The Tenors: Day 1 [V.1.0]

Title: The Tenors

Status: Work in Progress

Furiously, the Gods waited for man to build a rocket and expand beyond that little zoo we called home. Earth was nothing but a kennel; trapping us like the benevolent bastard of an owner who wouldn't clean our droppings, never mind teaching us where the designated "poop zones" were. The Gods just watched over us like a couple of adrenaline pumped sports fanatics watching your typical full contact sport, crying in joy when we did something right and throwing empty beer cans at us when we did something wrong. Some will say "That's life" and "We've just got to live with it".

But Me...

I will say one thing to the Gods and that so called "life" we live...

"I BUILT A ROCKET, GODDAM YOU!!! A FREAKING MASSIVE ROCKET, CAPABLE OF WARP 10 IN LESS THAN A FATHOMABLE LIGHT YEAR!!! OH YEAH, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW, LIFE AND GODS?!?"

And I would naturally wait to see if any divine reply would becon my call; hopefully with a small glowing man once a hundred times his size, crawling to my knees and saying "Yup, you did a pretty good job, Chuck. One hell of a rocket, you got there". But time is money, and I had investors lining the Great Wall of China waiting to take a glimpse at the greatest method of transportation forged by the tiny hands of man: Alpha Shuttle Soverign...

...and yes, I am fully aware that spells A.S.S...

A fissure of burning crystal light sliced through the dense air as the hanger doors opened at the far end of the hanger that myself and A.S.S. were sitting in, awaiting the horde of press and interested parties that longed to catch a glimpse. After 18 months of rigerous testing and pressure examinations, I was hoping to host the magical unveiling and press event on board the shuttle. hundreds of miles above the Earth: the perfect place to look the Gods in their eyes and watch them kiss my A.S.S.

But a rapturous tragedy unfolded. That horde I had so madly imagined was just one, stumpy man, with his scruffy black hair waving in the cool vaccuum that the hanger door had created. Toby was his name. Sloby Toby was his designated name, and Toby Emmett was his birth name, but as a CEO to the world's greatest industry I had powers beyond any mortal, and changing names was just one of my skills. Another skill I had was reading a man's thoughts from the other end of a hanger by just watching the way he walks. Sloby Toby normally had good news, and paddled across the floor like a meerkat on hot asphalt. But today, he was walking like a wounded bear. If only I had my gun I would have put the poor fellow out of his misery...

...at least I should have, before his cyanide words infected my sore body...

"Bad news, Chuck" Toby said, with every bitter word bouncing off the walls, making sure I heard each word a good five times before they vanished. Nothing is ever "Bad" at Unknown Industries. "News" never follows bad unless talking in sarcasm or in good humour. And "Chuck"? Nobody calls me Chuck. Not even my father. Or my mother. Or my step mother. Or my dog, (if my Universal Mammal Translation Unit had been properly programmed, that is).

"Slobe's, please, call me Dr. U when I'm working-"

"But there is no work, Chuck" Strange... nobody ever calls me Chuck twice. Maybe my correction to Toby wasn't as rigerous as first thought. Maybe more emphasis on the "Dr" and-

"DR. UNKNOWN!!!" Whoever had called my name had certainly got it correct first time round, but I was bewildered - who could own this voice. Again the words ricocheted around the hanger and off the shuttle until I recognised the face of my trusting lawyer, Catherine. I had no affectionate name for her. "YOUR PRESENCE IS URGENTLY REQUIRED IN THE BOARD ROOM, NOW!"

"Quiet, Catherine, darling! Old Sloby has something to tell me!". My eyes traced back to Toby, who was now just inches from my face. His eyes were tired and heavy, like a sheet of lead hanging off a clothes line. He had obviously been working through the night, and his greasy hair obviously meant that this work he was doing was more important than hair and work-appropriate hygiene. He opened his mouth and it hung there for a second, and then the words caught up:

"There's no work..." [edit: 23/01/2012]

++++++++++++++++++++

The board room stank of a void. Even though I had spent the last few months in a hanger with my A.S.S., this smell was of a void that has been devoid of life and love for quite some time. Arguably, this IS the board room, and is where my solicitors, advisors, and lawyers would congress, so the lack of life and love is quite familiar and commonplace. But it was the potency of that stench that worried me.

