Churn! Churn! Churn!
The blades of the blender spun faster and faster as Phil sat accompanied by Carrie in the kitchen of his stylish post modern condominium. Phil shouted inaudible talk over the noise.
"What?" Carrie said as Phil released his finger from the red button.
"I said that we need to prioritize upcoming charity events and schedule air time before the debate. Did you speak to Walter yet about how he's going to present the turnaround for the education budget to the press? KIRO in particular? Carrie slightly shook her head as she continued to push out one paragraph after another, jotting down key talking points and cliff notes for the debate, with extreme prejudice.
"We need you to swing that, that's the channel the voters are gonna watch; on this side of the state at least" Phil said.
"No. I plan to stay as far away from him as possible until this shit storm clears, actually" .
"That's what cell phones are for. Unless you're afraid they're tapping the lines too, I can give you thirty bucks for a prepaid burner or you can grab two cans out of the cupboard and stick a piece string between them. Either way I need you to do it. He listens to you a little bit better" Phil said. Carrie smiled. "Yeah and that tends to suggest something else in the company of other people. Why hasn't he kicked me off the team yet?" Carrie asked, rhetorically.
"Are you seriously asking?"
"And kind of hoping for an answer, Phil, if that's not asking too much. Something's telling me that all of this isn't just about me and him." She said. "Jesus Christ, Carrie, there is no you and him. This is all probably because of something that transpired-- a very long time ago. Anyway, he needs to maintain the lie. There's nothing to hide so there's no need for action. Besides, your only supposed to be working with the campaign to acquire information for those memoirs. Then you're back to the news station or on the road. If anyone finds out that your working on a dual payroll, we're fucked. Well, actually, you're fucked if I'm being raw about it " Phil said as he poured the smoothie into a coffee mug.
Carrie clenched her teeth, offended. "You're definitely fuckin barebackin it right about now, so yeah pretty damn raw" Carrie swiftly replied. Phil chuckled, slightly.
"I swear to God, I can't wait until this is over. I just want to get back to covering street-rips and robberies already. You got anything to drink here?" Carrie asked. "It's 11 a.m." Phil said. Carrie looked at him in silence, which suggested that she could care less. She raised her brows.
"There should be a fresh bottle of brown in the far right cabinet, Jesus" Phil said. Carrie walked over to the cabinet grabbing a wine glass on her way while pouring her coffee into the sink. She opened the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Japanese whiskey which was half-empty.
Half-empty, Carrie muttered under her breath.
"Is political galavanting not all that you dreamed of?" Phil asked, sarcastically. She poured the whiskey into the wine glass. "Wow. You know lately I feel like everyone's eligible to be added to my shit list? Present company included. This isn't all exactly my fault, so why am I being made the scapegoat? All of a sudden I'm a homewrecker, that doesn't exactly flow well with my interpersonal situations " Carrie said.
"You can't sit at the table with pricks and not expect to be poked" .
"That's funny. What else do you know, Phil?" Carrie said as she swallowed the rest of the drink.
"Who me? I'm just the Political Advisor to the biggest democratic candidate in the country at the moment. I know everything about everything Carrie, it's my job. It's also why I pose a problem to a lot of people" "You mean because of the FBI?" She asked. Phil raised his head from his cup and looked at Carrie in suspicion of her knowing way more than she should.
(Brief silence)
"The FBI's questioning potentials now. Including everyone in the campaign who works close to Walt. He'll probably be contacting you soon in regards to meeting with his lawyer"
"His lawyer? Aren't I already walking away from this campaign somewhat beshitted? I need legal representation now?" " When speaking to the FBI about the Mayor, Carrie, yes you need legal representation. Once they figure out who's responsible for this, everything can go back to normal, so relax. We have an idea of a potential suspect if that makes you feel any better"
"Actually no it doesn't. It just makes me wonder what you guys were involved in that has everyone on defense…"
Phil's smart phone began to vibrate on the counter catching his attention at the perfect time. He leaned over and checked the screen. The number was registered under the name "Paula". An alias. Fuck, Phil whispered to himself. "What?" Carrie asked, closing her laptop. "Uh. Nothing. Listen, I need to take this. Keep your phone on so we can contact you if anything comes up" Carrie got up from her chair and grabbed her purse and laptop. She walked out of the apartment.
Phil answered the phone. "Yeah?"
"Where are we with that confession?" A female voice with a thick southern accent, asked.
"I don't know. It's not like I'm getting a one-on-one with Mike Berry any time soon considering the political climate"
"Then tell him you have something on Cartwell in regards to the campaign strategy if that'll give you five minutes with him. If not him, then we want the German- you know how this works"
"You want me to outright tarnish my credibility and the integrity of this campaign, I can't do that. No way"
"In connection to accepting a bribe worth a large amount of money from an uncredited third party your credibility is already in jeopardy. Obviously they dislike you enough to feed you to the FBI. We both know this is the same person or persons who leaked those emails to the press. It's the only rational explanation. You know who this guy is but you won't even give us a facial description, that doesn't bode well with my SAIC. You're pissin' all over this 5K1 Motion; this offer won't be on the table for too long"
BANG! BANG!
A knock on the front door.
"What the fuck?" Phil said in a low tone. "What's wrong?" Watson asked.
Someone began to knock hard on the front door, continuously.
BANG! BANG!
Phil walked over to open it but stopped half way, cautious as to who might be on the other side.
"What's wrong, Phil?!" She asked again.
"Nothing. Are you saying this, Watson, or is it Lundy I should be talking to?" Phil asked. "Does it matter, honestly?" She responded. Phil quickly walked to the door and opened it. But no one was there.
