Allsorts, Page 2
Robert Bennett
raise hopes, and occasionally to secure a date. Rocko watches the show and shakes his head, smiling. ‘I was like that once.’ He sighs wistfully.
It is 7.30am on a Monday and already multiple coffees, bagels, focaccia, sandwiches and pastries are being sort after in large quantities. ‘Does anybody have breakfast at home anymore?’ wonders Maria. Sweat starts to bead on Rocko’s brow as he pumps out ‘the best coffee in town’, but his constant smile gives nothing away. Maria quietly gauges customer satisfaction levels as she wonders why one of her girls is late.
At around 8am, the schools of smaller fish at the counter part as Rhonda, the large aggressive office manager from across the road, makes her first entrance of the day. A swish of her mighty behind scatters chairs and tables in her wake. Rocko is already making the large cappuccino with a dash of hazelnut that Rhonda favours. Meanwhile, she assesses the variety of sweet and savoury goodies on display. She takes her time. Eventually, a sickly smile, studded with large white teeth surrounded by blood red lipstick, indicates that she has made her selections. Some of her staff arrive and briefly gather around like remora to see what she has chosen. Then, with another swish of her tail, Rhonda is gone.
A tram rumbles by, massive, almost majestic; a bit like a humpback whale. This is a welcome distraction for Franco who slips smoothly out the side door. He swiftly crosses the road and enters a lobby. The lift hauls Franco up to level six where Rhonda has her office. Franco glides past the receptionist with a dazzling grin and knocks.
‘Come.’
Rhonda’s coal black eyes gleam hungrily as Franco closes the door behind him. She pushes the debris of her morning repast away. The coffee cup is empty but her thirst is not yet slaked.
‘Well, well you’re early today Franco. You really must want the development’s height to be lowered or at least stepped back, so it doesn’t cut out the sunlight on your precious cafe?’
‘Surely, I’ve already done enough to increase our chances, Rhonda dearest?’
‘Oh darling, you’ve done well. You know you have. But this girl needs some loving. She needs it right now.’
Franco manages a weak smile as he undresses slowly, teasingly. Like a professional. That’s how Rhonda likes it. The whites of her eyes begin to show. The great jaws open and close with anticipation; the gills tremble. She rises and begins to circle her prey. Unfortunately for Rhonda, Franco is not the clownfish he seems to be. He is not her prey. He is a barracuda; a predator every bit as ruthless as Rhonda herself.
Naked now, Franco casually drapes himself on the sofa. Rhonda rapidly sheds her clothes and surges towards her target. She is functioning purely on lust and instinct. Franco braces. He is ready. By the time she reaches the sofa Rhonda has lost all control. Franco goes to work. Blissfully she surrenders. Her fingers trace the outlines of his six-pack and she soon sinks into a sublime, sensual whirlpool of emotions. There are no inhibitions in this place.
‘This is for the family,’ Franco tells himself; ‘This is for the family,’ several times.
He can see that Rhonda is fairly leaping out of the water now. She certainly likes these little meetings or conferences or whatever the hell she tells her receptionist. What she wouldn’t like is that deep in one of the pockets of Franco’s discarded trousers is a miniature recorder. It is an expensive and highly efficient device; the very latest technology. All of their ‘meetings’ have been recorded. Everything has been backed up on a usb stick that is kept in Rocko’s safety deposit box at the bank. Nothing has been left to chance.
Rhonda is already in the net and she doesn’t even know it. The proposed hotel development will have all of the restrictions the family require. Rhonda will recommend them all and, she will have no choice. Then council will give its approval.
Franco’s ancestors were mighty fishermen; weatherwise, cagey and strong willed. When he was growing up, Franco’s grandfather and Rocko taught him everything about fishing. He also inherited all of his forebears’ cunning and willpower. Franco knows how to play and land a big fish. Rhonda will be kept on the hook until the building work is complete. Afterwards, she will be freed, but she will have to make do with coffee without the extras.
The Computer Glitch
Roger’s home computer opened with its usual noisy fanfare. It was a note of optimism that matched his mood. Outside, the day was cold, wet and windy, but Roger was fired up. He had spent nearly a week designing a cover for the new magazine. Now, he was going to complete the job. As the computer went through its warm - up routine, Roger took a slightly crumpled sheet of paper from his desk drawer. On it was a sketch plan. He was certain the concept would be a winner.