Catherine demanded I sit at the head of the table using only her eyes. It was the stare only reserved for members of the authority to give to a mass murderer who had been on the run, and that was when the comparrison to that similie and my time away in the hanger from my role as CEO began to grown in my fantastic head. I had abandonned ship before the passengers, but I had unintentionally locking myself in a room with the very ship that was sinking. It was a mircale that I hadn't become a banker, but I could certainly think of a word that rhymed with it to describe my then currect self. Catherine discretely perched herself onto a chair and drew a pair of rectangular glasses to read the wad of documents that suddenly appeared from under her arms. Sneaky woman, this Catherine. Better use my wicked charm to prove my innocence in this depressing mat-

"I hope you like prison food, Mr Unknown" Catherine firmly interrupted. She has a habit of knowing when I'm thinking and getting her words in just befor- "Because we're looking at a tsunami of allegations of corruption, corporate theft and-"

"Listen, my little cherub, I have some questions before you start yabbering about "law" and "supposed" allegations" I spared no time in allowing her to squeeze a breath in. "Question one, what is the date?". I continued while her breath was still suspended in the dank air that surrounded. "Question two, why does it smell of cats in here? Question three, who do you think you are throwing threats at me? Question four, the sign outside the hanger says "Restricted Entry", so TECHNICALLY you tresspassed and broke the very laws you are paid BY ME to protect. Question Fff-"

She broke like an atom.

"You want answers, Chuck?! Fine, you got answers!" It was surreal. I could actually feel the heat radiate off every word, as if they had been industrially forged in the belly of a nuclear beast. I subtly leaned back in reaction with a devious smirk painted on my tired face. [edit: 24/01/2012]

"One, today is the 24th of November, 2017! Two, we had to get rid of our janitors prior to the collapse".

I only wish I could ask about what she meant by "collapse", but it was the date she provided that proved to be more intriguing, flicking a switch in my warp-speed mind to remind myself of something. However, that "something" was eluding me, and I would have caught it if only Catherine's blunt words hadn't had ploughed through me like a firetruck through plywood. She continued with her answers.

"Three, throwing threats?" She paused, which by all means was an unusual feat for the tempered harpie. "This was no meer visit or wake-up call, dear Chuck" Her pitiful words fell from her like a lead feather. "I work for Alliance Aerospace now. This is meerly a challenge on their behalf for rights to take over Unknown Industries and see you behind bars for the crimes you have hidden behind a silver linin-"

"Such as?" I interrupted majestically. I bloody well know what I have done, but I was just hoping the list was so long she would die of vocabulary-induced asphyxiation. In a perfect world, that would have happened, but in the time it took her to fill her lungs with the densest of air she began reciting that list.

She went on for a good four or five minutes, going into greater detail than a million piece jigsaw of a grain of sand. Weirdly, I found this time rather entertaining to absorb, almost like what I would have believed my interview on "This Is Your Life" would have been like. However I did have to protest halfway through her rivetting story.

"-please repeat that... the thing about the data"

She flicked her eyes down the page and repeated the section in question.

"Section 23A... Chuck Ulswyre... conspiracy of witholding evidence of exterterrestrial life... from the International Space Research and Exploration Board... and the breach of international security regarding the recovery of alien and/or unearthly minerals and/or substances-"

An annoying and patronising chuckle escaped as I leaned across the table and stared back into the burning eyes of Catherine the traitor, attempting to stab her with my ebony eyes as I conjured the two words that I always rely on in these situations...

"Prove it" [edit: 25/01/2012]

++++++++++++++++++++

On the way back, we were acompanied by two rather gargantuan gentlemen in ebony black suits, sunglasses and wireless headsets sticking out their cauliflower ears. I was always amused by the thuggist attitudes bodyguards like these emitted, especially around high priority figures like me; their necks melting over their tight collars, their statuesque appearance, and the smell of a busy gym that had been sprayed with a cheap air deodoriser. These were certainly the greatest characters I had met since exiting the hanger. I wanted to shake their hands for getting that acolade, but as you are fully aware, they were just thugs in pretty clothes, so the 15 minute walk there was a silent one.

