The Misty Walker by Caesar Who

Author:Caesar Who
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2022-03-23T00:00:00+00:00

6

I could just walk away because, as I declared to the Osmans, I’m a contract problem solver, not an equaliser like Denzel Washington, I don’t have the required skills or such commitment to handle my guns to singlehandedly clear a bloody path and save my former client, who had just been kidnapped to hell. And according to international contract law, when Osman dies, which will be the case very shortly, I have no responsibility to carry on my job. Besides, regardless of even my contractual obligations, it seems like Osman probably deserved whatever the hell had to offer. False accusations and abuses of justice, with valid evidence of such viciousness, will otherwise be waiting for him. If that’s not hell, it is still imprisonment.

But young Osman needs a father; the city needs its good mayor.

I call the Osman boy to plan the next move. That winning baby was weeping like crazy over the phone but fortunately for him and his family, another much more reliable housekeeping business-managing figure does exist in his household, Victoria Osman, the firstborn. On the phone, her voice sounds placid, almost indifferent to her missing father but I can somehow tell the deep bond in their shared bloodline. Her calmness comforts the boy’s nerves, even dims my worries somewhat. Her decision of a meeting between us is shortly arranged. We will see each other in the same secret room at Oscar’s.

When I am at the club, I do not necessarily feel any sort of stress but waiting in my spot in Oscar’s, allowing all crushingly loud music to trample all over my sense of sound, I sense a touch of extra uneasiness, something that I could not easily process, something that I swallowed wrong, and this bulge of foreign matter in my throat keeps bouncing upward and downward with my breaths. I can’t tell my exact feelings towards Helen, and her cultish friends back in Mistyhill. They have their own reasons.

From a rather young age, perhaps when I was still in that farm, I learnt to dissociate from the reality and the norm of the crowd. Such distancing allowed the survival of my sense of superiority, which perhaps was the sole mental support that I had to stay sane in the tough childhood in the devil’s farm. I learnt to crown myself secretly so that the harshness of reality bothered me less. I’d see all human sufferings, either mine or others, as beneath me and unnecessary to be experienced personally.

The price of such superiority, however, was that I gained a heavy amount of compassion for all my ‘subjects’ as human fellows. For instance, I suffer greatly in guilt, despite my doings and some small, wicked sense of achievement, for the threat that I made to the journalist boy in that dentistry room for Clark Oscar. Or, when I acted scarily and intimidating before Anna the supermodel, I felt bad. I had a flirty affair in my mind with the marvel of folksy sexiness of hers, yet I betrayed such warmth and even intimacy of common people’s sexuality by souring it.

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