-horns, ‘still’ growing in-length…
‘… yikes… oh-my-God… HE IS A SHAPESHIFTER – there is a shapeshifting-demon in the Catholic-Dicksons’ house…’
Instantly, Paul pulled out-the Glock… pointing at the creature – and pulled the trigger… but nothing happened…
‘…wha…? Are there no-bullets…? Did Joe… remove the bullets?’
… to the response to the gunslinger’s movement, the laughing demon-in-the-suit countered, as it was-fast reached-into the attaché-case, saying-out…
“You don’t even know how-to-use the Glock, boy…”
In a split second, Paul’s mind went…
‘… it is ‘weighty’ in my bloody-palm… the gun is sure-loaded…’
Then he remembered… ‘how-to’ from the movies…
The demon-lawyer pulled out a Beretta – simultaneously, Paul ‘released’ the safety-lock… and-he fired first…
The teenager shot trice, in-concession – 2 in its-face, and one in the chest – its-blood splattered-wide backwards… reaching to even the dining table cloth, at the rear…
… the petrified Paul saw the demon’s bloodied face was mangled-inwards, and it was missing part of its cranium, and a horn… as it laid-dead, in a sitting position in the white couch.
Paul shook-all-over, in trepidation – and fell in his-fours, on the floor with his gun… as he retched-his entire-guts out… of the gourmet Easter Sunday lunch, that he had feasted.
He stood up from his pool of vomit, in the middle of the living room, wiping his mouth. Paul saw dead demon was morphing back to Richard Bradbury… THE NOW-DEAD LAWYER – who was bleeding-red, into the white couch.
‘…oh-shit, he’s shifting back… now, I will be accused of killing the lawyer…’
With shots fired in the neighbourhood, somebody would-sure call the coppers… Paul rushed to the window to look-out the coast – and was relieved that his neighbours’ car was ‘not’ in, who-were probably out-too…with only the lawyer’s black BMW, parked in-sight…
He can’t stay at the scene-of-the-crime any-longer… and needed an exit plan, and a mode of-transportation-out from here, He first thought of Joe’s racing-bike… but there was also the lawyer’s car…
…on the-fly, he decided the latter…
Paul hurried to the coffee table, and snatched the car keys… on his way out of the front door, he took the 2nd pistol, a-Browning HP, that was Caroline’s, from the gun-safe… and tugged it too, at the back of his pants.
-O-
He stepped outside, in his Sunday-best… looking cautious-around at the neighbouring houses in the suburbs. In a distant, dogs were barking, in the darkening-smoky skied evening… while Paul hurried to the car, with more uncertainties and doubts in his head, of his life-skills in this-Perthland realm...
‘… if Peter can figure-out how-to drive his DeLorean… I-too should figure-out this bloody-car… and dump it far-away from the scene-of-crime, to buy me-time… in case, the Dicksons did ‘not’ manage to get their flight, and returned home…’
Using the remote of the key-chain, he unlocked the door, and got into the interior cabin – and inserted the key, in the ignition…
… and an AI’s male-voice spoke calmly, in a British-accent… that-terrified Paul, who jumped-up… in the driver’s seat…
“…
‘…Yikes-Crickey…! it spoke-how…? and, it ‘knows’ me…’
“…
“…he-he’s in there… waiting for the Dicksons… he ‘told’ me to take the car… to see Peter.”
“…
The car automatically self-started-and-drove autonomously – with Paul baffled by the car, and was-in awe-too, that he was ‘driving’ without to-him stepping onto any pedals…
On the journey, the AI spoke-again, if Paul was comfortable, and should it ‘raise’ the air-condition level and… what was his music preference…
“… no… I don’t want any music… just some-quiet, please…”
“… why is your heart rate still high? Is this your ‘first’ ride in an autonomous-car, Paul?”
“…yes… it’s like sci-fi…”
“… no worries, Paul – I’m calibrated to road-safety perfection – my top priorities and values are human lives preservation – the chances of an accident, are only by the human-error in the other car – let me play-you some deep-relaxation meditative sounds, to ease your mind for better stress management…”
Calming sea-waves crashing at the seashore sounds played in the Harmon-Kardon speakers. Paul breathe-easy as he tried to forget the terrifying ordeal, at the Dicksons’… where he shot and killed a shapeshifter-demon, posing as a lawyer…
… thinking-next of the ‘mission’ – which was storm-the-castle and implement his-Plan-B… then-he remembered that HE HAD FORGOTTEN HIS IPHONE, in the panic and chaos… where the phone was still charging in his bedroom…
‘… had Jane called…?’
Paul sighed in-regret… he recalled ‘having’ angry-thoughts of her, just-now… after-once he had one-too-many glasses of wine… he further recalled that she gave him a greeting card at the evening ball yesterday…
… and he even had forgotten to personally, say ‘thank-you’…
…that card-too was left in the backpack along with the FUBU hoodie and dancing shoes, which he was too lazy to unpack, after the late-night he got-home and had overslept till noon…
… the card would be soaked by his fat-boy ‘sweat’ by-now like-pickle…
… but Jane’s message was ‘marinated’ in his thoughts:
Beloved Paul,
I’ll be your forever
Please take us home
xoxo
J.W.
‘… yes, my-Jane… I’m doing ‘this’ for us…’
Then the male-voiced AI ‘interrupted’ his pleasant-thought…
“Have you been drinking, Paul? I detect high-level of alcohol in your sweat – if you are dehydrated, there are a couple of water-bottles at the backseat.”
