Free to Good Home: One Slave

Dear PhilosForum,
I have finished Uni and now have some time to try writing before I get a job 'n all that stuff. This is a prologue/intro that I came up with this week, and I thought I better get some proper feedback before I continue with anything. So please, see what you think.
Regards,
Dan.


[RIGHT]ApTech Offices, St. Ives Industrial Estate: 3:00pm[/RIGHT]


ApTech's staff car park was most definitely too large for the actual volume of cars which frequented it nine 'till five weekdays, its blemishless tarmac surface stood testament to this. In fact, ApTech offices were generally too grand for those who toiled away within its confines: The windows too clean; the doorways, branded with hanging insignia, too regal; the blue & gold themed minimalist landscaping which framed the building, too stately.

Bearing all the hallmarks of modern day success - excess, disuse and general too-much-ery - ApTech qualitatively towered over the other constructs scattered around St. Ives' industrial estate. And if there were any doubt as to the intentionality or self-consciousness of the gratuitous construct's design, I'd simply draw attention to the tulip trees which marked the property line: A good twenty years of growth were evident from the height and thickness-of-trunk alone, and all the specimens had grown competitively in close proximity to others, writhing, twisting and arching through the seasons, each reaching for that which it had never questioned: its life-force; its light. Yet here they stood, a lonesome and unnatural thirty foot from one another as they bordered ApTech which stated in gold emboss above its main entrance:



[CENTER]ApTech Offices: St. Ives 3b


Product Review, Development and Guidance Since 2004[/CENTER]


Well, unless these tulip trees were of an unknown 'till now strain of Liriodendron Tulipifera, a strain which could sport an apparent twenty years of growth in a mere five, they were commissioned, up-rooted and then transported here for the sole purpose of improving the car park's aesthetic; to make it look something it naturally wasn't.

Anyway, it does one no good to delve so deeply into matters - and besides, it wouldn't be many years now until the trees' mighty roots would propagate, ripping the tarmac up and apart, leaving it vulnerable to the winter rain which, once it had filled the lacerations, would expand first winter freeze them 'tis almost an occupation in its own right, a lucrative one at that.


[CENTER]__[/CENTER]


ApTech's front entrance consisted of two automatic glass doors marked on either pane with a vinyl print of the business' insignia - a trivial yet pretentious enough portrayal of a two cranes standing back to back on top of a globe. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, casting a dense reflection of the car park on to the front doors. It was now precisely 3:13pm, and the reflection began to shimmer intermittently with impact as doors were opened and slammed on the inside somewhere. Then, eventually, the reflection distorted fully as the doors swung open, motors whizzing, to reveal half of a suited man leant against the door frame as he chatted urgently to the receptionist. He was standing at such an angle that he might have darted off at any moment and, after leaving some instructions for Monday morning, did just that, twisting away as he squeezed out the last few syllables of his sentence.

Making for one of the five cars featured in this here 200 capacity car park, he nearly broke into a jog: hopping on toes from foot to foot, swinging elbows bent at right angles, giving the impression of jogging but never reaching a speed which would justify calling it that. At this intermediate pace, embellishing every few strides with a lunge from one foot to the other, he walk-jogged toward his grey (although he would call it silver) Audi A6 saloon. Feeling a little fatigued - it was an oversized car park and he was getting old- he slowed until getting within about ten foot of the vehicle. He stopped in his tracks abruptly, scanned the car park, and reached into his jacket pocket. Then with all the practiced grace and luster of an accomplished marksman he slipped his hand back out, bringing with it a set of car keys, the ring of which was hooked neatly over his index finger. They span about his pointed finger before he gripped them proper, bringing them to point at the passenger side window of his car. Then, finally, with an air of self-satisfaction he plunged his thumb down onto the over-designed 'unlock' button. 'Blip' 'blip': The Audi's yellow eyes flickered as if with glee to see its masters' return.

Remotely popping the boot with a 'clunk', our man walked to the rear of his vehicle and slung in there his jacket and briefcase. This left him dressed in only his suit trousers, a pair or recently shined black loafers and a blue shirt, the collar of which was sarcastically prominent considering this was ApTech, a business comprised entirely of executive advisers, general managers, regional managers and branch managers. Once in the vehicle he examined himself in the rear-view, first probing his ever thinning dyed-black Caesar cut, then grimacing at the mirror: either checking his teeth, or the situation of wrinkles around his smile. Then, glancing the dash clock - 3: 20 - he started the engine and pulled away a good two hours earlier than usual, it was half-day Friday see.

