Sunday, 12 August 2012


by Stormm

The brunette was busy, casually packing a suitcase in her Monaco suite.

Outside her window, right below lay the harbor,

a multitude of vessels occupy thick blankets of rich deep blue sea.

Some were merely docking,

but the majority are actively sailing out or about to set sail.

Scattered identical pieces of white dots sway,

bobbing toy ships fill bustling ports and seaways.

Hotels multiply along the edges of long,

winding mountain twists and curves.

Dutifully committed to the next assignment,

she was preparing to check out immediately.

The unassuming spy disguised as an airline hostess,

about to begin her final maiden voyage.

Here she stood, not quite but almost fully dressed in heels and skirt,

when there sounds an unexpected knock at the door.

Surprised, she momentarily freezes in place, quietly listening,

until sure there's no apparent danger outside.

Suddenly, a pregnant pause because then, rap rap rap.

This followed by an even longer period of silence,

until an eternal sixty seconds later, tap tap tap again.

Why was she growing so afraid to look?

There could be a simple explanation, yet every instinct urges her not to answer.

Tip toeing to the door's tiny peephole, growing nervously more alert,

as the knocking continues getting louder.

So why aren't there more noticeable signs of life in the hallway?

"Who is it?" she eventually sputteres.

"Room service," replies a bodiless entity.

"Go away, I'm not interested."

"Are you dressed?" inquires the raspy unknown voice."

"None of your business, go away.

"It's a welcome gift courtesy of the management."

"No thanks, wait, ah... just a minute."

She'd seen that freckled mulatto face before, but couldn't place where, why,

or should this knowledge be of immediate relevance?

Unless, oh no, dear god, of course.  But by now it would be much too late.

Her last thought was to return a similar response,

to the blinding flash of a serene smile.

A maid stands pulsing in the immaculate corridor,

like an enraptured angel of death.

By the second his slow motion falling white apron

impacts a white freshly carpeted hotel floor,

the first of several bombs grafted onto conditioned brain and wiry frame,

had already screamed detonate...

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