Slow Burn (A Leo Watterman Mystery) by G. M. Ford Voice Over Script
I never meant to break his thumb. All I wanted was a ride in the elevator . The burnished brass doors were no more than ten feet away when I was gently nudged toward the right.
“Pardon me…” I began.
He was a big beefy kid with a flattop, smelling of scented soap and Aramis. He kept pushing, his blue blazer now locked on my elbow, his big chest bending my path steadily toward the right, toward the stairs, away from the elevators.
I planted my right foot and swung back, only to find myself nose to nose with another one. African-American, this time; otherwise, same blazer, same size, same grimace.
“What’s the problem, fellas?”
“No problem,” said Flattop. “You just come along with us.”
I stood my ground. “What for?” I said with a smile.
He reached out and locked a big hand onto my upper arm , squeezing like a vise, sending a dull ache all the way to my fingertips. His hard little eyes searched my face for pain. “Listen , Mr. Private Dick…” he sneered. “You just…”
I took a slide step to the right, putting Flattop between me and his partner , j****d my arm free, grabbed his thumb with one hand, his wrist with the other, and commenced introductions. Something snapped like a Popsicle stick. His mouth formed a silent circle. When I let go, he reeled backward, stumbling hard into his buddy as he danced in circles, gasping for air and staring at his hand.
“Whoa, whoa,” his partner chanted.
“You want some too?”
He reached for the inside pocket of his blazer. I froze. He flipped open a black leather case. His picture over the name Lincoln Aimes.
“Hotel security,” he said quickly.
Flattop was still turning in small circles, eyes s*****d shut, cradling his damaged hand, whistling “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” through his nose.
I shrugged. “All you had to do was say so, fellas.”
He rolled his eyes in the direction of his partner. “Lance wanted to,” he said with a sigh. “You know, he—”
His explanation was interrupted by a familiar voice rising from behind me.
“And what’s this?”
Marty Conlan had put in his twenty-five years with SPD and then gotten himself a steady job. He’d been the security chief for the Olympic Star Hotel for the better part of ten years now. Other than having an a*s that was cinched up tighter than a frog’s, he wasn’t a half-bad guy. “These belong to you, Marty?”
He ignored me, glowering instead at the twirling Lance.
“Did he attack you?”
I don’t think Lance heard the question . He was otherwise occupied, making noises like a suckling pig and hopping about like a weevil.
Conlan turned his attention to Lincoln Aimes. “Well? Did he?”
Aimes thought it over. “Not exactly ,” he said.
“Did you identify yourselves?” “Not exactly,” Aimes repeated. “I thought I told you two—” This time, Aimes interrupted. “Lance wanted to…”he began.
Conlan waved him off, checking the lobby, whispering now. “Jesus Christ. Take him down to the staff room. Call him a doctor. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
We stood in silence as the pair made their way around us, heading down the hall in the opposite direction from which they’d been trying to move me . “All they had to do was identify themselves,” I said.
“Yeah, Leo. I know . You’re famous for being the kind of guy who comes along quietly.” He heaved a sigh. “Come on up to the office for a few minutes, will ya? We need to talk.”
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[Skyrim opens with an Imperial wagon driving four prisoners down a snowy mountain pass. All are seated and bound; the one dressed in finery is gagged.]
Ralof: Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
Lokir: D**n you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me — we should be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.
Ralof: We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.
Imperial Soldier: Shut up back there!
[Lokir looks at the gagged man.]
Lokir: And what’s wrong with him?
Ralof: Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.
Lokir: Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?
Ralof: I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.
Lokir: No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.
Ralof: Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?
Lokir: Why do you care?
Ralof: A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.
Lokir: Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.
[They approach the village of Helgen. A soldier calls out to the lead wagon.]
Imperial Soldier: General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!
General Tullius: Good. Let’s get this over with.
Lokir: Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.
Ralof: Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. D**n elves. I bet they had something to do with this. This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny…when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.
[A man and son watch the prisoners pull into town.]
Haming: Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?
Torolf: You need to go inside, little cub.
Haming: Why? I want to watch the soldiers.
Torolf: Inside the house. Now.
Galadriel: (speaking partly in Elvish)
(I amar prestar aen.)
The world is changed.
(Han matho ne nen.)
I feel it in the water.
(Han mathon ned cae.)
I feel it in the earth.
(A han noston ned gwilith.)
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
It began with the forging of the Great Rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-Lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the Fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged a master ring, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life.
One ring to rule them all.
One by one, the free lands of Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring, but there were some who resisted. A last alliance of men and elves marched against the armies of Mordor, and on the very slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth. Victory was near, but the power of the ring could not be undone. It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur, son of the king, took up his father’s sword.
Sauron, enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, was defeated. The Ring passed to Isildur, who had this one chance to destroy evil forever, but the hearts of men are easily corrupted. And the ring of power has a will of its own. It betrayed Isildur, to his death.
And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend. Legend became myth. And for two and a half thousand years, the ring passed out of all knowledge. Until, when chance came, it ensnared another bearer.
It came to the creature Gollum, who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains. And there it consumed him. The ring gave to Gollum unnatural long life. For five hundred years it poisoned his mind, and in the gloom of Gollum’s cave, it waited. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumor grew of a shadow in the East, whispers of a nameless fear, and the Ring of Power perceived its time had come. It abandoned Gollum, but then something happened that the Ring did not intend. It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable: a hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.
For the time will soon come when hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.
To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock,
In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock,
Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp, shock,
From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block!
Do I really look like a guy with a plan, Harvey?
I don’t have a plan …
The mob has plans. The cops have plans.
You know what I am, Harvey? I am a dog chasing cars… I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it.
I just do things. I am just the wrench in the gears. I hate plans.
Yours, theirs, everyone’s. Maroni has plans. Gordon has plans.
Schemers trying to control their worlds.
I am not a schemer. I show the schemer how pathetic their attempts to control things really are.
So when I say that you and your girlfriend was nothing personal, you know I am telling the truth.
I just did what I do best. I took your plan and turned it on itself.
Look what I have done to this city with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.
Nobody panics when the expected people gets killed. Nobody panics when things go according to plan, even if the plan is horrifying.
If I tell the press that tomorrow a gangbanger will get shot or a truckload of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics. – because it’s all part of the plan.
But when I say that one little old mayor will die, everybody lose their minds.
Introduce a little anarchy, you upset the established order and everything becomes chaos.
I am agent of chaos.
And you know the thing about chaos Harvey?
“IT is FAIR.”
Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.
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