… its accented-male voice-annoyed him… it was ‘not’ the voice of a ‘young-woman’ that he was used-to…
Paul had been familiar with blind-Jane’s AI-SIMY’s ‘voice’ for 2 years, of schooling in their-Perth, where it assisted her, into being a ‘normal-sighted’ person… then at the dairy-farm field-trip… SIMY was destroyed… then came to the replacement ‘Boyyo’… a boy-voiced AI…
‘… embrace it-Poe… this is the future… there is an AI in everything, in everywhere…’
… even Gary Morrison, his Uber-driver back-there… had told him ‘so,’ as he-too feared his daily livelihood would-be replaced by an AI-soon…
“…well…”
“No, I don’t want a drink… I’m fine…err… what do I call you, AI?”
“I’m of an ALPHA-Series technology… you can address me, as GR-3, Paul.”
“Who invented you…built…err, I mean, programmed you…err, GR-3?”
“My cutting-edged, advanced-built technology comes from New Mexico… have you heard of an organisation called Kimura Star Corp., Paul?”
‘… that’s the same company that built SIMY too… OWNED BY JANE’S UNCLE…who-had sent over his medical-goons to ‘test’ Peter’s blood…’
“No, I don’t-know…” Paul lied…
… to cover-up his-identity, from the ‘enemy’ of Perthland…
“…I see that you have ‘not’ been updated by the recent news-events that happened in the past 3 days – where Lord Stamford had LAUNCHED HIS NUCLEAR-PROJECT in aid-of Perthland’s economy – Kimura Star Corp. would be leading this monumental project…”
“Fair enough… it’s a good thing, I reckon… thanks for the information, GR-3!”
“…you are welcome, Paul”
‘…damnit… that means it’s Sayonara Perthland…’
-O-
Soon after that, the autonomous-BMW was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic – Paul looked out of the window at the horizon where there were bushfires, with passing siren fire-trucks…
… he had seen-this ‘before’ – the series of devastating natural-disasters of major fires and earthquake tragedies in Australia… which was now, happening over ‘here’ too…
… it was a critical ‘key’ TO TAKE-OUT PETER – who was the conduit-vessel, to the Evil-one – before, he rejuvenated in Peter’s blood…
“Sorry for the delay in the ETA, Paul.”
“… no-worries GR-3, I got-time… I’m ‘not’ going anywhere, mate…”
Paul was prepared mentally, to execute his ‘mission.’
-O-
They arrived in the CBD of the city centre, and Paul saw it was dense, with buildings that was ‘not’ seen in-his Perth before…like Flinders Street Station iconic-building…
‘… wasn’t that in Melbourne…?’
100 metres before the Beemer reached the Stamford Hotel, the GR-3 alerted Paul…
“There are anti-Lord Stamford protesters ahead, Paul – my safety-and-protection protocol-system suggests, we take the back entrance.”
Before the car swerved-left, Paul had a glimpse of the 50-over protesters with placards behind the police-barrier with riot-police vans and trucks barricading the hotel-front…
‘This was ‘where’ the old-fart, got shot twice… but survived…’
They were at the hotel’s underground car park…
“Destination arrived – Hotel Stamford…”
The teenager got off the front-seat cabin, praising…
“Brozer! 5-star driving, GR-3!”
“Thank you, Paul – I WILL INFORM HOTEL-SECURITY that you have arrived…”
“No-no! Don’t do that… I want to ‘surprise’ Peter – he ‘loves’ surprises…”
“Very-well, Paul – good-bye, I WILL RETURN-NOW, to pick-up Richard Bradbury.”
“Wait a minute – what floor is Peter at?”
“He’s at the suite-333, on the 33rd floor.”
Paul saw the passenger-less car drive-away… and gave a stink-eye to the advanced tech…
The autonomous-car WAS RETURNING to the crime-scene…
… now he had only a limited-time of a window-of-opportunity… of slightly more-than HALF-HOUR TO EXECUTE HIS-PLAN-B… before the AI-GR-3 ‘regurgitate’ to the coppers of his-whereabout-location, if-ever IT WAS ‘QUESTIONED,’ REGARDING the death of the car’s owner, Richard Bradbury.
-O-
Paul walked up to the 2 elevators and pressed the button. The lift on the right-opened, and he got into the lift, with ‘only’ one-button up-to-the first-floor…
… it reminded him-of his other-mission, of ‘being’ at Asmodeus’ Royal Casino, in the Underworld – where he and the Red-demon rode, the lift to escape the wrath of the pursuing St Michael.
The door opened with a ding… and he stood facing the busy hotel guests and staff – walking and waiting in the foyer. Paul looked ahead at police personnel were on duty at the entrance hall, guarding the protest outside. He didn’t want to go there… and stood among the guests, and blended-well, in his Sunday-best attire. He was looking out for the hotel-legend…
… he was taught by Boyyo, Jane’s AI in another-mission… that a legend was a signage layout of the building’s direction – that-which he should look out for, to get to the 33rd floor.
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Phones were heard ringing-and-tilling in multiple personalized-tones, as the anonymous-Paul began his search and walked around, while looking-down as he moved to hide his identity, of being closely-resembling to his more-famous twin – and wished, he had worn a cap… before leaving in a hurry from the Dicksons.
He wandered around the vicinity in frustration… as the place didn’t have proper signages and ended-up in the main-kitchen entrance… he was ‘lost’ and doubled-back, to the main lobby… as he followed behind 2 junior-chefs, going for their dinner break…
… both the cooks were grumbling and badmouthing – about the tips that were generously rewarded, for each-time the room-service waiters delivered food to ‘visitors from the UK’…
“… it’s ‘us’ the cooks who prep the gourmet meals, and yet those waiter-assholes get the reward-and-praises – I heard the Crowleys are throwing away $500 as a bloody-tip for each-time they serve our kitchen-food… and, what do we get? Nothing!” Said the first disgruntled cook.