Jittery and impatient at the best of times, Roger was inclined to get ahead of himself. He was impatient to produce the perfect result. A result that would be admired. He was aware that haste usually led to frustration. That was his way. He couldn’t help it. He also lacked many technical skills. But that was just a student’s lot; until the learning was complete. Besides, nothing worked out perfectly first time. He knew that from bitter experience. In any case, Roger had to make a real mental effort to put on the brakes. He had to stay cool or risk failure. So he took a deep breath, sat up straight and stretched. Then he repeated the exercise before turning his attention to the keyboard.
Open new document, select dimensions, hit the create button. ‘All done, no worries’, thought Roger. Thirty seconds gone and counting.
‘We have liftoff,’ he announced to himself. Then he giggled. He could see it all clearly in his mind’s eye. The new magazine would be heavy on satire and humour. It would be clever. Its main objective would be to poke fun at pseudo-science and all the other crazy stuff that so many people still believed in. Stuff like flying saucers, ghosts, the Loch Ness Monster and other such nonsense. Roger had done his research and identified a likely niche in the seemingly overcrowded magazine market. There would be few competitors.
He looked around and noted that his surroundings could rightly be called cramped and chaotic. It was a rather pokey room dominated by a neglected and ancient desk. The chair Roger sat on had a wickerwork seat with a hole in it. The walls were wallpapered and festooned with event posters, timetables and post-it notes. Later his biographer could truly write that the great magazine entrepreneur’s empire had sprung from humble origins. Roger snapped out of his daydreaming. It was another of his bad habits.
Roger had decided that each cover would feature a single attention-grabbing image. He already had ideas for the covers of the first six issues. But the first one had to be a beauty. It also had to complement the magazine’s content; content that included articles on spiritualism, ghosts, goblins, hauntings and other paranormal phenomena. Yesterday afternoon, he had been trawling through the Internet when he came across several images of what purported to be, real ghosts. He had been especially attracted to a photograph of ‘The Brown Lady’, a spectre that was said to haunt Raynham Hall in Norfolk, England. The photograph showed a full-bodied apparition descending a magnificent staircase inside the stately old house. Roger had copied the photograph to his desktop.
Now with the new document file opened, Roger began to draw a content box. Then he selected the photograph and dropped it into the box. A moment later he had adjusted the picture so that it filled the box proportionately. It looked great. The resolution was perfect. ‘If this is a fake, it’s a bloody good one,’ thought Roger. Next, Roger selected a font and created the magazine masthead. When this was in place the cover looked almost complete. Roger was delighted. He wanted to finish soon so he could email the final masterpiece to some of his friends for comment. But Roger paused. He would have a large coffee to fuel himself up for the last lap; so to speak. ‘Easy does it mate’, he counselled himself.
Roger stood and wandered down the hallway of the terrace house he shared with three other students. Today, it was a gloomy passageway. He looked out the side window. The rain was still bucketing down and showing no signs of letting up. Soon, Roger was
rummaging in a cupboard, looking for an unchipped mug. ‘Mission bloody impossible.’ When the kettle boiled, he made a strong, flat white. He was aware that his coffee preference seemed a bit of a contradiction in terms, but he had long ceased caring what anybody else thought. One teaspoon of raw sugar later he was in caffeine heaven. He dropped the spoon in the sink and headed back to ‘project central’.
Roger sat gazing at the screen for some minutes; savouring his coffee. He was feeling pretty pleased with himself. ‘Now for the content details, issue number and price’, he told himself. First he drew another text box. Then, he selected a font and commenced to type. ‘Looking good!’ Lastly, Roger chose the completed text box and moved it into position. He smiled, but the rain rattled his study window and the air in the room went colder. Much colder. Roger shivered and pulled on a fleecy vest. It made no difference. It was really cold now.
