Schattenläufer
05.11.2006, 22:16
So, ich wollte die Geschichte einfach mal einer breiteren Masse vorstellen... sie ist entstanden für den Englischunterricht, wir sollten eine 2 Seiten lange Kurzgeschichte schreiben, in der 10 Begriffe auftauchen, nämlich: London Eye, cream tea, barking up the wrong tree, hangover, merger, respectively, enjoy, whizzkid, unfinished und sharp.
Ich fand, dass das alles zu sehr festlegt, in welche Richtung die Geschichte gehen soll, und habe deswegen ein Zukunftssetting genommen, das dem ausweicht... London Eye ist ja so ein großes Riesenrad in London. Bei mir ist es eine große Überwachungsbehörde.
Viel Spaß beim Lesen, und Kritik ist erwünscht!
Pennethorne, London Eye Agent
“Who is the owner of this establishment?” Everyone who was still sober enough to pay attention to what was happening around him raised his head and looked at the entrance of the saloon. The dim light that fought its way from the outside into the thick air inside outlined the silhouette of a uniformed man of average size. In his outstretched hand he held some kind of an identity card which repeatedly changed the picture on its display. He stepped into the murky room, approaching the bar.
His name was Jack Pennethorne, and he was a lot more nervous than he appeared. It was his first mission for the London Eye, and a very dangerous one, too, even though it was only a minor matter. People in saloons like this one were unreckonable, especially if they were located in such secluded territories. Pennethorne could feel them staring, some of them tired, some curious, some aggressive. He dared to take a look around. In London he had heard tales about places like this, rumours of thugs and outlaws and inclement miners. He had always thought that these stories were a little exaggerated. He realized now that he had been wrong.
No one had answered his admittedly overhasty question. At a corner table he could see men playing some card game he did not know. He walked by a snoring guy whose head lay on the table in a puddle of beer. And still people watched his every move. By the time he reached the bar, Pennethorne felt like a nervous wreck. A drink was exactly what he needed now.
“Sir, can I have a drink, please?”, he called the bartender. The man slowly turned his head and looked at Pennethorne. “You from London Eye?” he grunted as a reply. Jack Pennethorne noticed little spumy drops of saliva in the bartender’s beard and sweaty strands of hair on his forehead. He looked down in disgust.
“My name is Jack Pennethorne, Head of the Department of Supervision concerning Tax Regulations within the Administration of Specialized Mining and Drilling, which, in fact, is part of the London Eye since the conglomerate merger between the original London Eye and several major companies, including mine, the tax and revenue office. Now, I need to speak to the owner of this saloon.”
The barkeeper rubbed a dirty spot on the bar. Mr Akwasi was not there right now, he told Pennethorne, he was visiting his titanium mines and would probably be back in half an hour. Pennethorne sighed, found himself a stool and sat down, trying to relax. The flight in a cargo ship had worn him out, he felt as if he had not slept during those last two days.
A scruffy looking man stumbled across the saloon to the bar, lowly moaning. He called the barkeeper with a hoarse voice, telling him something about too much booze. His name was Bob. He had to ask Rick, a gigantic mass of flesh at the other end of the bar. Bob woke him up, which took some time. Rick looked at him with big reddened eyes, his mouth was opened, he was drooling a little bit. Then he came to his senses and opened a little box, while keeping his eyes fixed on the other guy. Rick poured substances out of little flasks into a glass. Rick whole-heartedly spat into the glass and told the other guy: “Hold ya nose, y’can almost enjoy it then – but don’t swallow too fast!” Rick put the box away and dozed off again. Bob forced the drink down and walked to the entrance. Bob turned around, shouted “You are bloody scumbags, all of you!” and walked outside, slamming the doors shut. “Go to hell!” Someone threw a bottle after him. It hit the wall and broke to pieces.
“I hate that bastard! When he’s sober, he talks even more crap than bloody Rufus Abadie, for heaven’s sake!” The man who spoke these words had not intended to be so loud. Around him, people stopped talking now. Some got up from their chairs, filling the air with the noise of an unpleasant atmosphere. A big man with long sideburns and a bald spot on his head clenched his fists angrily. Pennethorne heard him shouting: “Don’t ya dare talk like that ‘bout Bob an’ ‘Whiskey Whizzkid’!” Everyone crowded around the two men, even the card players in the corner paused their game to watch the struggle. Pennethorne clutched at the bar and looked panic-stricken to the bartender, who roared his acclamations. Pennethorne obviously had landed in his personal hell. He knew that it was actually his duty to settle this conflict, but he not in the slightest intended to interfere. Nevertheless, he decided to tackle the barkeeper about his behaviour, which in his opinion was irresponsible.
The brawl continued for several minutes, and the bystanders started to participate. One of them took a chair, raised it above his head and dashed it into the back of someone else, who immediately fell to the ground. Another guy had just knocked out his opponent with a beer jug and triumphantly took a big gulp out of it. Eventually, the big man with the sideburns took the other man’s head and smashed it onto a table. Pennethorne closed his eyes and turned his head away. The winners took the man’s body and threw him out of the door, apparently satisfied. The bartender turned to cleaning the dishes. In passing, he opened a small closet, and an old, unfinished looking robot staggered outside. It went to where the fight had taken place seconds ago and started to clean the place.
