I was reading an article about the bible the other day, and what I gathered to be the writer’s intent was that the end result was an accumulation of many times retold and translated stories.
It sort of relates to another story I read years ago and reenacted with a few friends to check its veracity. What happens is the first person is given the correct story, then having memorised it, relates it to the second and then so on along a chain of ten people.
The end story related by the tenth person, when compared to the original, had only parts of the original story and for some reason new elements that somehow were misinterpretations of original story elements.
This perhaps could be put down to the individual’s upbringing and background, which always gets used in the interpretation of what they are told. We all use different methods to remember things, and this will always impact how we interpret and relate information.
It’s also the same when three different eyewitnesses to an accident will rarely agree on the details. Certain elements will be the same, but others will not.
When families recall events involving all of them, each will remember seminal events differently, and usually, from their perspective, it will revolve around where they perceive they fit in the family hierarchy. A stronger brother or sister will always see it differently from a weaker one.
My childhood memories are basically different to my brothers, and I suspect those events that he fails to recall are deliberately cast away because either they didn’t affect him, or they were so horrible, that he deliberately cast them out.
We all tend to do that. Some memories he has of the so-called old days I have no recollection of.
Memories are a choice. We choose to remember the good ones and cast out the bad. Was that the case when it came to putting the biblical story down on paper (or stone as the case may be).
However we look at it, remember it, or relate it, the old days, the days of yesteryear, will always be different. For me, the 60’s and 70’s were horrible, for everyone else, well that’s another story.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Uncover Bern’s Hidden Gems: 5 Offbeat Attractions for the Curious Traveller
Bern, the charming capital of Switzerland, often finds itself overshadowed by its more famous counterparts in Zurich and Geneva. However, this picturesque city has plenty to offer for the discerning traveller willing to venture off the beaten path. In this post, we’ll explore five unique attractions in Bern that cater to those seeking a more immersive and authentic experience.
The Federations Garden (Bundesgarten)
Tucked away in the heart of the city, the Federations Garden is a serene oasis that few tourists know about. This beautifully landscaped park is home to over 100 flower beds, charming walking paths, and several monuments dedicated to Swiss history and politics. It’s the perfect spot to relax and enjoy the tranquillity amidst bustling Bern.
Einstein Museum
While Albert Einstein’s connection to Bern is well-documented, the dedicated museum to his life and work is often overlooked by visitors. The Einstein Museum offers an engaging and educational experience, featuring interactive exhibits, original documents, and even a reconstructed version of the patent office where Einstein worked. It’s an excellent choice for science enthusiasts and those fascinated by the life of the iconic physicist.
Gurten Hill (Gurten)
For a panoramic view of Bern and its surroundings, head to Gurten Hill, a popular local spot. This hill offers several hiking trails, a playground for kids, and a beer garden with delicious Swiss cuisine. On summer evenings, the Gurten Festival takes place, featuring live music performances and stunning sunsets over the city. Don’t miss the chance to capture breathtaking photos of Bern from this unique vantage point.
Bern Minster’s Roof Tour (Dachrundgang)
Most tourists content themselves with admiring Bern Minster’s Gothic facade from the ground. However, for a truly memorable experience, take the guided roof tour, which provides unparalleled views of the city and its surroundings. The tour leads you through the steeple’s narrow catwalks, giving you a thrilling sense of being on top of the world. Book your spot in advance, as the tour’s limited capacity ensures an exclusive experience.
Tanner Row (Tuchlauben)
Step back in time and wander along Tanner Row, a charming cobblestone street lined with half-timbered houses dating back to the 12th century. This picturesque alley, once an important textile industry hub, now hosts a variety of boutique shops, cozy cafes, and traditional Swiss restaurants. The lively atmosphere and historic charm make Tanner Row an ideal spot for a leisurely afternoon stroll or a romantic dinner date.
In conclusion, Bern offers a wealth of hidden attractions and experiences for those willing to explore beyond the city’s main tourist trails. From serene gardens to thrilling rooftop tours, and from historic streets to science museums, there’s something for every interest and curiosity in this enchanting Swiss city. So why not take the road less travelled and uncover Bern’s unique charm for yourself?
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
An outline of the premise of the story, in what I would call a pitch to an editor…
…
The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar
The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.
Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organisations.
And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.
The Irony Convention
In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.
The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”
The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimisation. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.
And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.
The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker
The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.
Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.
When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticising abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”
It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.
The Return of the Ghost
For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.
That ghost has just materialised.
Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.
Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.
The Collision Course
The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.
Think about the dynamics now at play:
Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organisations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquillity, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilising supporters in the streets.
This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.
If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:
Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimises the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.
The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.
What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.
…
The names and the places are fill-in’s but everything else is on the rollercoaster with no brakes!
Aside from the fact that it really means part of something else, we’ve got to remember that it is one of those ‘i before e except after c’ things.
I have a piece of the puzzle. Well, maybe not. You know what it’s like when you’re assembling a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle. Yes, you get to the end and one piece is missing.
You’re so angry you want to give someone a piece of your mind.
Just remember not to give too many people pieces or you will become mindless.
We might be listening to a musical piece, which can be a movement, I think, in a symphony
Or we might piece together the parts of a child’s toy, especially on that night before Christmas when everything can and will go wrong. I’ve been there and done that far too many times.
I’ve been known to move a chess piece incorrectly, no, come think of it, I’m always doing that
Some people call a gun a piece.
This is not to be confused with the word peace, which means something else, and hopefully, everyone will put away their pieces (guns) and declare peace.
And, every Sunday, at the church, there’s always an opportunity to say to the people around you ‘peace be with you’.