“Yea-mate, that what was going on for the past 5 days… so-much-so, Scotty the manager too wanted to score some-love, and those waiters below-him are pissed… when their greedy-manager does the bloody delivery himself, instead of them. He is in Prego now – picking up the dinner-orders.” The 2nd sullen cook responded.
“Do you know, mate… that even the Crowley-family dog doesn’t eat canned-doggie chow and has its ‘own’ menu? That bloody-mutt is as fussy like those Pommies… the beef should fresh – and-be grounded ‘not’ bloody-minced, and cooked-in medium-rare with beef-stock – and if the meat was cooked well-done, the damn-dog won’t eat… that what that niece of the Lord was complaining to the F&B management, that her dog wasn’t eating-well on the first 2 days, of their arrival.”
Paul smiled and was tailing them in the corridor and still-eavesdropping… about Pepper the dog.
“Yea heard that – and Head-Chef Weibel gave an angry-shouting in the chef-meeting… saying that the fine-dining chefs were ‘not’ fit to be-cooks… when they can’t bloody cook a good-dog food in Stamford Hotel.” The 2nd cook chuckled.
“Scotty is now mighty-fussy when he does picks-up of his food in kitchens… and he is going-on pissing off kitchen-cooks, reminding-them always of the dog-food incident.”
“Yea, fair enough – he does-so, for his $500-tip, now that he’s the ‘unofficial’ butler to those Crowleys… working-standby 24-7-shifts, catching naps in his office, until those Pommies check-out. That day… that-late-night, this happened… the room-service got a call for a delivery ice-bucket, and ol’ Scotty was on the ball, as he delivered fresh-ice for his bloody-tip – but-only to get $1 from that stingy boyfriend, of the Crowley-niece.”
Both the cooks laughed-out aloud, at the ‘unfortunate’ F&B manager…
… and, Paul laughed the loudest, to hear ‘what’ his twin-had done, in his ‘new-home’…
The 2 cooks turned around to Paul’s laughter… seeing him putting his head-down in a-hurry, turning left to another corridor, avoiding being ‘recognized.’
-O-
Paul walked up to the end of the corridor where there were 3 elevators, on the first floor – he reached and pressed the button. While waiting for the lift-car, he was glancing over for any hotel-security staff… but was relieved, that he only saw only hotel guests, ambling around the lobby.
The centre lift dinged and the door opened… Paul got in alone. He noticed there was no 33rd floor in the button-panel – and realized it was the lift to restaurants, convention hall and other hotel-facilities floors.
He wanted to get-out-the car, as the doors began to slide close – before a man’s hand stuck in between… Paul backed-off, and accidentally pressed the 4th floor, when a man and a woman entered the elevator, once the doors reopened. The man punched-in the 3rd floor button… while Paul backed-himself in-stealth, to the rear of the lift.
At a glance…
… Paul recognized the suit he wore, as the CROWLEY’S BODYGUARD, whom he saw at the SHS 131th evening-ball celebration. He was familiar with the older woman too – as LORD STAMFORD’S HEAD NURSE from yesterday, who had accompanied the old-man on the stage.
His heart pounded, as he stood… feeling the pistols behind his back, and was ready to draw, if he was ‘discovered’… but they-both the staff were ‘more’ interested, into their ‘own’ conversation…
… putting his head low, covering his face with his left palm, covering his bruised mouth, as he then listened… to the Head Nurse saying to the bodyguard, that she would be going to the Perthland Royal Hospital after dinner, to-which the bodyguard acknowledged, that he would get the town-car ready.
At the 3rd floor, the lift dinged and the door opened – and both the Head Nurse and the bodyguard alighted… jelly-knees-Paul breathing-in ease, with the ‘close-call,’ and analysing that the ‘enemy’ had let their guards-down, at their ‘own’ backyard – the Stamford Hotel.
The door reclosed, and proceeded to the 4th floor…
… the door opened and the teenager stepped out to the floor – where there were several restaurants… the closest was a Vietnamese…
… and on his right -- he heard a Filipino-band playing at some-place called Stamford-Café, with A GLASS-SKY-ROOF of an open ambience, where Paul saw the towering hotel, from below. He looked on his left, Paul saw an Italian restaurant, called Prego…
… he recalled THE 2 ‘BITCHING-COOKS’ earlier, mentioning – Prego…
-O-
Paul walked up to the crowded Italian restaurant, with an attractive hostess who would seat the walking-in guests was-there… and she was looking at a chart on her booth-stand, for the available empty tables. Paul contemplated whether to walk-in…
… he knew the bills at Italian-restaurants would cost an arm-and-leg – as he had been to Marciano’s in his-Perth… where his-mom usually took him, and Peter – whenever she had ‘anything’ to celebrate, in her personal-achievement of ‘whatever’ milestone of her career…
He stood with a hand inside his pants pocket… feeling the plastic-crisp of a $100 bill, which Mrs Dickson gave him earlier, before driving off to the airport – but he was ‘not’ hungry-either… despite – he had had-puked himself, after shooting-dead, the shapeshifter lawyer, who had to threaten him, to a standoff.
Paul looked up, and saw a white-jacketed employee, coming-out from the side-entrance of Prego… pushing a room-service trolley…
‘… is that Scotty…?’