“Sir, could you please tell me why you did not try to stop these people from almost killing each other? I believe you even liked it! You know that I’ll have to make a report on this–“ The bartender’s face had come very close to Pennethorne, their noses were almost touching. He darted an imperious glance at Pennethorne, who instantly fell silent.
“Listen, boy. This is no bloody tea house where you can have your cream tea together with your neat London Eye friends. Life’s rough here, and the people are, too. Don’t try to force your rules on us, you hear me? This ain’t Earth.” He looked at a clock behind him. It was 3 a.m. Universal Time. “Mr Akwasi will be back in two hours, so why don’t you just take a walk?”
Beads of perspiration on Pennethorne’s forehead and a lump in his throat. He stood up and left the saloon. He decided to just leave out the story about the brawl in his report. He felt most uncomfortable, and was glad to leave the saloon. The huge sky dome was supplied with fresh air, and Pennethorne took a deep breath. The lunar surface was dark, but the whole industrial area beneath the sky dome was well-lighted.
“London Eye agents are not very welcome here. You can be glad they did not beat you up, respectively, that you did not give them a reason to.” Pennethorne had not noticed the slender man with the automatic glasses who now walked towards him. “I am glad. I’ve never been to a place like this. I’m not an agent, though, I usually stay in my office. This is an exception. And who are you?” “Well, they call me ‘Whiskey Whizzkid’. I am a number cruncher at the shipyards, you know. My real name is Rufus Abadie, but I barely hear it anymore.” A smile. Pennethorne had not seen one in a while, not even on Earth. Abadie told the story of his philosophical treatises that he was able to compose only when he has had enough drinks. Pennethorne told him about the longstanding tax fraud of Mr Akwasi, his own scopes of responsibility and the need of talking to Mr Akwasi about a lucrative business that would acquit him of a charge in exchange for his old titanium mines and shipyards. “I believe that you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think that Mr Akwasi would agree with this business. He’s pretty sharp, from what I’ve heard, and he hates London Eye. And he knows about its recent problems. You can probably wait your arse off here.” Abadie looked at his watch. “I gotta go now, the bills and tax declarations are waiting.” He smiled again. “Good luck to you. If you have to stay here for a longer period of time, I’ll warmly recommend the other part of the sky dome to you. Nicer bars and generally not so isolated.”
Rufus Abadie got in a small vehicle and drove off. Jack Pennethorne stood there for a minute, then he decided to pay a visit to the titanium mines.
Ich fand, dass das alles zu sehr festlegt, in welche Richtung die Geschichte gehen soll, und habe deswegen ein Zukunftssetting genommen, das dem ausweicht... London Eye ist ja so ein großes Riesenrad in London. Bei mir ist es eine große Überwachungsbehörde.
Viel Spaß beim Lesen, und Kritik ist erwünscht!
Pennethorne, London Eye Agent
“Who is the owner of this establishment?” Everyone who was still sober enough to pay attention to what was happening around him raised his head and looked at the entrance of the saloon. The dim light that fought its way from the outside into the thick air inside outlined the silhouette of a uniformed man of average size. In his outstretched hand he held some kind of an identity card which repeatedly changed the picture on its display. He stepped into the murky room, approaching the bar.
His name was Jack Pennethorne, and he was a lot more nervous than he appeared. It was his first mission for the London Eye, and a very dangerous one, too, even though it was only a minor matter. People in saloons like this one were unreckonable, especially if they were located in such secluded territories. Pennethorne could feel them staring, some of them tired, some curious, some aggressive. He dared to take a look around. In London he had heard tales about places like this, rumours of thugs and outlaws and inclement miners. He had always thought that these stories were a little exaggerated. He realized now that he had been wrong.
No one had answered his admittedly overhasty question. At a corner table he could see men playing some card game he did not know. He walked by a snoring guy whose head lay on the table in a puddle of beer. And still people watched his every move. By the time he reached the bar, Pennethorne felt like a nervous wreck. A drink was exactly what he needed now.
“Sir, can I have a drink, please?”, he called the bartender. The man slowly turned his head and looked at Pennethorne. “You from London Eye?” he grunted as a reply. Jack Pennethorne noticed little spumy drops of saliva in the bartender’s beard and sweaty strands of hair on his forehead. He looked down in disgust.
“My name is Jack Pennethorne, Head of the Department of Supervision concerning Tax Regulations within the Administration of Specialized Mining and Drilling, which, in fact, is part of the London Eye since the conglomerate merger between the original London Eye and several major companies, including mine, the tax and revenue office. Now, I need to speak to the owner of this saloon.”