He turned back to the screen and gaped. ‘Where’s the frigging text gone?’ he shrieked. Angrily he chose the select tool and clicked on the spot where the textbox had been. It was still there, but all the type had vanished. Roger took another slurp of coffee and began to retype the content details. Soon everything
It is 7.30am on a Monday and already multiple coffees, bagels, focaccia, sandwiches and pastries are being sort after in large quantities. ‘Does anybody have breakfast at home anymore?’ wonders Maria. Sweat starts to bead on Rocko’s brow as he pumps out ‘the best coffee in town’, but his constant smile gives nothing away. Maria quietly gauges customer satisfaction levels as she wonders why one of her girls is late.
At around 8am, the schools of smaller fish at the counter part as Rhonda, the large aggressive office manager from across the road, makes her first entrance of the day. A swish of her mighty behind scatters chairs and tables in her wake. Rocko is already making the large cappuccino with a dash of hazelnut that Rhonda favours. Meanwhile, she assesses the variety of sweet and savoury goodies on display. She takes her time. Eventually, a sickly smile, studded with large white teeth surrounded by blood red lipstick, indicates that she has made her selections. Some of her staff arrive and briefly gather around like remora to see what she has chosen. Then, with another swish of her tail, Rhonda is gone.
A tram rumbles by, massive, almost majestic; a bit like a humpback whale. This is a welcome distraction for Franco who slips smoothly out the side door. He swiftly crosses the road and enters a lobby. The lift hauls Franco up to level six where Rhonda has her office. Franco glides past the receptionist with a dazzling grin and knocks.
‘Come.’
Rhonda’s coal black eyes gleam hungrily as Franco closes the door behind him. She pushes the debris of her morning repast away. The coffee cup is empty but her thirst is not yet slaked.
‘Well, well you’re early today Franco. You really must want the development’s height to be lowered or at least stepped back, so it doesn’t cut out the sunlight on your precious cafe?’
‘Surely, I’ve already done enough to increase our chances, Rhonda dearest?’
‘Oh darling, you’ve done well. You know you have. But this girl needs some loving. She needs it right now.’
Franco manages a weak smile as he undresses slowly, teasingly. Like a professional. That’s how Rhonda likes it. The whites of her eyes begin to show. The great jaws open and close with anticipation; the gills tremble. She rises and begins to circle her prey. Unfortunately for Rhonda, Franco is not the clownfish he seems to be. He is not her prey. He is a barracuda; a predator every bit as ruthless as Rhonda herself.
Naked now, Franco casually drapes himself on the sofa. Rhonda rapidly sheds her clothes and surges towards her target. She is functioning purely on lust and instinct. Franco braces. He is ready. By the time she reaches the sofa Rhonda has lost all control. Franco goes to work. Blissfully she surrenders. Her fingers trace the outlines of his six-pack and she soon sinks into a sublime, sensual whirlpool of emotions. There are no inhibitions in this place.
‘This is for the family,’ Franco tells himself; ‘This is for the family,’ several times.
He can see that Rhonda is fairly leaping out of the water now. She certainly likes these little meetings or conferences or whatever the hell she tells her receptionist. What she wouldn’t like is that deep in one of the pockets of Franco’s discarded trousers is a miniature recorder. It is an expensive and highly efficient device; the very latest technology. All of their ‘meetings’ have been recorded. Everything has been backed up on a usb stick that is kept in Rocko’s safety deposit box at the bank. Nothing has been left to chance.
Rhonda is already in the net and she doesn’t even know it. The proposed hotel development will have all of the restrictions the family require. Rhonda will recommend them all and, she will have no choice. Then council will give its approval.
Franco’s ancestors were mighty fishermen; weatherwise, cagey and strong willed. When he was growing up, Franco’s grandfather and Rocko taught him everything about fishing. He also inherited all of his forebears’ cunning and willpower. Franco knows how to play and land a big fish. Rhonda will be kept on the hook until the building work is complete. Afterwards, she will be freed, but she will have to make do with coffee without the extras.
The Computer Glitch
Roger’s home computer opened with its usual noisy fanfare. It was a note of optimism that matched his mood. Outside, the day was cold, wet and windy, but Roger was fired up. He had spent nearly a week designing a cover for the new magazine. Now, he was going to complete the job. As the computer went through its warm - up routine, Roger took a slightly crumpled sheet of paper from his desk drawer. On it was a sketch plan. He was certain the concept would be a winner.