The great silver sliding door before us was reflecting the late afternoon sun across the runway. As we approached I glanced over my shoulder to the following titans and protested to the traitor who was leading the party.

"They aren't coming in, Catherine"

"Of course they are" She replied, with an obnoxious tone of prowess. She was desperately attempting to hide the fact that the walk was exhausting her tired office legs, occasionally stumbling on her high heels and flexing her sweaty shoulders away from her damp shirt. I, somewhat, had sweated so much over the past month in that radiating hanger that the pores had buggered off on vacation, leaving me bone dry. I wouldn't bother explaining the smell that followed me, unless anyone was so bitterly curious of what bodyguards smell like when they actually get to do some work.

"No. I'm putting my foot down. That hanger is priavte propert-"

That unfortunatley was the worst protest ever witnessed by mankind. I stood still on the spot like a toddler with a tantrum brewing, unaware that the two masses of meat following only stopped when Catherine stopped. The remaining few feet to the door saw me being picked up by underneath both arms and dropped before my enormous hanger. I felt violated.

"Surely that was inapropriate. I'll sue all your arses off!"

"Oh pish posh, Chuck. It was man handling, and expect plenty of that where you goin-"

I had to stop her there before I gave her the satisfaction of finishing a rather snappy (and well timed) responsed.

"Yes, yes, a prison joke. You certainly were the joker amongst my pack of cards. Shame you were as useful as one"

I recieved a quite sudden slap around the back of the head from one of the guards. Suprisingly, my mother could hit harder. A puppy could hit with greater response. A leaf falling from a branch in autumn could strike greater pain and fear into someone than that pathetic attempt to shut me up. I would have said something, but I would have hated it if those big scary men had to "strike" me again. Seriously, how am I going to sleep tonight knowing I was-

"Childish insults aside, show us your alien-free hanger, Chuck" She paused for a second to take her rectangle glasses off and stare into my eyes. "I dare you". [edit: 26/01/2012]

Naturally, I quickly turned her words into a tasteless euphamism, only to recieve another swipe across the back of the head from the guard behind me (this time making up for the kitten sneeze from earlier, which proved more effective this time round. To save further explanation later on, the numbing pain from the slap lasted a good half hour). To save myself, the two guards and she-who-is-a-bitch from further antics, I swiftly edged over the right and opened a small metal box containing a little keypad, a retina scanner, a fingerprint scanner, a voice activation prompt and a small LED screen that displayed one of many multiple choice questions that only I knew the answer to. Today's question:

"What would the birth name of the spawn of your favourite X-Men and your favourite 1980s world leader be?"

I urge you, reader, to stop guessing before the question consumes you and distracts you from my epic tale.

After several seconds of processing and technical communications between the many authentications, the sound of a hundred struts and hydraulic arms erupted from above as they unlocked each other from the hanger wall. The wall, unimpressingly as always, rolled open to the left. The Alpha Shuttle Sovereign was highlighted with an orange hue by the setting sun, and then glowed a pearl white as the floodlights on the ceiling filled the warm abyss around.

"You have five minutes, gentlemen, what with all this unauthorised access and potential contamination" The two burly guards joined Catherine at her side and walked in a line into the hanger. I began to wonder what they expected to find, whether it was a dead alien lying inside a crate, or a flying saucer hung from the ceiling. I did take this time, however, to wander in and rummage through a small safebox sitting on a workbench for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter (obviously, being shadowed by the guards incase I was using the excuse to hide incriminating evidence. They even followed me outside and lit my cigarette incase my lighter wielded "alien technology" hidden amongst the parafin. Seriously, my guess was as best as yours).

Eight minutes and seventeen seconds later, the trio left the hanger obviously thwarted by their own efforts to salvage this evidence they so eagerly went to this trouble for. I smiled gallantly as Catherine walked up to me. I was leaning against the hanger as I smoked the remainder of my last cigarette, trying to translate those decieptful eyes of hers.