The barkeeper rubbed a dirty spot on the bar. Mr Akwasi was not there right now, he told Pennethorne, he was visiting his titanium mines and would probably be back in half an hour. Pennethorne sighed, found himself a stool and sat down, trying to relax. The flight in a cargo ship had worn him out, he felt as if he had not slept during those last two days.
A scruffy looking man stumbled across the saloon to the bar, lowly moaning. He called the barkeeper with a hoarse voice, telling him something about too much booze. His name was Bob. He had to ask Rick, a gigantic mass of flesh at the other end of the bar. Bob woke him up, which took some time. Rick looked at him with big reddened eyes, his mouth was opened, he was drooling a little bit. Then he came to his senses and opened a little box, while keeping his eyes fixed on the other guy. Rick poured substances out of little flasks into a glass. Rick whole-heartedly spat into the glass and told the other guy: “Hold ya nose, y’can almost enjoy it then – but don’t swallow too fast!” Rick put the box away and dozed off again. Bob forced the drink down and walked to the entrance. Bob turned around, shouted “You are bloody scumbags, all of you!” and walked outside, slamming the doors shut. “Go to hell!” Someone threw a bottle after him. It hit the wall and broke to pieces.
“I hate that bastard! When he’s sober, he talks even more crap than bloody Rufus Abadie, for heaven’s sake!” The man who spoke these words had not intended to be so loud. Around him, people stopped talking now. Some got up from their chairs, filling the air with the noise of an unpleasant atmosphere. A big man with long sideburns and a bald spot on his head clenched his fists angrily. Pennethorne heard him shouting: “Don’t ya dare talk like that ‘bout Bob an’ ‘Whiskey Whizzkid’!” Everyone crowded around the two men, even the card players in the corner paused their game to watch the struggle. Pennethorne clutched at the bar and looked panic-stricken to the bartender, who roared his acclamations. Pennethorne obviously had landed in his personal hell. He knew that it was actually his duty to settle this conflict, but he not in the slightest intended to interfere. Nevertheless, he decided to tackle the barkeeper about his behaviour, which in his opinion was irresponsible.
The brawl continued for several minutes, and the bystanders started to participate. One of them took a chair, raised it above his head and dashed it into the back of someone else, who immediately fell to the ground. Another guy had just knocked out his opponent with a beer jug and triumphantly took a big gulp out of it. Eventually, the big man with the sideburns took the other man’s head and smashed it onto a table. Pennethorne closed his eyes and turned his head away. The winners took the man’s body and threw him out of the door, apparently satisfied. The bartender turned to cleaning the dishes. In passing, he opened a small closet, and an old, unfinished looking robot staggered outside. It went to where the fight had taken place seconds ago and started to clean the place.
“Sir, could you please tell me why you did not try to stop these people from almost killing each other? I believe you even liked it! You know that I’ll have to make a report on this–“ The bartender’s face had come very close to Pennethorne, their noses were almost touching. He darted an imperious glance at Pennethorne, who instantly fell silent.
“Listen, boy. This is no bloody tea house where you can have your cream tea together with your neat London Eye friends. Life’s rough here, and the people are, too. Don’t try to force your rules on us, you hear me? This ain’t Earth.” He looked at a clock behind him. It was 3 a.m. Universal Time. “Mr Akwasi will be back in two hours, so why don’t you just take a walk?”
Beads of perspiration on Pennethorne’s forehead and a lump in his throat. He stood up and left the saloon. He decided to just leave out the story about the brawl in his report. He felt most uncomfortable, and was glad to leave the saloon. The huge sky dome was supplied with fresh air, and Pennethorne took a deep breath. The lunar surface was dark, but the whole industrial area beneath the sky dome was well-lighted.
“London Eye agents are not very welcome here. You can be glad they did not beat you up, respectively, that you did not give them a reason to.” Pennethorne had not noticed the slender man with the automatic glasses who now walked towards him. “I am glad. I’ve never been to a place like this. I’m not an agent, though, I usually stay in my office. This is an exception. And who are you?” “Well, they call me ‘Whiskey Whizzkid’. I am a number cruncher at the shipyards, you know. My real name is Rufus Abadie, but I barely hear it anymore.” A smile. Pennethorne had not seen one in a while, not even on Earth. Abadie told the story of his philosophical treatises that he was able to compose only when he has had enough drinks. Pennethorne told him about the longstanding tax fraud of Mr Akwasi, his own scopes of responsibility and the need of talking to Mr Akwasi about a lucrative business that would acquit him of a charge in exchange for his old titanium mines and shipyards. “I believe that you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think that Mr Akwasi would agree with this business. He’s pretty sharp, from what I’ve heard, and he hates London Eye. And he knows about its recent problems. You can probably wait your arse off here.” Abadie looked at his watch. “I gotta go now, the bills and tax declarations are waiting.” He smiled again. “Good luck to you. If you have to stay here for a longer period of time, I’ll warmly recommend the other part of the sky dome to you. Nicer bars and generally not so isolated.”
Rufus Abadie got in a small vehicle and drove off. Jack Pennethorne stood there for a minute, then he decided to pay a visit to the titanium mines.