What’s this guy’s story?
So this may be fun for some of you.
Last night, I was looking for a new sweater online, and this picture came up in the search results:
There is so much … wrongness … in this picture, I began to wonder: what’s they guy’s story?
Like, not the model who’s getting paid for the gig — good for him. I mean, the fictional guy who is wearing this … thing.
You get up to 150 words to tell his story, if you want to do that. Mine is on the other side of the thingy.
The trick was to make a statement without standing out. He needed to blend in, while occasionally drawing someone’s attention. He needed to be vaguely remembered, and that was all.
A new haircut, new shades, a sweet pair of pants that fit just right, carefully-chosen accessories … Blake was ready.
He walked onto the deck at the club, casually avoiding eye contact, purposely walking without purpose. A guy in popped collar Izod lifted his chin at Blake. The arms of a cable-knit sweater made a knot on his chest. The caps on his teeth were beautiful.
Blake returned the silent greeting, and continued past him, making his way to the bar, where the largest cluster of people stood, waiting.
He subvocalized to the advance team, “I am inside the human compound. They do not suspect me.”
The reply resonated in his aural implant: prepare for detonation.
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Only up to 150 words? I feel like mine will exceed that, so just roll that in your cigar and smoke it.It was the first time Jim left New Jersey. It was his first mission. Dammit, even though they haven't chosen me to training yet, I will make the cut and be the best damned agent they have ever seen, he said to himself.
Hoping that successfully pulling this mission off would help him stand out from other applicants to the prestigious FBI Academy, and that the FBI would overlook his past, which had him intermingling with some of the most notorious wise guys growing up on the wrong side of the tracks. It's not that he disliked the mob, in fact he counted many higher ups in the local Family as his personal friends and even extended family, he just knew that he would never have their life. He wasn't a blood relative, and while he was greatly liked, enough that he would occasionally get some honest work as a friend of The Family, he didn't have the experience to join their ranks. Maybe, just maybe if he were an FBI Agent, he could help get get rid of any competition to the Family, and upon retirement he could be up for Consigliere. Or at least have them in his debt, for a change.
Yes, Jim told himself, the key to it all was waiting in Miami. The target was a white collar criminal, money laundering, embezzlement, that sort of thing. Though it was also often whispered that the money being laundered was then sent to fund a terrorist cell in the Middle East. Should be easy enough for the FBI to capture him, though they had no solid evidence to arrest him on. Jim did. Through his Mafia contacts, Jim knew exactly how to implicate him. It was so easy! He knew that Jonathon, The Target, had a Tee Time with an intermediary that was completely off of the Government's watch list that afternoon. The Family had a vacation home in Miami, and were members of the same exclusive country club where The Target was playing.
He devised a plan a week earlier, and it up with one of his closer friends, the youngest son of the Don, that he wanted to have a bit of a change of scenery, and get out of Jersey for the winter. He wanted to head to Miami. He asked Tony if his family had any contacts that could land him a job, something like a golf caddy. He knew a lot about golf, had even been invited by Tony a few times to play at a local club. So it wouldn't be uncharacteristic to try and land himself a position as a caddy at the club where The Target was playing. And that's exactly what happened.
Jim had to buy some new clothes before he left, so he hopped on the internet and started looking for what he thought would be appropriate wear for Miami in the winter. Decked out in his aviator shades, and pastel clothes, Jim left the Miami airport with his hopes set high, his eye on the prize...
A week ago, Monday, after two years, Monica had left him. He had cried softly into his pillow. Now, his boyfriend, Barry, had become fed up, too, after three years and countless promises of change. Biff’s big, eager heart was bruised, and he was contemplating something rash.With the I.R.S., going on four years, he had honed his bullying and eavesdropping skills to a dark edge, had become so committed to his work that he had begun fondling women’s breasts, in the produce aisle, and smacking teenaged asses, then flashing his badge and his perfect, pouty smile. And, today, he had received his “Private Investigation, Gumshoe II Series” diploma and a rubber pistol.
This morning, his boss had rewarded diligence with an all-expenses-paid week in Vegas, Land of Righteous Silicone and Pimpery.
Sweet salvation was at hand, and long, sweaty nights of rolling senior citizens, in casino garages, his amnesia.
What story?? I'm just a guy who,not wisely, washed a blue sweater and it shrunk. When you look like me people just think it's a new trend.
He stepped in for his photo after Char finished hers. Engagement photos. Several together. Several separate. Making memories. This one memory. . .soon forgotten. Soon he'd drive back to Biloxi to the Honey Hole. Soon to Mimi, sweet Mimi. Simple Mimi. She'd like the new shades, the sweater. She’d fondle the bling, and mean it. Mims would mess up the blowout, but, who’d care. She had a way with fingers, a great way. Like the way she fingered the bands at his wrist, slow and tangled, twisted. That was Mimi. Twisted. Sweetly twisted.“Whatcha say, Char? Slouch? I don’t slouch, babes. I’m magic, babes. Best magic you ever had.”
Poof!
Trying to appear sober, Blaine took time to study those gathered at the bar. No, Jinx was not among them. Where was he? They should be meeting right now! He needed the fix! Dammit, Jinx knew not to make him wait. If he could just find a place to sit, without walking too far, no one would ever be the wiser. It was getting bad and he knew it, but wearing this blue helped appear not washed up. The shades would hide the hollows under his eyes. Back in the day, he had been so cool, but one too many good wins, and he had lost it all in the dark byways of heroine.
One day he would be back, but not today, today he needed to find Jinx and get a fix.
You found this look for sale? Nordstroms?
Ok I will tell you why my sweater is so small. I have a problem. I don't or perhaps can't, more likely just WONT listen to my wife when she repeatedly asks me not to throw clothes into the dryer without knowing their wash directions. Wool? Silk? It's wet the dryer is for drying right? I can not admit she could have been right though.
Hmm, do I hope I have enough cocaine and amyl nitrates in these pockets?
„What do you mean?“
„They’re not buying it.“
She checked her clipboard, insecurity creeping across her brow - treason from within. She had run the numbers. They all added up. Full, blonde hair, a strong jaw line. Due to resent research, „sunglasses“ were considered „ruggedly handsome“, pastell colours for tenderness, the gold necklace indicated wealth. That’s what they wanted!
„You know... we gave you this job, because you’re a...“
„Because I’m a what?“
Her head snapped back in disbelieve. Clipboard and pen like shield and sword.
„Well... “
„Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I know what _their_ females see in their males... .“
„That’s not what I meant.“
„ Then why bring it up?“
He frowned and looked at the picture of the male human in the light blue sweater again.
„I just don’t get them...“
he muttered.
„Who?“
„Any of them...“
„Me neither.“