04 August 2009

The rain that threatened in London developed while they were in the tunnel so much that the Eurostar had to slow down because of crosswinds. By the time they hit Calais, Sydney was practically about to explode from the delay. But he knew the man he sought well enough by now to have figured exactly what Sydney Thomson would do, a weak man, he would find the rain too much to deal with and duck into a bar, preferably one close to the station so as not to involve to much effort. And sure enough, a cautious peek around a corner found the man taking a swim in a giant glass of beer, Sydney notices the man has taste if not a sense of irony because he's chosen the Belgian beer 'Nostradamus.'
He's determined his course of action here, to some extent, its to very much stay invisible yet create a chain of events that convince the pathetic man thinks he is cursed. Going at him head on had not been working, his defenses and stubborness were too much up, so the trick would be to convince him that something supernatural was aligning against him. As if magic were against his plans. Sydney knew just the trick, in fact almost tripped over his first rabbit in the hat trying to avoid being seen, a slight youth of perhaps sixteen or fifteen who was looking at him curiously.
'My papa is the mayor,' the boy announces in "rustic" French, 'and he detests strangers lurking about peering in the windows.'
Sydney smiles to himself and peels a hundred euros.
'Then you can make me your friend. I, well, we, need some assistance from your town, and you first, with that gentleman in there. He's a very bad sort which my agency has been trying to catch in the act of, of,'
Best not be too specific. Let the boy put words into his mouth.
The trick works, because the boy wants to feel as powerful as his dad, and he's going to use exactly the powers that will work best on Sydney Thomson to get the man chased by people with pitchforks, well, maybe not literally, that'd be too much fun. Sydney watches the boy peel off his skin-tight T-shirt and saunter into the bar, careful to almost slither by ever so close to the pitiful man, and thinks to himself the lad has a gift for ruining lives, almost takes a sort of pride in it.
And it works, for now Sydney Thomson's developed a shake in one hand and after a moment finds an excuse to say hello to the boy, practically falling over himself to look casual while acting as nonchalant as a starved coyote in a nursery full of infants.
This is going to be a lot of fun.

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