chapter one
Orville Newton Leone had been a spy for as long as he could remember. Far too many James Bond films when he was a boy sitting in front of the tv. Sean Connery, Roger Moore, they were the idols that he sought to emulate. They were the men that knew how to do everything and knew everything, he thought, absorbed while Bond dispatched yet another evil genius, their right hand men and henchmen all. He was told more than once that he was sitting too close to the tv and his eyes would be ruined. But Bond had persevered through far more than this and didn't wear glasses or even contacts.
Nowadays he wore glasses and whether it came from being hunched in front of the tv for far too many ABC Sunday Night Movies or not, he didn’t know, but then again, it didn’t matter. He was a spy. And he was hunting for a rose today. No, not the name of Rose nor Pete Rose, but the flower.
He wore a wide bottomed greyish, baggy coat that splayed open at the bottom concealing a great many pockets that concealed all manners of things, pruning shears, a magnifying glass and innumerable pens and pencils for Orville Newton Leone loved to collect pens and pencils. He had no. 2s, graphite pencils, old bics, both black and blue with their long cap stalk that was used to prop them upright in a shirt pocket bent outwards and partially chewed upon (Orville had a weakness...), thick ebony pencils with their dark grey covers and thick stub of a core, pentels and fountain pens (that he rarely used...). He had even a china marker poking out of a pocket.
He had a rose bulb concealed within the palm of his hand, tickling the flesh.
Had he indeed discovered a cure from the ages straight from the men of myth and maybe, just maybe this was a pathway to... immortality? Nah, couldn’t be. His eyebrows did that thing again that amused Orville so much he could scarecly deceive himself or the doctor that he wasn’t at all amused by it and consequently he didn’t. The doctor seemed to think so, but then again, the doctor was a faith healer from the wilds of Alabama.
The good ole doc drawled out the words... "This is it, Orville, ole boy. The faith and the cure all for the sin of man. The secret, bigger than that ole chalice that Arthur and his boys looked for. That cup weren't nothin' compared with the likes of this."
That was two days ago.
Orville Newton Leone didn’t like what was happening. At this very moment he was being chased through the night time noir streets of Vienna feeling very much like Orsen Welles in the Third Man. But unlike ole Orsen, Orville wasn’t a closet Nazi, but merely a spy who had a very rare rose bulb in his pocket. He had tried to protect the slightly moist and pungeantly fragranced bulb that smelled faintly of mold and decay like a baby cradled in a small brown paper sack when he lowered it carefull into the pocket of his oversized overcoat. The man from who the bulb originated gasped slightly and Orville watched him bite his lips with abandon when he dropped it into his pocket and now Orville knew just how far removed Fritz was from the world of men and maybe all horticulturists were... and now he felt like Orsen Welles, but the man pursuing him was no Joseph Cotten.
Nowadays he wore glasses and whether it came from being hunched in front of the tv for far too many ABC Sunday Night Movies or not, he didn’t know, but then again, it didn’t matter. He was a spy. And he was hunting for a rose today. No, not the name of Rose nor Pete Rose, but the flower.
He wore a wide bottomed greyish, baggy coat that splayed open at the bottom concealing a great many pockets that concealed all manners of things, pruning shears, a magnifying glass and innumerable pens and pencils for Orville Newton Leone loved to collect pens and pencils. He had no. 2s, graphite pencils, old bics, both black and blue with their long cap stalk that was used to prop them upright in a shirt pocket bent outwards and partially chewed upon (Orville had a weakness...), thick ebony pencils with their dark grey covers and thick stub of a core, pentels and fountain pens (that he rarely used...). He had even a china marker poking out of a pocket.
He had a rose bulb concealed within the palm of his hand, tickling the flesh.
Had he indeed discovered a cure from the ages straight from the men of myth and maybe, just maybe this was a pathway to... immortality? Nah, couldn’t be. His eyebrows did that thing again that amused Orville so much he could scarecly deceive himself or the doctor that he wasn’t at all amused by it and consequently he didn’t. The doctor seemed to think so, but then again, the doctor was a faith healer from the wilds of Alabama.
The good ole doc drawled out the words... "This is it, Orville, ole boy. The faith and the cure all for the sin of man. The secret, bigger than that ole chalice that Arthur and his boys looked for. That cup weren't nothin' compared with the likes of this."
That was two days ago.
Orville Newton Leone didn’t like what was happening. At this very moment he was being chased through the night time noir streets of Vienna feeling very much like Orsen Welles in the Third Man. But unlike ole Orsen, Orville wasn’t a closet Nazi, but merely a spy who had a very rare rose bulb in his pocket. He had tried to protect the slightly moist and pungeantly fragranced bulb that smelled faintly of mold and decay like a baby cradled in a small brown paper sack when he lowered it carefull into the pocket of his oversized overcoat. The man from who the bulb originated gasped slightly and Orville watched him bite his lips with abandon when he dropped it into his pocket and now Orville knew just how far removed Fritz was from the world of men and maybe all horticulturists were... and now he felt like Orsen Welles, but the man pursuing him was no Joseph Cotten.
posted by BrenGun at 10:24 AM
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