I wonder if that works very well if the person standing next to you is your enemy?
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
Of course, writing letters and making extravagant claims has to have some impact, and the way he worded it, it got the desired response.
Someone wanted to give it a go.
So, off to the powers that be, a longer talk and a look at some maps, then off to camp for some soldier training, and then back for some officer training, stuff to improve that he learned at Sandhurst, and at the end of it, a commission, and a mission.
At least he got to see the pyramids and stand under the sphinx.
He also tried to find Louise, tracing her movements from disembarkation in Alexandria to the camp and then, in the general spirit of missing her by a week, finds she has been sent to a casualty clearing centre, destination, not quite sure
His destination, somewhere on the western front in France.
So after that rather undramatic ‘off with the fairies’ moment, it’s time to come back to earth. Holiday or not, there’s always something that can go wrong.
Even when you’ve been told to take some vacation days and reluctantly stay home. The notion that vacation meant going away somewhere doesn’t enter Bill’s mind.
Perhaps he’s like a lot of workaholics, using their job as an excuse to forget about life outside work.
Maybe he was hoping something would go wrong. Maybe he had considered manufacturing a problem so that he would have to go back.
Maybe not, but that was the sort of employee he was, not one that could willingly take a day away, just in case.
Like now.
…
I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.
I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence. It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, so I let it ring out. As far as I could remember, it was only the third time it had rung since I’d moved in, four years ago.
Blissful silence. I looked at the bedside clock. 7 am. Who called anyone at that hour?
It rang again.
Ignore it, I thought. If it were anyone, it would be someone from the office. I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.
And even then, I’d have to think about it.
Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing, compelling me to answer. Almost reluctantl,y I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Bill?”
It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior, an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to. He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.
I slammed the receiver down in anger. It was a forlorn gesture. Seconds later, it rang again.
“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday. I’m off the roster. It can’t be that important. Call someone else.” I wasn’t going to allow him to speak. Not this morning. I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.
And hung up again.
Not that it would do any good. I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call. Then I realised it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realise just how incompetent he was.
At last, my holiday had some meaning and I smiled to myself. I’d make the bastard sweat.
He left it a few minutes before he rang again. And I let it ring out. I could see the expression on his face, one of bewilderment, slowly changing into a suffused anger. How dare I ignore him!
Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again. Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed. I counted the rings to ten, and then picked up the receiver.
“Bill? Don’t hang up.” Almost pleading.
“Why? You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”
“That was Friday. This is Monday. You’re needed. Richardson was found shot dead at his desk. All hell has broken loose!” Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix. His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.
Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job. I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself. So why did I think that? Benton had only said he was shot.
Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown. “It’s a circus down here. Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”
It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air. It gave me time to sift the facts. Jennifer, my sometime assistant, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than I, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape, was not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
…
At least the helicopter pilot hadn’t hit the fuel tanks or any of the control wires.
Because of the holes in the fuselage, we couldn’t fly any higher than between two and five thousand feet or go as fast as Davies would like, but the plane settled into a routine and got us where we wanted to go.
Just a few miles from the base, fuel almost exhausted, we got a fighter escort.
At first, I thought the base commander thought we were an unidentified flying object, mainly because something else had been hit, our communications. We couldn’t tell the base we were coming, and they only had the Colonel’s transmission of an approximate arrival time, much earlier than the actual time we were supposed to arrive.
On the ground, we were met with fire trucks, and a military escort, with weapons that could take out a mouse at one thousand yards. Just in case we were terrorists, I suppose.
We were parked in a bay away from the main terminal area and had to wait for a half-hour before we were met by Lallo. Monroe’s comment, that he was probably finishing his lunch which would be more important than meeting us, had kept us waiting.
The two abductees were the first to leave the aircraft, then Shurl’s body was removed after the doctor certified he was dead.
Then the rest of us were allowed to leave the aircraft. A bus was waiting, and everyone bar Monroe and I had boarded and been taken away. Under guard. Perhaps their service had not mitigated their prison sentences. I didn’t ask Lallo why; I’d probably not get the truth anyway.
“Good job,” he said, after watching the bus depart. “Pity, it wasn’t done right the first time.”
A compliment followed by disparagement.
“Next time you can do the job yourself,” Monroe said. “And until you’ve been in the field and actually got shot at, you’d do well to keep that trap of yours shut.”
“May I …”
“…remind me you’re my superior officer? No. I’m sure that status won’t last much longer. I’m applying for a transfer.”
He looked at me. “What about you?”
“Nothing to say, except I don’t blame her. Now, since all you’ve done is prove to me you’re an idiot, I’ll take my leave.”
In the distance I could see a large American car, the sort that proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s before petrol prices were a problem, cutting across the runway at speed. Was it the owner of the DC3 coming to see the damage?
No. When it got closer I could see Bamfield, cigar in mouth, beaming. I suppose no one felt they had the authority to tell him not to.
The car stopped behind Lallo’s jeep and Bamfield got out, then leaned against the driver’s side door and looked at us over the roof.
“James, Monroe. Still alive I see. Pity about the plane; I know the chap who owns it. He’s going to be pissed when he sees the cannon holes. What happened?”
“Bad guys,” Monroe said.
“Of course. Get in, I’ll give you a ride back to the terminal. We can talk on the way.”
Neither of us moved. If Monroe wasn’t going to suffer fools gladly, neither was I.
“Well…”
“I’d rather walk,” I said.
“We’d rather walk, sir.” With a heavy emphasis on the ‘sir’.
“Look, you did a great job, minimal losses, and we got two assets back. Everyone is happy. But, we have a small problem down in South America…”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 