Night Shift
If you got a job working the night shift, 11-7, what would you do during the day?
4/25/05
Nigel pulled his cap from his sweaty head and turned off his flashlight. 6:57 a.m. Three more cold, wet, dark minutes to go. Tick, tick went the clock. Nigel wiped his nose with a handkerchief and pulled off his thick gloves. A glance at the clock: 6:59. He cleaned up quickly and pulled on his wool jacket, pushed open the small gate, careful to lock it behind him. He pulled a ring of keys from his jacket pocket and inserted one into the ignition of his vehicle of choice: a second-hand red motorcycle. Vroom, vroom, puttputtputt went the engine, before Nigel rode off into the rising sun.
When he got home, the first birds were chirping and a few of the nieghbours' curtains were being opened. Nigel parked his bike and went into his house.
Nigel lived alone, in a two-storey house with a pool in the back yard. Guarding bridges doesn't make much money, but raising crocodiles in your pool and selling their skin on the black market sure does! Not that Nigel would do that. That's just gross. He's actually -- well, I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. But he does own a gun. A few guns. Including a tranquilizer. And some grenades. And infrared goggles and a wetsuit and a tuxedo. And twine. And he makes quite a good deal of money on his day job. Enough so that he doesn't need a job on the night shift as a bridge keeper. I wonder what on Earth he might be up to? Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say.
He also has several fake passports and can speak English, French, German, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Danish.
Right now though, Nigel shut the door quietly behind him and hung his jacket on a hook. He pushed off his sturdy boots and padded to his kitchen for a glass of orange juice. Pull out the jug of orange juice from the fridge, close the fridge, put the jug on the spotted green counter, get a glass out from a cupboard, pour orange juice into the glass, put the jug back into the fridge. Nigel grasped the glass in his left hand, and raised it to his lips.
Suddenly, his hand started shaking.
Nigel was very surprised. Why would he be shaking? A closer inspection revealed that not only was his hand shaking, but so was the glass in his hand and the orange juice in the glass. But of course the glass would be shaking. It was connected to his hand, which was definitely shaking. Quite a bit.
Nigel blinking. Ah, he wasn't just going dumb or something horrible where all your mind decides to shut off on you. The whole house was shaking.
He blinked again. But that's a bad thing! his brain slowly realized. One more blink and Nigel leapt into action. He yanked a small revolver from his belt, and crouched low to minimize the amount of target he presented. He quickly scanned the room for an intruder or alien object. He sniffed, scrunching up his nose like a rabbit. He took a deep breath of air through his mouth and held it. Absolute silence. Nothing.
Keeing as low and as quiet as possible, holding his gun ahead of him, Nigel crept to first his dining room and then his living room. No one anywhere.
Nigel quickly inspected the rest of his house and still discovered nothing. But there was an itch in his skin, he could tell there was something wrong. Something there. But what? And where?
As soon as Nigel returned to the kitchen from his circuit around the house, he immediately relaxed and went back to his orange juice. He put the gun on the counter, still in his reach, and chugged down the juice, laid-back and confident that his house was secure. Or at least he looked that way.
While guzzling his juice, out of the corner of his eye, Nigel saw a shadow. Just as he had thought he would. 4/27/05 He kept his posture for just a moment more, brain already racing. When the intruder moved next, Nigel was ready.
The man was dressed in dark clothing, face half-covered by a piece of cloth. He had cloths over his boots to muffle the sound, and a long, pointy knife in his right hand. His left hand was clutched around some small object, foreign to Nigel. Nigel slid his hand around the gun, gripped it, and flug it around to face the intruder. All in the space of a few milliseconds.
4/25/05
Nigel pulled his cap from his sweaty head and turned off his flashlight. 6:57 a.m. Three more cold, wet, dark minutes to go. Tick, tick went the clock. Nigel wiped his nose with a handkerchief and pulled off his thick gloves. A glance at the clock: 6:59. He cleaned up quickly and pulled on his wool jacket, pushed open the small gate, careful to lock it behind him. He pulled a ring of keys from his jacket pocket and inserted one into the ignition of his vehicle of choice: a second-hand red motorcycle. Vroom, vroom, puttputtputt went the engine, before Nigel rode off into the rising sun.
When he got home, the first birds were chirping and a few of the nieghbours' curtains were being opened. Nigel parked his bike and went into his house.
Nigel lived alone, in a two-storey house with a pool in the back yard. Guarding bridges doesn't make much money, but raising crocodiles in your pool and selling their skin on the black market sure does! Not that Nigel would do that. That's just gross. He's actually -- well, I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. But he does own a gun. A few guns. Including a tranquilizer. And some grenades. And infrared goggles and a wetsuit and a tuxedo. And twine. And he makes quite a good deal of money on his day job. Enough so that he doesn't need a job on the night shift as a bridge keeper. I wonder what on Earth he might be up to? Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say.
He also has several fake passports and can speak English, French, German, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Danish.
Right now though, Nigel shut the door quietly behind him and hung his jacket on a hook. He pushed off his sturdy boots and padded to his kitchen for a glass of orange juice. Pull out the jug of orange juice from the fridge, close the fridge, put the jug on the spotted green counter, get a glass out from a cupboard, pour orange juice into the glass, put the jug back into the fridge. Nigel grasped the glass in his left hand, and raised it to his lips.
Suddenly, his hand started shaking.
Nigel was very surprised. Why would he be shaking? A closer inspection revealed that not only was his hand shaking, but so was the glass in his hand and the orange juice in the glass. But of course the glass would be shaking. It was connected to his hand, which was definitely shaking. Quite a bit.
Nigel blinking. Ah, he wasn't just going dumb or something horrible where all your mind decides to shut off on you. The whole house was shaking.
He blinked again. But that's a bad thing! his brain slowly realized. One more blink and Nigel leapt into action. He yanked a small revolver from his belt, and crouched low to minimize the amount of target he presented. He quickly scanned the room for an intruder or alien object. He sniffed, scrunching up his nose like a rabbit. He took a deep breath of air through his mouth and held it. Absolute silence. Nothing.
Keeing as low and as quiet as possible, holding his gun ahead of him, Nigel crept to first his dining room and then his living room. No one anywhere.
Nigel quickly inspected the rest of his house and still discovered nothing. But there was an itch in his skin, he could tell there was something wrong. Something there. But what? And where?
As soon as Nigel returned to the kitchen from his circuit around the house, he immediately relaxed and went back to his orange juice. He put the gun on the counter, still in his reach, and chugged down the juice, laid-back and confident that his house was secure. Or at least he looked that way.
While guzzling his juice, out of the corner of his eye, Nigel saw a shadow. Just as he had thought he would. 4/27/05 He kept his posture for just a moment more, brain already racing. When the intruder moved next, Nigel was ready.
The man was dressed in dark clothing, face half-covered by a piece of cloth. He had cloths over his boots to muffle the sound, and a long, pointy knife in his right hand. His left hand was clutched around some small object, foreign to Nigel. Nigel slid his hand around the gun, gripped it, and flug it around to face the intruder. All in the space of a few milliseconds.
posted by Rosie Cotton | 10:29 AM
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