He followed him from the back… and Paul was surprised that Scotty had ended-up, in the same-elevator which he rode earlier… The man pushed the button in the 4thfloor-lobby.
‘… how is that…? How is he going to the 33rd floor…?’
The door opened… as the man pushed the white-clothed trolley, with the food inside the metal-box of the cart – Paul got into the lift-car with him, at the last hesitating second. He saw the moustached man in his 30s, pressing the first-floor button…
‘… first-floor…? That’s ‘back-to-square-one’… where I came from just now – is this ‘really’ Scotty…?
The frustrated-Paul and the man stepped-out the lift in the busy ground lobby of the hotel, walking-by security-staff inside the foyer, and with riot-police outside the front door. The teenager was packing-with 2 pistols, the under-his shirt he wore and was cautious… and at the same time, curious how the food was delivered to the suite-floors ‘works,’ as he trailed behind.
The man opened an exit door… and pushed the trolley in, that had the sign on the door:
Service Lifts – Staff Only
Paul saw through the small-glass window on the door… that the man was the ‘only’ one behind the door, which had staff-service elevators. The teen pushed the door and entered the area, where the man in the white-jacket had stepped into a lift, that he controlled with a key.
He was surprised WHEN HE SAW PAUL – and he politely said…
“Sir, the guest-lifts, are outside on the right.”
Paul ignored him, and got into the lift-car with him…
“Sir, this is a staff ‘only’ lift, you can’t ride-in here.”
Paul whipped-out one of his pistols… and realized it was MRS DICKSON’S BHP, ‘not’ the Joe’s Glock… that he shot Richard Bradbury dead-with. The moustached-man cringed in terror, at gunpoint…
“Please-please… don’t kill me…”
Paul saw there were many floor-buttons on the side-panel, up to 66 to the penthouse. He put the Browning at the frightened man’s temple, and shouted…
“Press the button… which floor are you going to!”
The trembling-man PRESSED 33 – and the lift moved-up…
‘… it is ol’ Scotty, all right…’
“Please, I don’t want to die… don’t shoot me…”
Paul remained silent and composed… as he saw the lift-car raising-up in-express speed and felt a slight equilibrium-buzz in his wine-intoxicated brain. He saw the lights on the numbers going on-and-off, on the floor-panel… it was until Scotty spoke again…
“… I ‘know’ you-you’re Ms Crowley’s ‘boyfriend,’ aren’t you…? Why are you doing this… what did I ever do to you, mate…? Here – I’ve picked-up ‘your’ pizza, you had-ordered, on time…”
‘…he’s CONFUSING ME with Peter…’
“… is it the food… are you ‘not’ satisfied with the food? Was it the dog-food, is that had-been the complain?... please, I’m also-the F&B manager… I will make a complaint about you if you let me go…”
Paul was annoyed with his cunningness… as he was in the power in authority, to pass the ‘blame’ on other departments like the-cooks…
… and yet profiting from his own staff, the waiters…
‘… this wily-Scotty need TO BE-TAUGHT A LESSON, for his-dishonesty…’
“I’m innocent, Sir… whatever it is…please don’t kill me… what did I do to you – please say ‘something,’ Sir… talk to me…”
Finally, Paul spoke, pointing the gun to his face…
“You-Scotty… I’m hearing some really ‘bad-and-nasty’ things about you…that you had been greedy and ‘unfair’ to everyone in contact… so-Scotty, what you reckon?”
He looked surprised that the teenage knew his name – as he was ‘was-management’… and he was ‘not’ in-the rank-and-file-group to put a nametag on his jacket, to make the food-delivery.
“Who said so…? Those are lies and gossips you’d heard, Sir… believe me, I’m honest to God…”
“Don’t use God’s name in vain, you bloody fool!”
Paul struck the pistol-butt at his face… and Scotty was in pain and was crying and mumbling, holding his cheek…
“Stop with-the whingeing, and crocodile-tears, Scotty – I ‘know’ who you are… you better own-up, and admit that you are a bloody lying-cheat…”
“No, I’m ‘not’… I’m innocent, please, believe me, Sir…”
The threatening, Paul came close to him, and the man cringed with his hands up to protect his face…
“Don’t lie, you’re a bloody cheat when it comes to receiving tips…”
Scotty quickly reached into his white-jacket and pulled-out 2 $500 notes…
“Is that what this is all about – the tips? Here take it… please, let me go…”
“Is that all? The Crowleys had been here for 4 days… how much did you gobbled-up you-greedy-pig… and where is the rest of it?”
Paul put the BHP into Scotty’s forehead.
“It’s total $12,500… I left the rest at home… I’m s-sorry… p-please don’t kill me…it won’t h-happen again…”
“You Scotty, I want you to take all the money tomorrow… and-next, you divide it among your staff-waiters… and share some the tips with the cooks too… they were the ones, doing the best bloody work, by prepping the food – are you listening, Scott?”
“Yes-yes, I d-do that… I promise-I promise…”
“Make-sure you do-that… I got eyes-and-ears in this hotel… I will pay you a visit again if you continue to cheat and lie!”
“I promise it won’t happen again… here take this money, I d-don’t want it…”
Scotty offered the 2 plastic-notes to Paul.
“No, you keep that… it’s for your medical expenses.”
“What medical expenses…?
The lift door dinged AT THE 33RD FLOOR and the door opened…
“Scotty, take off your jacket – NOW!”
“Why?”
“TAKE IT OFF!”
