Off the cuff

'There should be an explosion just about, now!'

A head, covered by two gloved hands, goggles and a balaclava heads towards the floor at just below breakneck speed. But the big bang never comes.

'Damn it!' says our benighted man, once he's realised that once again, nothing, exactly nothing has happened. Again.

'What's gone wrong this time?' he mutters, his irritation adding to the muffling effects of his headgear to produce an undertone of a growl that makes him seem menacing. For a second. Almost. Somehow he just doesn't carry it off, despite his regulation evil black clothing and the fact that he's plainly up to no good.

Now he'll think about what he did and go and check his explosives. Right? Nope. Not even close. Nothing to do with safety protocols or sense. He takes off his mask and walks over to the wall. The wall that is one huge, sparkling, bird-shit, dirt and smudge-free window. The wall that looks onto the street below where a brown pigeon is lying on the pavement, a brown paper package tied around its neck with brown string, struggling to get to its claws.

'It's Tuesday,' he shrugs, and turns away.

'I'll do it one day, and that's a promise!' he says.

A head raises an inch and then falls. That's more than enough attention.

The two women in the office next door, through the glass wall seem a little unsettled. The board meeting in the office to his left is in full swing and it seems nothing will break the myopic stares of its interested participants. The cleaner has seen it all before and has a job to do. He gets paid by results, and so far his have been sufficient for him to continue to afford to try to shorten his life in every way possible.

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'I want to steal something,'

'Hmmm?' Two can play that game; the head raise shows signs of being well-practised.

'Yes! What shall it be?' comes the persistent voice.

'Money, Jewellery, Fish, Sunshine, a pair of cufflinks,'

'Hmmph!' comes the inevitable retort; there's a conversation here. 'Passe!' Pause. 'I want something new, something exciting!' and the voice begins to match the idea of excitement, letting it filter into the room and take a stealthy hold.

Pinkerton likes stealing. James never got that. So he asks 'Why...?'

'It's in the name, darrrrrrrrling,' she purrs and looks at her finely-sharpened claws, freshly cleaned and nibbled to perfection.

Such an explanation! Why bother?!

'Come on, Pinky!' wheedles a truculent James, looking to not let matters lie knowing a rebuff when he hears one: would a cat be taciturn otherwise? But best to play it safe. Slow and safe; hard and fast excites cats and who would want that at this moment?

Alas for guile and the battle of wits that is not shared, just concurrent.Pinkerton knew this all too well: without a bird or mouse or ... whatever, there was always James . James and, ...well, just James, really. But that's all that was needed; nothing too taxing and something just to get an edge into proceedings.

When a cat plays with its catch, it's not all-action, you know. There are the moments when it will just perch there on its backside and look down at the unmoving rag-tag remains of a little life that was, or even look away, completely uninterested.

Never trust a cat.

Another 'hmmph', but this from James. Versed in game theory, you wonder why such people would play, wouldn't you? But we are all flesh and blood....

Pinkerton stretches. A slow, taut, mean stretch, all claws and lithe musculature that carries a strength belied by a size that carries no threat. A stretch to break a moment, to prolong a moment, and to get that damned tiredness out of one's limbs in preparation for the next rest. Or diversion, if something better comes along.

'Fine! I don't care!' hisses James and snatching a propitiously-discarded jacket from the floor he strides towards the glass door and out into the lobby.

And so the first act ends with inevitability in place.