Red Lentil Soup & The Resonating Number 3
Bill and Laura McKenzie are a Scottish couple caught in a web of truths and lies, and when real-life mind-sharing takes over their conscience, they set out to stop a criminal consortium called: The Resonating Three, from spreading death and corruption among the people they love; and help others flee a war-torn country.
Hoping to break a link that connected a dangerous criminal gang with their family.
Learning to enter the minds of felons already under the umbrella of persuasion and influence, of the worlds most prominent crime organization. They attempt to dismantle the perceptions of senior figures involved in the group, chipping away at the foundations of the all-mighty powerful syndicate, making them renege their loyalty to the master, and accept the guilt of their past doings; while continuing to search for the truth.
With their Egyptian friend, Emad Ammon Naguib, and Syrians Raca Sleiman and Farid Aboud, all inter-playing within the same living mind-share, connection; they all see life through the eyes of their host.
Sharing the same hurt and anguish, and bonded to a relationship which shapes a collective living mind, all hoping to intervene and stop a mind-control organization from influencing their lives; and prevent an impact on a multitude of helpless victims.
‘The Resonating Three’ is a pyramid style powerful criminal organization, an exclusive hierarchical structure, integrated into everyday society worldwide and held together by a functioning mind-control central concept. Operated by a management structure on every level, run by a team of narcissists, manipulating the brains of a collective of thousands, who willingly obey orders without question. Controlling the vilest, abhorrent and disgusting criminals the world has ever seen.
All for the requirement of the master, the one overlord of truth, the controller of everything. That’s until people with real-life dream-sharing intervene in their cause and infect his web of conceit.
How will the master react?
“I’m an obsessive enthusiast, my ideals work in a flawless state where everything is precisely appropriate. Perfection is a condition without culpability or weakness, failure is not.” Doling made a point to Bill. And tried hard not to be trite or irritating when he offered a cliché.
“Bill, when you surf on boiling water, the first thing you learn to do is not fall off the fuckin’ board.”
Bill looked up and stared at Hector Doling and moved uncomfortably in the chair. Doling drank more brandy and talked more.
“There is one thing more about my creation that shows similarities with Jung’s work. It is you and your late wife, Bill. You have all been on a dreamlike journey, you, Laura and Carl Jung. Seeing life through the eyes of others and playing a part in changing life’s outcome. For me, it shows parallels and unbreakable connections, and I am sure Jung would love to have met you both.”
Something unique about Berlin
One hour later
Klaus-Peter Hoffman filled his canvas tote shopping bag at the fashionable French Delicatessen, a few yards from his home on Husemannstraße in the Kollwitz district of Berlin. Shopping for an assortment of salami, a few bottles of French wine, newly baked bread, a slice of cheese and onion quiche, a carton of milk, dates and goat cheese wrapped in bacon; he was happy with his fresh supplies. Stepping outside, he took a seat at a small bistro table.
It was a thrice-weekly errand that got him out of bed and out for some much-needed fresh air. He would complete this shopping trip in a usual manner, with a hot, tasty, German Coffee cocktail, which is made with Kirschwasser, coffee and whipped cream, and he would spend more time reading today’s news in the German daily national; Die Welt.
The sun was shining, but it was a cold morning.
The retired man of seventy-nine, Hoffman was a loner, a spinster of several years, spending life day-to-day, not extravagant nor superfluous – but ordinary and as mundane as he could make it. He kept himself to himself. A recluse that preferred his own company, spending most of his time alone as he found life hard struggling to fit in with others in modern society. He preferred it this way.
Removing a black leather cigarette case from his jacket pocket it was opened wide, and he attempted to take a West filter from a container that showed the outside and the inside compartments filled with filtered cigarettes. He struggled to remove one, but managed, and placed it between his lips. The case had the initials KPH embossed on the leather.
Lifting a disposable lighter from another pocket, that was dropped on the table, showed an intense frustration, and a feeling of worthlessness and hopelessness; caused by the onslaught of a recent diagnosis of the progressive nervous system disorder, Parkinson’s. His right hand had a very noticeable tremor.