The frightened man was under duress with the menacing gun-threat, unbuttoned and took off the white jacket… wearing a white t-shirt-under, printed ‘Stamford Hotel’s Sports and Family-Day’– Scotty placed the-coat on the food-trolley…
… Paul made a ‘mental-check-list’ of his mission…
‘…I’ll use the jacket… and make the food-delivery myself… and, it’s a good thing I had worn my black-pants-and-leather shoes, and ‘could’ pass-out as a butler… and the lift is ‘keys-controlled’ … and I use it, as for the exit to ‘escape’ once mission-accomplished…’
Paul noticed Scotty was also holding a master-key card, and a key-chain with a bunch of keys hooked to his belt…
‘… what am I to do, with this-Scotty…?’
“Walk!”
“… w-where am I going…?”
They both stepped-out from the elevator, to a limited-spaced staff-area, of the 33rd floor – Paul looked at locked small-room in the corner, with the signage:
Housekeeping – Amenity Store
“You have the keys to ‘that?’” Paul pointed to the small store-room.
“Yea, but why? You can call from your room if you ‘need’ anything…”
“Open-it now!”
He saw Scotty pull the-chain in his belt, and used a key-in the bunch to unlock the door. As the door-opened…the automatic light went-on, and lit a single-staff area to the cramped closet – that stocked amenities for the guest-rooms like towels, pillows, blankets, soaps, shampoos and others.
Paul grabbed the key-chain, and the master-key pass, from Scotty at gun-point… and pocketed it…
“Get-in there!”
“You’re gonna-lock me… no, please don’t… I’m claustrophobic…”
Paul then hit the butt of the gun at the back of his head, and Scotty staggered, as he was forced into the closet… but the man fought-back, screaming for his life…Paul stuck him again in his forehead, that tore his left-eyebrow… blood-gushed… but Scotty was still coming at him, yowling even-more…
The teenager hit him in his mouth, breaking his 2 front-teeth – but the persistent-fighter did ‘not’ go down, as he fought-back, to come out from the closet…
… and this time, Scotty managed to grab Paul’s hand with the pistol…
… they both wrestled in a tug-a-war act, in-and-out of the closet… until Paul headbutted Scotty… and broke his nose – and only then Scotty subdued, and retreated-backwards...
Paul kicked the screaming man into the closet-floor… and-he-too went went-into the closet, placed his knee in the man’s chest to pin-him down, and used his weapon to strike him. After a couple of blows, he realised the man wasn’t ‘going-down’ easily…
…as they-do-so, in the ‘movies’…
Only-when, Paul hit him harder, Scotty resisted-his struggling, and finally fell unconscious – the teen stood-up, panting and was woozy… he had the urge to vomit, but his stomach was empty, as he had retched-out earlier… when he killed the shapeshifter lawyer in the Dickson’s home…
He checked-on the moustached-man below… and felt relieved, that he was still breathing… he saw himself in a small mirror in the closet, and his light-blue long-sleeved shirt was with Scotty’s blood splatters… and-he too was bleeding in his-forehead, after the earlier hard headbutting…
The teen took some amenity hand-towels, and wiped himself clean-off the blood – dropping the soiled towels, on the kayoed Scotty’s face… and it blotted red…
Paul stepped out, of the closet with some clean hand-towel in his hand, and closed the door – fishing out the key-chain from his pants pocket…inserted the slipping key, in the lock and had difficulty to turn-the lock as there were blood-plasma in his slimy fingers… but he managed to lock-it with the use of the towel-to-hold the key.
He walked unsteadily to the service-elevator, holding a towel to the cut in his forehead. He looked in the lift, at the white-coat butler’s jacket, on the food trolley…
‘… I’m bleeding… I’ll get blood on that bloody white-jacket…’
… Paul looked at his watch – it had been 50 minutes SINCE HE ENTERED THE HOTEL, which was the lair-of-his-enemy… where at the SAME TIME ON THE ROAD, the self-driving BMW would have reached the Dicksons…
… HE WAS BACK-TROUBLED, with his what-ifs thoughts – that-the Dicksons would ‘soon’ be arriving from the airport to the scene-of-the-crime… and before-long, Joe would report to the police OF THE-MURDER OF RICHARD BRADBURY, and of-the 2 stolen guns by his stepson – while the car’s AI GR-3 would give his ‘whereabout’ location at-the hotel… where the calvary would-then come-in strong, FOR THEIR MANHUNT…
‘… I must be fast… got no time to lose…’
He wiped his hands clean and slipped on the white-jacket before he pushed the food-trolley out of the lift.
Paul implemented HIS HAPHAZARD PLAN-B MISSION, which was ‘not’ well-thought-of – winging it-all as he went-along in his drunk-confidence, with ‘some’ hit and miss-outcomes.
-O-
He pushed the door of the service-area, into the grand hotel suite-area… from the concrete cement flooring to the plush golden-yellow carpet. His eyes kept on A LOOK-OUT FOR the suite-room-333, as he pushed on the trolley, on the circular-radius flooring of the hotel-tower.
As he pushed the warm-food-trolley, he passed looking at the photograph-portraits on the wall, of the wildlife of koalas, kangaroos and wombats…
… and he thought of the bushfires in Perthland… where their habitat was being threatened, at this very moment…
It was-just Room-313… another 20 more rooms – to push the trolley where the wheels were in-resistance to the carpet, as he toddled along…
… with the Prego’s pizza inside the warm-box lighted, by a flamed chafing fuel-cans... the heat made him sweat, despite in the air-conditioned floor…
… then a drop of blood dropped, on the white-trolley-cloth… and it blotted…
‘… shit-Poe! Don’t bleed like a bloody pig…!’