He walked out into the hallway and placed his hand over the phone's receiver.
"Is someone there?!" He shouted down the hallway.
. No response.
The elevator down the hall made a ding but Phil couldn't make out who was getting off or on. He walked down the hallway and as he turned the corner towards the elevator, the elevator doors closed. He walked back down the hallway, into his condo and closed the door. He put the phone back against his ear,, then locked the door from the inside with a key.
He tossed the key onto the counter against a pile of papers.
"Hello?"
"Phil. Help me help you. Who's targeting Cartwell?"
(Brief silence)
"...Phil?"
"Look--I can't fucking tell you that...ok!" He said. "Why? Is your family being threatened?" Agent Watson asked. "...No… no they aren't. Besides, at that point you have to involve the FBI even further. That'll go public, make voters nervous and dismantle the campaign. Not an option"
"You don't have any options, Phil. We gave you an entire month to give us something that could stick yet you and Cartwell have barely spoken about anything worth us recording. Now the evidence we do have against you won't get in front of a grand jury until after the election but that will be the end of you. Or you can tell us about this hacker and how he's related to Walter Cartwell. Does this have anything to do with Andrew Sampson?" Watson asked.
Phil let out a heavy sigh, triggered by the aforementioned name.
"...Listen...Listen to me ok...I can't tell you because I don't know. If you have charges against me that you want to challenge my lawyer to, then show me a fucking subpoena. Until that day, the federal government is responsible for the safety of my family! You hear me?...Hello?!" Phil shouted.
He looked at the screen of the iPhone. The call dropped.
Shit he said in a low tone. He walked over to the large window that exposed his Bellevue condo to the Seattle metropolis, situated across Lake Washington. He pressed the phone against the glass to catch a signal. He loosened his tie. He was sweating profusely, soaking inside as it poured heavily outside. Rain trickled against the window, echoing inside the large living space.
Still no signal.
He pressed the side button on the phone to reset it. The phone rebooted. As he walked back towards the living room in the center of the condo he stopped at the computer desk to grab a bottle of vodka whilst placing his phone on the desk, then walked up three stairs, into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and grabbed a shot glass. He placed it on the marble counter and poured a glass. He took a shot. He poured another.
He drank it.
Noticing the bottle's obvious absence in volume, he examined the bottle carefully. The amount inside was significantly less than when he bought it but he decided to pay this no further mind. Maybe it was Carrie, he thought. Phil walked over to the computer desk and placed the bottle on the table.
He opened the laptop and waited for it to boot. The rain outside began to pick up, falling heavier and heavier. Darker patches of overcast invaded, momentarily capturing the lighting inside of the loft condo in brief segments. He rose from the chair and approached the window grabbing the curtain. He drugged it across the apartment, shutting himself out from the world. He sat back in the chair at the desk whilst reaching for his cellphone but still, no signal.
"What the fuck" He said to himself. He opened the drawer to the desk and pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes. He opened it and noticed an entire row missing. Another large quantity absent, like the vodka bottle. As Phil put his phone back down, the computer let off a sound indicating a new email message. He double-clicked the envelope icon on the desktop and revealed the email that was sent six seconds prior from an unknown sender:
Isn't it strange?
When you're so close to the end of a theorem
and there's one negative variable to negate the statement?
Where did it come from? Why does it exist?
You can ignore it but it doesn't fix the problem
There is only one solution.
Before Phil could reach for the keyboard, a garrote was wrapped around his neck, strangling him.
FFFUUUUCCCKKK!!
He said as he sprayed saliva, trying his best to release the constriction.
He began to struggle with significant ferocity, elbowing and jumping to loosen the constriction that robbed him of air. He was pulled off his feet and landed on top of a glass table at the center of the living room which shattered to pieces. The fall loosened the grip on Phil's neck. He began coughing uncontrollably. He turned to defend himself and was struck with a stiff jab to the throat that dropped him.
He lied on the floor and tried to regain his bearings, gasping for air but his windpipe was now fractured.
The attacker, who wore a black tactical skull mask, black leather gloves and all black running jacket, walked over to the kitchen area and started searching through the drawers. He found two cotton white towels and began to wrap them tightly around his fists. As Phil continued coughing and gasping for air, he crawled back to the computer desk, opened the bottom drawer and grabbed his Ruger SR-22.
The attacker quickly walked towards him.
He turned to fire but the weapon didn't respond. The safety was still engaged.
Shit.
He looks at the weapon confused, trying to quickly locate the safety mechanism. He found it. But as the safety mechanism was disengaged Phil was hit with a strong hook that dropped him and the gun to the floor. The attacker began to savagely pummel his face and neck with hook shots quickly turning the cotton white towels to a rose like hue of burgundy wine. He lost slight consciousness but the injury to his head caused his body to seize up. His legs trembled uncontrollably as his tinder face laid sideways, swollen, settled in his own blood and saliva.
After beating Phil unconscious the attacker tossed the bloody evidence in a black backpack, and pulled out two pairs of FlexiCuffs which he used to bind Phil's hands and feet. He raised up and as he turned to reach for the vodka bottle on the table, he noticed the chessboard on the computer table
. Pawn to D4.
Someone was one move away from checkmate. The attacker moved the Knight piece in place, cornering the king piece. A few seconds after placing the knight, he then picked up the piece and placed it in his pocket.
He turned around back to Phil and began to drag him into the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood on the russet hardwood. He approached the shower and dropped Phi's legs on the floor. As Phil laid unconscious with blood flowing from his open wounds, the assailant turned the hot water handle in the shower to the maximum. He pulled out a tactical knife that he impatiently drummed on his side awaiting the rise of steam from the brewing hot water.
The inevitable torture fest.