Our man made his usual way home out of St. Ives, eastward to the village of Bluntisham. However, when he reached the third round-a-bout of his trip, instead of heading straight over he took a right, the third exit, sign posted: A14 Cambridgehasty notCambridge Services, A14 Cambridge: 3:48pm[/RIGHT]



Inside, a circuit of fast food purveyors lined the outside of the rounded building, encircling the dining area which was currently full of empty tables, some ill-attended bins and just a few customers. Given the time of day, most of the people here were either, as he was, on their way home from work after a half day Friday or not at work in general. The layout of the services inspired his ego, as it always did, to walk clockwise past all the eateries he deemed greasy or cheap to reach La Petit Four, which, had he turned anti-clockwise, would have been no more than a pace or two away. Regardless, he made his round and passing a MacDonalds first, sniffed the air. 'Urgh' he sounded to himself while scoping out what foul vermin sat nearest this food stall: a pair of students quietly tucking into burgers. He winced at the sight and carried on. Next was the KFC. On passing he, again, sniffed the air, a reminder of the scent of the obscene. 'Blurgh' he grumbled, turning his head from the aroma, crunching his eyes closed, and sticking his tongue out. Lastly, was a Pizza Hut Express, which in all truth featured a menu many times healthier and fresher than that of his beloved La Petit Four. But in ignorance he strolled past, feigning interest in the large back-lit menu above the serving counter, just so he could observe the adolescent scum standing their, gormless as always, awaiting the sort of people he imagined would eat here. As it were he had not yet bared witness to any customers, but the staff's appearance was enough for him. Judgment made, he moved onwards to his purveyor of choice.

La Petit Four was somewhat segregated from the rest of the services by a four foot high wooden partition which doubled as a high table. Our man approached and looked intently at the staff and table layout. He watched one waitress in particular, a young blonde, noted which tables she was tending and then, once confident he had sussed her work assignment, tentatively seated himself at table five. However, not averting his gaze from the waitress, he let his weight settle on the plastic chair too close to one edge, off-setting his centre of gravity. It shunted under him ever so slightly, centering itself and letting out a shrill 'screech' against the laminate flooring. The blonde pivoted accusingly, revealing two rather enchanting hazel eyes.
'Stan! Di'nt see ya there. You're running a little late aren't ya?' she started, her voice slightly raised as she finished clearing a table over the way. 'I bin bored out ma' mind', she exaggerated with her back to Stan as she wiped up the remnants of a packet of crisps. Ain't bin nothink but old fogies in 'ere allAppletizer. They chatted for much longer on this occasion, broaching subjects like why Dea's friends might have stopped talking to her; whether or not Dea should change the colour of her hair; and when would Dea be old enough to test smoking in front her parents without risking her life. And no doubt they would have continued long into the afternoon had not Chef Marsha intervened yet again: 'Dea!'
'Stan sorry, I def'netly got to go now.'
'Alright sweetheart. Enjoy your weekend, aye?'. She nodded and considered giving Stan a peck on the cheek before-
'DEA! Last time!'

Once all was calm Stan left his seat at table five and headed for the toilets towards the rear of the complex, completely oblivious to how infatuated with him Dea was becoming. He had no idea as to the level of teenage gossip his name was subjected to. Sometimes he was a fifty year old widower type with too much money and too little company who brought Dea expensive gifts of gold and jewels. Sometimes he was dashing thirty year old driving a Ferrari: mature, good looking, smooth talking. And in the farthest reaches of the school yard he was known as a convicted sexual offender, stalking Dea, his next victim every week, trying to extract some vital information before he tracked her down and abducted her. Granted this was mostly jealous boy-talk - Dea wasHome, Bluntisham Village: 5:12pmmustFree To Good Home: One Slave


Contract Subject to Food, Lodging & Sleep (Or Nearest Offer.)


Collection Only: The Allotments, Lot 3b, Hill Rise, St. Ives, The Blue & Gold Shed.too much, he thought, best to stick to his guns - 'O' I'm sure dear, just the thing we need. I mean it's obviously a maid or butler of some sort trying to get a little attention through creative advertising, all the rage in ourreal address off the newspaper's editor, somewhere down Earith way I think it was.'
'Well, Stewart.' She proclaimed resolutely. 'You're always thinking of me aren't you?'
What! This couldn't be good, thought Sta- Stewart. But before he could intervene-
'Just last week I was dropping hints about getting back on the road and doing a few more driving lessons, you know get some extra cash. Now I'll have more than enough hours in the day with a maid!' She looked fit to burst with excitement and pride: she had been a house wife toofree slave awaiting him, or at least a costless one.