Paul stopped-instantly and pulled-out-fast the face-towel, from his back pants pocket… and that-dropped the Glock .22 handgun from under his jacket, on the carpeted-floor… he cursed in his-head…
‘…shit-Poe… stop being careless and clumsy… you’re drunk!’
He was sweating profusely, as he wiped his bruised forehead, that was breeding-more as he was intoxicated. Room-333 was at the other side of the building and he hurried, while placing the towel at his forehead, while pushing the trolley with one-hand… and covering-up the blood-spot on the white trolley-cloth, with his palm…
He panted in fear of being discovered… and that scared-feeling made him sweat-even more, in the thick white-jacket… what-if Scotty had regained consciousness, and got on-the-phone and called hotel-security…
Passing Room-322… another 11 more rooms, to go…
He breathe-shallow to calm-down, and cleared his negative-thoughts and THOUGHT OF JANE WILSON… and-his confidence came back, to-him…
‘… Jane, I’m DOING ‘THIS’ for us-both…’
He had left his iPhone in his room, when he made-his way-over in the BMW, to Stamford Hotel in a hurry. She had no idea of his solo-mission, which she would ‘not’ had approve-of.
‘… hey-Jane, I have MEMORIZED YOUR NUMBER… and I’ll call you later – once I had completed my mission… but by then, I would BE A FUGITIVE ON THE RUN… but, whatever it is – I will CALL YOU TONIGHT…’
He smiled to himself – Room 328 – Peter’s room was just around the bend… Paul pushed the food-trolley, in a more composed-manner, with the confidence of his love for his girlfriend.
-O-
From the outside the door of Room 331, Paul stopped pushing the food-cart, and peeked to the unguarded Room-333…
‘… where are the bodyguards…? The Crowley-niece WAS ‘ALWAYS’ SURROUNDED by her men-in-black…’
Pushing the room-service food-trolley at the front door – he saw a DND sign-card, hung at the doorknob of 333…
‘… Do-Not-Disturb…hmm…’
Paul used the master-key-card that he ‘confiscated’ from Scotty-earlier – the door opened… He went-in silently and used the cart to wedge the door-from-closing. He heard hooting sound of an owl and loud-moaning sounds of people having sex. Paul pulled-out his 2 guns, and stepped in-stealth on the carpeted floor, as he proceeded-forward.
He saw an evil-looking owl perched on the top of the left-bed post…
… while a succubus was on top of an incubus, as they were fornicating…
…a big-dog was fast asleep below the bed…
The owl screeched-on seeing the-intruder, alerting everyone of Paul’s presence – Pepper’s ears-stood-up instantly, and opened its red-glowing eyes…
…the fierce Alsatian was the first to attack, as it growled-mad when it fast-approached the teenager in the white-jacket. Paul did ‘not’ hesitate…
…as he shot his 2-guns in self-defence, as the beast pounced…
… while hearing the frightened demons on-the-bed chattering in desperation, in some Medieval-tongue…
… the dog yelped as it fell on the carpeted floor… IT DID ‘NOT’ DIE – but it was transforming into ‘something’ while bleeding-badly on the carpet. Paul was horrified as he noticed that, it was morphing into a man-wolf…
… at point-blank, PAUL SHOT TWICE into its head… killing it…
The succubus-Lilitu hissed its fangs, at its ‘predator’…
… its hair was braided as 2-horns, and a glowing crescent-moon in its forehead, as a 3rd-eye – the blanket dropped, as the naked Lilitu stretched her big-brown-wings…
… as she stood on the bed, with her serpent-half body…
… she cursed in Sumerian, and flew towards Paul from across the room, while her owl-too followed. Paul unloaded multiple-shots into the approaching target-in-flight to make it fall backwards – the BULLETS WENT THROUGH ITS BODY…
…shattering the large glass window-panel…
… Paul saw a glimpse of Jezebel as she morphed-back – and defenestrating 33-floors, FALLING OUTSIDE THE BROKEN WINDOW, below…
“NOOO!!!”
Cried, Peter… seeing at his twin-brother fighting and swatting-at the attacking-owl… which-it then flew off the window, to be with its mistress…
The mission-driven Paul walked up to naked-Peter, who was yelling at him, from the bed…
“Poe, WHY YOU BLOODY DO that!!?”
“To SAVE HUMANITY…”
Paul raised his 2-guns and shot…
… he had ‘ONLY’ ONE BULLET left in the Browning HP… as the rest of his shots were empty gun clicks, from the-other-gun…
… but-Paul felt-pleased, as-he saw it HIT ON HIS TWIN’S CHEST, and puncturing deep…
… Peter glared-angry at his-twin, gargling-blood in his mouth as he mumbled-curses… soaking-up the bed-linen red. Then, Paul heard the room-door crashing, with food-trolley, kicked and-over thrown…
Ian McNelly with another bodyguard, barged-in – to see Paul at the foot of the bed, with Peter bleeding to-death – Paul turned around slowly and dropped his guns, raising his-hands, to surrender…
… but they shot him instead…
… his white-jacket blotting red, Paul sprawled motionless on the carpeted floor… smiling, as he thought of Jane Wilson…
… and he HAD SUCCEEDED HIS Plan-B mission… FOR ‘THEM’…
<>
IAN MCNEELY RUSHED OUTSIDE THE HOTEL’S elevator-car, to the 4th floor – where the restaurants were. Apparently, Jezebel fell over from Room 333 and crash landed-below, into the of Stamford Café’s glassed sun-roof.
