Fear and Loathing in DC

( I learn every moment, the tiny shifts and variances, until my strikes become more refined. Precision is all, even in the absence of victory. Oh, and I hope this is the last time I ever talk about the vagaries of my job...)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

We adjusted our coats as the cold night air hit our faces.

He lit a cigarette, chuckling under his breath. "How the mighty have fallen."

"A den of wolves, more like." I said through gritted teeth, unable to contain my irritation.

"You did well in there, kid. Every one of those mannequins was pretty much brain dead. Before long they'll start pointing fingers at each other."

"Why didn't you send in Serge? Or Tova?"

He took a deep drag. "Because you're the most ruthless negotiator I got. You can knock it out of the park when it matters."

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The accolade stung, though I wasn't not exactly sure why. "Is that right? Because it seemed that they already knew how things were going to play out even before we stepped in --"

"You got the point across. You made sense. I'm not complaining here, am I?" He bristled visibly, his jaw working.

"I'm telling you, something is off. I'm either getting strung up or stonewalled! Why didn't you let me go through the whole set?"

He looked away. "Now's not the time to ask those questions."

"I could have --"

"The blueprints are still yours. If that's not respect I don't know what is. But it's not enough to save the fucking world," he cut me off in tone that implied the discussion was over.

My shoulders slumped. I felt so tired all of a sudden. All I could think of was getting the heck out of there.

The limousine pulled up to the curb. "It's been a long day," I sighed. "I'll see you in Paris on Monday."

"Wednesday. Or not even then. I have to stay here until the dust settles on this historic mess."

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed

...a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight...

I threw my bag into the backseat with a little more force than necessary. "Right. Well, good night sir. I have a flight to catch."

His brow furrowed. "Don't you want to get some sleep tonight? Your room's paid up till noon tomorrow."

"Not really. I have to get going."

"Lee."

"Yes, sir?"

"You could've refused this assignment."

I shrugged. "I'm never one to dance away from the blade."

He smiled. Lit another cigarette. "Welcome to the game. Good night."


And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?*





*The Second Coming by W.B. Yeats