The Meeting

[Enkidu]

Achille stalked through the double doors with the comparative comfort of a Marxist/Leninist at a Patriot’s convention, and stared sullenly at the brie; settling himself (without invitation) into a seat of such a stale, squeaking black that a fetishist would have felt quite at home in such an environ. After all, there was something rapaciously wrong about being the guest of an employee – it ruined the dynamism of the relationship. Plus, the interior design of the ‘Axios’ bore a glaring, futuristic monochrome against which Achille’s conventionalised eyes protested.


“…Keep panic in its cage now; it’s his brother, not his Doberman.” His mind mollified, hands busying themselves with the buttering of a cracker, again, without invitation.

Ah, but the smile wouldn’t fail him. “…So, it appears we have outpaced him, eh?” Achille, true to form, grinned; carrying off a light, unhalting tone with the air of those truly practiced charmers that earn all of the sales commissions.



“…Perhaps you should, well, provide him with a proverbial poke, no, to hurry him along?”

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

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