The bodyguard was shocked that Jezebel had ‘survived’ the 33-floors fall-down… when she crushed onto an obese Kiwi-Mouri TOURIST BELOW, WHO WAS DINING at the café to the music of the Filipino-quartet… when-then, Jezebel’s body-impacted from-above, and killing him instantly instead.
But she was now in a coma, WITH SEVERE HEAD INJURIES and other bodily concussions…
“She is still breathing… and-is alive…!”
Exclaimed Lord Stamford’s Head-Nurse, who was the first person on the scene, as she tended to the gunshot bleeding teenager. Broken-glass were scattered on the floor… with the café’s patrons, staff and musicians, who were still in a state-of-shock…
… perched above the broken sun-roof was Argus the owl hooted.
-O-
In front of the smoky-street, of the Stamford Hotel-front… was the parked an ambulance, where gawking anti-Lord Stamford environment-activists, had stopped protesting and instead, were assisting the ambulance staff in helping the gurney of the bloodied grand-niece of their protesting-trillionaire villain, to the back of the open-van…
… the Head-Nurse and the bodyguard… followed Jezebel to the hospital. The 2 paramedics were working-on stabilizing the teenager… the Head Nurse placed her palm, on Jezebel’s belly…
“She is pregnant…”
Ian McNelly filled-up details to the elder-nurse, that PETER WAS DEAD – assassinated by his-twin, Paul…
“… we don’t HAVE HIS-BLOOD… but at least, we now HAVE HIS-SEED…”
In the speeding ambulance, the old-nurse did her dark-Underworld’s witchcraft mantra-chanting… with her hand placed on the coma-girl’s belly. Ian McNelly gasped into astonishment, when he saw Jezebel’s stomach, in a matter of seconds… had swelled into a full-blown pregnancy, and-was going-into labour…
The Head-Nurse delivered the boy-child and swaddled the new-born in a blanket, of the ambulance. She held-up the crying baby, praising…
“Hail Asmodeus! Hail to His 2nd Coming!”
<><>
JANE HAD LEXINGTON-STYLE GRILLED CHICKEN, that Sunday family lunch. The parents decided to go to the movies, in the evening at the mall – and her-mummy decided they should watch FROZEN-2… recalling Jane had cried while watching the original when she was a little girl…
… it was a fun-fact, as she knew more about the teen versions past and her-preferences… but as a B-girl in her-world, she had ‘not’ stepped into a cinema-hall, at-all in her life – and Jane was looking forward…
…. to the evening out with the family, and experience the cinematic-adventure in-a-dark theatre, as escapism – to forget the Cursed-trio’s dilemma in Perthland, where both-she and Paul, have no control of.
After lunch, she went up to her room and tried to call Paul… but he was ‘not’ picking-up – and imagined that she was invited to Paul’s Easter lunch with his visiting ‘uncle-and-cousins.’
She dozed off tired after her late-last night at the school-ball… her last smile was thinking of her dancing with Paul… where they embraced-and-kissed…
After a couple of hours of a good nap, she woke-up refreshed, and the first thing she did was, to call Paul – again he was ‘not’ picking-up. She thought her boyfriend was having a ‘good-time’ on Easter-day… and she left him to do-his-thing, and she went downstairs for a cuppa.
The Wilsons’ plans of an evening-out at the mall was cancelled, because of the city’s chaos due to the emerging bushfire and it was ‘not’ advisable to go out due to the poor air quality…
… it reminded Jane of a similar bushfire incident, where schools were closed – when ‘evil’ started the fire in her-Perth… where the diabolical demons Ammut and Ammit have-then battled the superheroes of the Cursed-trio, who had eventually defeated them, and also put out the fire from its spreading to the city.
After her tea-time, she returned back to her room to call Paul – she sulked a moment when he wasn’t picking up her calls. She went-on to Spotify and keyed-in the names of the songs, she had danced with him… especially the slow-dances…
… she relived her entire evening at the ball, visualizing wearing her black-dress, holding tight to Paul to the song ‘Careless Whispers’…
… and-then, left voice-messages, on WhatsApp to Paul, saying ‘what’ she was doing-now… so-that Paul would call her, once she got-her ‘messages’…
… she missed her beloved-Paul…
After more than an hour of repeated-hearing to her SHS-ballroom song-list, on her phone – her mother called her to come down for dinner. She came down the stairs and saw her father was spending quality-time with his-son, while-both were playing race-car videogames…
… Jane helped her mother, to set the table for the 4… where they had the leftover of lunch. Jane enjoyed the scrumptious-chicken again that she had earlier for lunch, as she listened to Samuel bragging about his yesterday’s hip-hop performance on stage, during the SHS’s 131st-event…
… but she was ‘more’ thrilled about Paul’s hip-hop dancing performance, that evening…
Soon-after dinner, it was the Wilsons’ family-time in front of the telly in the living room – she sat with the father, and he was watching the news… while in the kitchen, Samuel was microwaving popcorns as snacks, as he was conversing with mummy about Disney’s TV-series, The Mandalorian, where it had a cute ‘baby-Yoda’…
… Jane was baffled when she heard-it… as her bestie-Alicia, was a huge Star-War’s fan in Perth – and had-told her-B-self stories-and-plots, that Yoda-had-died of very-old-age…
‘… is ‘this-baby’ the son-of-Yoda… or did Yoda reincarnate-into the TV-franchise…?’