"Well, you're obviously good at hiding stuff, Mr Unknown"

"Something tells me you're not very convinced, darling"

She reached into her jacket and withdrew a brown envelope with the Alliance Aerospace logo finely printed on it. It was titled to Mr Ulswyre; not good news.

"We shall meet again on the 3rd at the Alliance Aerospace headquarters" She handed the envelope to me. I stared blankly at the envelope as her hand wobbled in the slowly dimming dawn light. "Don't worry about directions. I'm sure you'll know where you're going".

I stubbed the cigarette on the hanger and stretched my arms around my back. The guards advanced slightly from behind Catherine as I twisted my body to the sound of air bubbles popping in my limbs.

"By that, you mean the bastard Alliance Aero-shitheads have brought my company and headquarters? You really don't need to spell it out, darling. I am-" [edit: 29/01/2012]

She pushed the envelope to my chest and held it against me, unbalancing me from my tired stance. Again, her docile black eyes stared upon me, and again she stopped me short of my sentance. I looked down. For once her interuption wasn't as malicious or stubbern as usual. It was pity...

...

...HOW DARE SHE PITY ME!!! I'm Dr. Chuck Unknown! - Inventor, scientist, entrepeneur, sex icon, and the boldest gentleman on this drab little world, and she pities this situation where I'm forced to bow to Alliance Aerospace as they take my-

...

I wanted her to interrupt me again, just so I can revolt at this painfully executed mockery. Instead, she turned and walked into the distance, with her trollish guards beside her. I could have chased after her and demanded something more than just a letter. Maybe an apology of some sort, or a kiss goodbye could have sealed the deal. I stood there at the hanger door, watching her as she vanished into the blood orange sun  balancing on the tip of the runway.

This was certainly the start of the end... of the end...

++++++++++++++++++++

Furiously, the Gods waited for man to build a rocket to get off this grim little speck, and waited eagerly more to watch that man to get shot down like a rabid dog chained up to a pole. To me, it must have been a strategically crafted corporate plot involving a raw aggresive psychological attack, an assertive backstabbing ally somewhere at my side, and a gaping hole in my fortress wall where the rats and vermin would enter and exit as they please. This plot to unnerve my solid enterprise and send it running to the sea was one I envied so much. I had some recurring dreams where I did the exact same to Alliance Aerospace where I wore a tuxedo, carried a silenced pistol and drank Martini with the little olive in. I would walk up to the A.A. board as they cackled away at their menacing plan, blurted out a sexist pun, maybe tackling a few bodyguards along the way, and watch as the bitter enemy hands over all his assets as he begs for his sorry little life.

If anyone got the presumption that I got influence for that dream from James Bond, then microwave your own genitalia. I am no hero. No where near. I am also not a villain. That's not how I play either. The term "anti-hero" also might be a little unethical for myself. Who am I? It's been several hours since I locked myself in this hanger, and all I can think about is my flawed genius.

Please take this time to realise it has been about 5 hours in here, alone with a bottle of rum, a dictaphone and my A.S.S.

I sniggered

Can you also take this time to judge me. I am in a wreak. Only now had I realised what a fool I had been to abandon my post and rely on my fools on the board to run Unknown Industries alone. That month of me working on the Alpha Shuttle Sovereign was more like a month upgrading the GUI on the on-board computers to look cooler, and to have a whole heap of useless gadgets to do the simplest of tasks. Automatic bottle opener? Yes, that's in there. Microwave with the voice of Kevin Spacey? Yes, that's in there. Simulating Warp 10 using the training program narrated by Kevin Spacey? Yes, that's in there. A hi-fi system that allows you to change between 5 CDs? What the hell was I doing? Nobody buys CDs anymore? The whole thing was a waste of time.

I admit it.

I did some stuff wrong.

But like I said previously, I am adament it was an aggresive psychological attack that sent me here, and I was determined to prove it.

The next thing I knew, I felt a cold pressure on my face, and a warm, wet sensation on my lap.

...

Please don't judge me.

[edit: 06/02/2012]