The Conversation

Stickler reached out at found the trap door that led to Tweed’s office. He didn’t know if Tweed had any idea as to where the trapdoor was as Stickler only arrived in his office when he wasn’t there. However, he was certain that if Tweed did know about it, he wasn’t going to give it up by having it removed. Even though the two men were at odds with each other, both fighting for something that was completely opposite to each of their causes, the fact still remained that they had an undeniable and unbreakable connection. Moreover, Tweed was a lifeline between the government and Stickler. The government could keep tabs on Stickler and the Hell Demons, and Stickler used Tweed as a means to be aware of any sudden changes to policy that the government might inflict on the camp. So in the end, Stickler had a reason, and a good one, to keep Tweed around. It also helped that Tweed seemed, for the most part, completely oblivious to how and why both parties used him. He was so tangled up on how to keep himself alive that he rarely saw the events that unfolded right in front of his eyes. As long as Tweed himself was safe from harm, he did not care one bit.
Stickler entered the office from the side. It was dark, no lights were on, and for a second Stickler pondered whether or not he should be tempted to sit in Tweed’s ratty old leather chair. However, he thought against it as he didn’t come to lure Tweed into a fight, who certainly would find it offensive for Stickler to do such a thing. He wanted no part of Stickler for fear of his status with the government disappearing. In fact, Tweed hated the various times that Stickler came to visit him in his office, often times he mumbled and stuttered as if he expected the government to rush in at that exact moment and arrest him for conspiring with the enemy. He came on official business, and for the first time in awhile, he needed cooperation from Tweed, and in order to get anything close to it, Stickler had to be considerate. Right next to him was Tweed’s desk. stood solemnly in the office as he waited for Tweed. The building that occupied Tweed’s office use to be a school, and it showed. Yet, Stickler suspected that Tweed’s own office was the former principal’s as it looked nothing like a classroom, and had to be the largest room in the whole building.
The room was decorated mildly with paintings, a bookshelf, and a large mahogany desk. All of it was of course second rate, or hand me downs from the upper class. Stickler knew for a fact that Tweed couldn’t afford the furniture to make his office nice looking, and as best as he tried to hide it, Tweed’s office was nothing short of a crowded motel room.
Suddenly the door opened and Stickler stood there taken aback by the suddenness of the action. Thomas Tweed had his head down as he entered the room and flicked the lights on. Yet, he must have noticed Stickler’s reflection or shadow in the corner of the room as he jumped back unexpectedly. The two, for a moment frozen in time, stared at each other emotionless as if it really did convey the idea of indifference between the both of them. Yet, Tweed broke the silence rather arrogantly—just as Stickler expected from him.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Lenard, how nice to see you again.” Tweed said as he turned his back to the leader of the resistance movement to close the door. Stickler cringed for the moment as he heard his real name—something that Tweed found out after he snooped long enough. Ever since he found out about it, Tweed used it as leverage over Stickler as if pushed hard enough; he would go to the government and turn him in. However, Stickler wasn’t completely worried about Tweed anymore, partially because he was too stupid to worry about in the first place, and he hadn’t gotten Stickler arrested up to the present time. Therefore, it was simply a guess that Tweed would never turn Stickler in, unless the situation became immensely dire for him.
“You sir are nothing but a weak individual. You are a degenerate who is only focused on two things—money and your own life.” Stickler said in a calm, easy voice. Yet, the passion in his voice, which was obvious, snarled around in his body, and Stickler knew it was only a matter of time before it got to the best of him.
“That is—“Tweed couldn’t even find the words to argue against what Stickler had said. His mouth opened again as if he was ready to say more, but it slowly closed. Stickler had him in a twist that even Tweed, who was so gloriously well known for being a desperate man in an argument, and who spewed everything he thought of in an attempt to even have his side of the argument sound coherent, couldn’t get out of himself. Surprised by it, Stickler only assumed that Tweed accepted the fact that he couldn’t even come close to having a heated argument with Stickler, and not even have a chance to mumble his way out of it either. In his own right, Stickler declared himself the winner, and even wasn’t even finished. He pressed on as he figured if he put a lot of pressure on Tweed, then he couldn’t disrupt the military operation he so ardently planned from the start.
“I have news for you Tweed, you’re life isn’t valued more than anyone else is in this camp.” Stickler said, his tone of voice rose right on the spot. “You may think that those across the fences, those individuals who live in their fancy houses with their servants and highly expensive cars—you may think that they care about you in some twisted way, that they actually have some faith in you, or find you to be in their league of righteous and important men—but you know what? They look at you the same way that they look at me, and everyone else in this fucking hell hole, they see you as the epitome, the focal point of everything they have tried to get rid for years. Do you see, Mr. Tweed? Do you see this?” Stickler asked as he expressed all of what he said with his hands as if he had suddenly become a beggar—desperate for Tweed to understand, or in the very least give some sort of indication that all of what Stickler said had been processed fully in his head of his.
Tweed however did not show any sort of emotion or any type of inclination that showed he acknowledged what Stickler had argued. Instead, he sat there in his leather chair with an expression on his face that made it seem that he was in complete boredom. It was to Stickler; as if he was asleep with his eyes open. Yet suddenly there was a flicker in his eyes, he blinked and stared, in Stickler’s opinion, deeply into his eyes. It was the first time that Stickler remembered having any kind of personal, intimate interaction with Tweed, which made Stickler incline to believe that maybe—just maybe—he had gotten his point across.
“Mr. Tweed,” said Stickler as he hoped to verbally poke Tweed out of his amnesiac state. “Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what you do, it doesn’t matter how much you pretend to agree with their policies, or how nicely you are to them. You will never—never—be one of them, and they will never consider you as such.”