He was annoyed by his blundered actions but managed to run his thumb over the flint wheel twice before it lit. Igniting the fuel that lit the tobacco, and inhaled as much as his lungs could hold; this was the best smoke of the day, a time to relax and enjoy the moment. Hoffman’s life was perfectly aligned and organised. Hoffman might have Obsessive-Compulsive Personality disorder.
The footsteps that approached from his rear was loud, it was the noise from woman’s stiletto’s, the clacking sound and resonance in many ways sounded hollow. Hearing a double sound as the heel hits to tarmac.
This sound drew his attention to the approaching female and his head turned to see a stunningly beautiful woman. A long maxi black wool coat swung just above her ankles, with a decorative beret sitting neatly on her head, that covered a bouncy bob hairstyle, her face was perfect, and her red lipstick gave her a look that is as elegant as it comes in terms of beauty appealing.
She leant over with a cigarette dangling from her red lips. She spoke in English.
“Can I trouble you for a light?”
The old man stuttered and fumbled his cigarette case aside as the beautiful woman stayed still, hovering over the table, fluttering her long eyelashes at his cold blushing face.
She spoke again, this time in fluent German.
“Haben Sie Feuer?”
“Ja, ich habe.”
The lighter lit on the first attempt.
“Vielen Danke, Herr Hoffman!”
She inhaled and smiled. The old man scanned her face, he didn’t know her, how would he. Did she mention him by name?
Smoke was blown in the face of the old man, not to disorientate him, but to flaunt her unyielding power over her victim.
A Lamy Pico converted ballpoint pen was now a weapon. The femme fatale did not require her seductive charms to seduce her prey, the old man was defenceless as the needle was forced into his neck as her thumb depressed the click button and removed it just as fast. The beauty walked from the scene as if strutting her stuff on a catwalk. A plume of blue tobacco smoke swirled above her head and dispersed into the morning air.
Klaus-Peter Hoffman snatched his throat, spitting the cigarette from his mouth which landed in his coffee. He struggled to breathe. Convulsing uncontrollably, – as if having a seizure – salivating a white foam, his body shook, as a violent reality set in his fearful thoughts, with his last view of life being the glamorous woman turning the corner onto Sredzkistraße. He slumped downward, knocking the table over and hitting his head on the pavement. A fearful shopkeeper ran to his rescue, but he could not help. The old man’s life had expired after a lethal injection of a few milligrams of ricin had entered his bloodstream.
MURDERED: Sept 29th.
VICTIM: Klaus-Peter Hoffman aged 79yrs.
CAUSE OF DEATH: Lethal injection of Ricin.
PLACE OF DEATH: Husemannstraße. The murderer is unknown.
BACKGROUND: Grenztruppen der DDR. A border guard at the Berlin wall of the German Democratic Republic. 1976-1991
I draw Apples; A short story for 2021
The Significant House 2021
Most of what Major Fotheringham spat at Keddie was neither here nor there in relevance to why he continually volunteered, it was a choice he would always make, not for being brave or fearless, not looking for a ribboned medal or a King’s handshake, it was, for him, a desire.
To be killed in a raid was much more preferential, than being obliterated by a bomb or blinded by mustard gas in trenches with deplorable unsanitary conditions, suffering from trench-foot, infectious diseases, typhoid fever, cholera and dysentery all common and spread swiftly. Better to fight than die waiting for the inevitable.
War had made him this way. Major Fotheringham continued to berate the man he didn’t understand, a man that did not play by the rules; his rules. Little did he know, that during all of the seven raids Keddie took part, he killed only one enemy soldier in hand-to-hand combat. Recalling the time, during the first raid, when attacking a german unteroffizer, [Corporal] striking him with a club with metal spikes. It sank and stuck deep in his forehead, he fell backwards, and his helmet flew off. The soldier was young, he had waves of golden blonde hair, he would never forget or shake off the memory of hitting the young soldier with a wooden club fitted with nail spikes. Of course, he had shot men, thrown grenades and taken prisoners, but the Major didn’t know Keddie as well as he thought. War changes people, gentle law-abiding citizens become dangerous weapons and would kill to stay alive. It’s the animal instinct of survival.