chapter three

The streets of Pago Pago were not especially clean but then again neither was the sand. Thompsen walked the sandy streets and thought, well this is better than the glittering white sand of Perth, yeah, right. At least it is far more interesting. In a grimy sort of way, yes, but does off hand clutter make for more interest? The desk of a genius is a messy desk.
He fingered the cool blued steel of the Thompsen sub machine gun that was ill hidden under his bulky trench coat. He thought that the Thompsen was a euphemism... for what? He couldn’t resist carrying it, practical or not as he was named after it. His old man had seen action in the south pacific and from his stories single-handedly liberated some lonely south pacific island from the japs with his Thompsen. But that was years ago and he bore its name still- Thompsen Marcus Aurelius Smith. Oh well. It was an interesting name, but for the Smith part. His old man had been a fan of ancient Roman history too as he had had to explain to countless guests at cocktail parties. Guess that it was his old man's overreactionary attempt to hide the blandness of Smith. At least his dad was nicknamed Smitty, but he guessed that his old man hadn’t enjoyed its joie de vivre enough. Guessing... enough guessing. Where in the hell is that flower guy gone?