The exercise:
Write a little something to do with: the agent.
Winter cover crops have been seeded, most of the leaves in the yard have been raked, and there's even a reasonable amount of firewood in our backyard box. It's been a good day.
Mine:
The text had arrived on my phone while I was still cooking breakfast, just a few minutes before noon. I'd tried sleeping through my hangover but that hadn't worked out particularly well, so I was preparing to kill it with greasy goodness. The message had eliminated that option with impressive efficiency.
Audition booked @ Timmon's Theater 1pm
I was out the door so fast I spent the majority of the fifty minute trip to the theater wondering if I'd remembered to turn off the stove. The rest of the time I speculated about the role, the movie, the leading lady who would be working opposite me.
My big break. This had to be it. I had done the training, the legwork, sucked up to the right people, shook the right hands. Hollywood was a game and I was playing by the rules. Success had to follow, that was all there was to it.
So when I stepped out of the taxi and saw the schmucks huddled outside the theater I only grew more confident. This was my competition? Please. I could sleepwalk through this audition and still blow them all out of the water.
I strode inside, not bothering to hide my smile.
Which just meant it died a very obvious death when I realized that the auditions were for the newest commercial commissioned by ex-lax.
3 comments:
Wow, you have been industrious! At this rate you'll be sat in front of your fire with your feet up with nothing to do! Try not to rub it in too much....
Heh, I'd probably fire the agent on the spot too, if that were me. That's a decent fried breakfast gone to waste!
I really like the narrator's voice in this piece, his attitude comes through well, and the discovery that the job is a commercial for Ex-lax is a lovely pin to pop his bubble.
The agent
"...and while the Green Lightbulb recovers in hospital, we have a new recruit joining us, who I hope will last a little longer than some other hopefuls." Dr Septopus glared at Sylvestra at he finished his introduction. He was almost certain that she'd either killed or scared off at least five other potential members of the Council of Nastiness, and the only reason he was giving this another go was Green's malnutrition and possible anorexia.
"Who are you then?" said Sylvestra, staring at the newcomer. He was sat directly opposite her, looking mostly non-descript apart from a fluorescent orange cycling jacket.
"Agent Orange," he said, his voice rich, deep and chocolatey. He stretched a hand out across the table, and Sylvestra ignored it.
"What kind of agent?"
"Oh no no no!" Agent Orange laughed, a deep, bass rumble that went on for too long. "Agent isn't a title or a designation, it's part of my name. I... defoliate things."
"Trees? Plants? Green things?" Sylvestra's eyes lit up suddenly and Dr. Septopus suppressed a shudder.
"Anything I feel like, really," said Agent Orange. "Leaf can be a very versatile word if you use it properly."
"Let me buy you a drink," purred Sylvestra standing up. "I can see we have much to talk about."
They walked out of the council chamber together, Sylvestra slipping an arm through Agent Orange's, and Dr. Septopus gloomily phoned the hospital to ask for a guard on Green's room.
The Agent
It was orange.
It stripped everything, took everything, wiped everything in its path.
Trees were stripped bare, to say nothing of skin. That was its job.
Later, much later on, its effects continued, although denied.
Pain, a rash, maybe even madness... these were the products of the agent; this agent.
Greg - I'm still a ways off from that sort of relaxation, but I'll certainly enjoy it if I get there :P
I quite like your Agent. He seems nice :)
Writebite - well, I don't like that side of the Agent.
Well conveyed though, I can feel the emotion simmering underneath the words.
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