Jittery and impatient at the best of times, Roger was inclined to get ahead of himself. He was impatient to produce the perfect result. A result that would be admired. He was aware that haste usually led to frustration. That was his way. He couldn’t help it. He also lacked many technical skills. But that was just a student’s lot; until the learning was complete. Besides, nothing worked out perfectly first time. He knew that from bitter experience. In any case, Roger had to make a real mental effort to put on the brakes. He had to stay cool or risk failure. So he took a deep breath, sat up straight and stretched. Then he repeated the exercise before turning his attention to the keyboard.
Open new document, select dimensions, hit the create button. ‘All done, no worries’, thought Roger. Thirty seconds gone and counting.
‘We have liftoff,’ he announced to himself. Then he giggled. He could see it all clearly in his mind’s eye. The new magazine would be heavy on satire and humour. It would be clever. Its main objective would be to poke fun at pseudo-science and all the other crazy stuff that so many people still believed in. Stuff like flying saucers, ghosts, the Loch Ness Monster and other such nonsense. Roger had done his research and identified a likely niche in the seemingly overcrowded magazine market. There would be few competitors.
He looked around and noted that his surroundings could rightly be called cramped and chaotic. It was a rather pokey room dominated by a neglected and ancient desk. The chair Roger sat on had a wickerwork seat with a hole in it. The walls were wallpapered and festooned with event posters, timetables and post-it notes. Later his biographer could truly write that the great magazine entrepreneur’s empire had sprung from humble origins. Roger snapped out of his daydreaming. It was another of his bad habits.
Roger had decided that each cover would feature a single attention-grabbing image. He already had ideas for the covers of the first six issues. But the first one had to be a beauty. It also had to complement the magazine’s content; content that included articles on spiritualism, ghosts, goblins, hauntings and other paranormal phenomena. Yesterday afternoon, he had been trawling through the Internet when he came across several images of what purported to be, real ghosts. He had been especially attracted to a photograph of ‘The Brown Lady’, a spectre that was said to haunt Raynham Hall in Norfolk, England. The photograph showed a full-bodied apparition descending a magnificent staircase inside the stately old house. Roger had copied the photograph to his desktop.
Now with the new document file opened, Roger began to draw a content box. Then he selected the photograph and dropped it into the box. A moment later he had adjusted the picture so that it filled the box proportionately. It looked great. The resolution was perfect. ‘If this is a fake, it’s a bloody good one,’ thought Roger. Next, Roger selected a font and created the magazine masthead. When this was in place the cover looked almost complete. Roger was delighted. He wanted to finish soon so he could email the final masterpiece to some of his friends for comment. But Roger paused. He would have a large coffee to fuel himself up for the last lap; so to speak. ‘Easy does it mate’, he counselled himself.
Roger stood and wandered down the hallway of the terrace house he shared with three other students. Today, it was a gloomy passageway. He looked out the side window. The rain was still bucketing down and showing no signs of letting up. Soon, Roger was
rummaging in a cupboard, looking for an unchipped mug. ‘Mission bloody impossible.’ When the kettle boiled, he made a strong, flat white. He was aware that his coffee preference seemed a bit of a contradiction in terms, but he had long ceased caring what anybody else thought. One teaspoon of raw sugar later he was in caffeine heaven. He dropped the spoon in the sink and headed back to ‘project central’.
Roger sat gazing at the screen for some minutes; savouring his coffee. He was feeling pretty pleased with himself. ‘Now for the content details, issue number and price’, he told himself. First he drew another text box. Then, he selected a font and commenced to type. ‘Looking good!’ Lastly, Roger chose the completed text box and moved it into position. He smiled, but the rain rattled his study window and the air in the room went colder. Much colder. Roger shivered and pulled on a fleecy vest. It made no difference. It was really cold now.
He turned back to the screen and gaped. ‘Where’s the frigging text gone?’ he shrieked. Angrily he chose the select tool and clicked on the spot where the textbox had been. It was still there, but all the type had vanished. Roger took another slurp of coffee and began to retype the content details. Soon everything