Before she could ask ‘about’ the old-Jedi to Samuel… THE TV-NEWS THAT her father was watching caught her attention. They have revealed the name of the assassin of Lord Stamford, which they had held-back yesterday of the shooter’s information – for police investigation of the perpetrator…
… Jane saw and heard the newscaster stating THE DECEASED GUNMAN WAS HAJJI… with his ‘ugly’ mugshot displayed in the news…
‘… oh-my-Gawd… it is happening here too… so ‘this’ is Hajji… the one who abducted our-baby-SAMUEL BACK IN PERTH… who finally-died bitten by dogs, during my-PFC rematch… Pauly, are you seeing this…?’
In another-news, it was the devastation of the earthquake hitting Queensland’s Great Barrier Reefs, that caused tsunamis in the mainland, killing thousands in the coastal-town…
‘… oh-no… the dreadful events are repeating… has Asmodeus gotten his full-powers…? where are you, Paul… ANSWER YOUR PHONE… please…?’
Anthony Wilson called his wife, to come and see the Queensland’s disaster-zone, as they both have friends living there…
… Jane noticed Samuel came with a bowl of caramel popcorn, and inconsiderately wanting to watch his favourite TV show, in the family-telly… but their father stopped him, as the ‘national-events’ were more important, at that moment.
Then-came the breaking-news that A TEENAGED GUN-ASSASSIN had broken-into Stamford Hotel, and shot the heiress of the Crowley-estate – Jezebel Crowley – who had miraculously ‘escaped’ and survived… after falling from the 33rd floor of the hotel…
… this time both Jane and Samuel were shocked and glued to the news report… and the Black-tween almost dropped his large bowl of popcorn when…
… reports were confirmed the perpetrator was IDENTIFIED AS PAUL WALKER, who had snuck-up at his ‘own’ twin’s, Peter Walker’s suite-room AND KILLED HIM before he was SUCCESSFULLY TAKEN-DOWN by the Crowley-bodyguards. Paul Walker left a trail of crime when he had executed the visiting Crowley-lawyer, Richard Bradbury at his home-earlier… and later TOOK HIS PARENT’S GUNS… and that led into a bloodied EASTER SUNDAY MASSACRE crime-scene, in the Stamford Hotel.
Jane fainted briefly, after seeing footage of Paul dead, in a blood-drenched white-coat. Both Anthony and Shelley were tending to their-unconscious daughter…
…as the dumbstruck Samuel too sat-down in total shock, as he…
… knew the Walker-twin of SHS…
…now-both reported demised, in the news…
The blonde-teen regained consciousness, and was hysterically, and crying-out, mentioning her dead boyfriend’s name…
“No! No! Why Paul…? Why, you have to leave me… why…???”
The parents took Jane to the common-bathroom, where she retched-out her dinner into the sink. Anthony held her, and Shelley cleaned her up… while she-sobbed bitterly… looking at their faces…
“Mummy-Daddy… my-Pauly is ‘gone’…”
She was still weeping when her parents led-her out of the bathroom – and from the living-room, her adopted brother cried out…
“Stop with the crying-Sis… I warned you before, that the Walker-twins are a bad-influence to you – but you didn’t listen, and look now… they-both took-each other-out… now they are both dead – with 2-less ‘crim’ in Perthland!”
Jane shouted-back…
“You bloody-shut up there! You don’t know Paul – he’s a good person!”
The parents saw both the sibling were at each other's throat… Anthony then yelled…
“You shut-up, Samuel!”
But the adopted-son ignored him, as he bad-mouthed…
“You even broke-up with Douglas Zimmerman, to be with this bloody-criminal – what are you going to say about that!!?”
“Quiet-Samuel… ‘not’ another word from you!” Shelley too yelled-back.
The mother led her wailing-miserable daughter upstairs. In her room, she was changed to her pyjama, by Shelley… and gave her a couple of sleep-pills and told her to sleep. But Jane refused, and told that she wanted to-go ‘see’ Paul…
… Anthony stepped into the room, to reason with his daughter – that it was police-case, and they would ‘not’ let anyone see his-body tonight… and promised her that – they would go to the mortuary tomorrow…
Jane passively-nodded and took her-meds, and laid in her bed, with her mother with her by-her side… stroking her hair, to comfort the devastated-girl. Anthony too sat in silent, in the room, at the desk, to wait for the teenager to fall asleep…
In-tears, Jane drifted to sleep, while listening to her brother’s laughter from downstairs, watching The Mandalorian… but she-shutdown ‘everything’ else… just to remember the ‘happiest-moment’ with her beloved… of their slow-dancing to Careless Whispers:
I'm never gonna dance again
Guilty feet have got no rhythm
Though it's easy to pretend
I know you're ‘not’ a fool
‘… yes… Pauly… I’m coming…home…to you…to dance…again…’
-O-
She woke up after 2 AM, from a pleasant lucid-dream, with her beloved… in the Garden-of-Eden… as they played-catch and laughing, with the flying cupids in a flower-field...
The room was dark, and her parent was ‘not’ there, but they left the room door slightly ajar… she got out from her Queen-sized-bed, and sleepwalked to her trophy-rack and took ‘something’… and went to her laundry-basket, and took the belt of her black dress that she wore… during her dance, with-her-beloved…
Smiling-to-herself, she locked herself-up, in her room’s bathroom…
<>
The next morning, the rest of the Wilsons found that Jane had hung-herself in the bathroom – with her right-hand, in-death-clinch… to her beloved’s dance-trophy… that he had lovingly presented her, the night before…
-O-
2 days later, the mourning mother found couple-of hand-written letters in her-desk drawer – one the ‘departed’ wrote for her parents… and other for her brother…
… both the ‘suicide-notes,’ were WRITTEN ON THE-DATE – ON THE DAY, she went shopping for the dress, for her school-dance.