Implement 13 - Xanthippe Svanstrom

The Last Word

A bit of hardcore fanfiction by X. Svanström
(meaning, X. is a hardcore fan; story is for a general audience)

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A cold, queasy light flickered upon two faces, faces chiseled by gyms and spray-tans and the fast waters of Warner Brothers executivedom (and maybe a couple of scalpels). Two suits stood inside one of the WB parking garages, the lift humming behind them.
      'Weh-hell, of course I'd've had to wait another two months to pick up my yacht, and of course I wasn't going to stand for that. So—'
       '—Too true, too true—'
       '—It was the only thing to do, really.' There was a peculiar tension in the air that seemed to string each man's words on taut wires.
       'You just wait, Dick, by July of oh-nine, you'll be buying a cruise ship. We did the right thing.'
       'You'd better believe it. Too bad old Horn hesitated so long releasing it to the public. Got rather ugly for a bit, there,' Dick scratched the back of his head delicately.
      Something that sounded distinctly crash-like echoed at a distance, though clearly within the garage somewhere…
      The other executive made to scrutinise his manicure, 'If you ask me, the real mistake was that statement to Business—'
      '—Mr Head! Mr Head! I'm sorry sir,' A plump little uniformed fellow came tearing round a corner, mouth gaping and eyes standing out in horror, 'Someone's—' he gasped, clutching his chest, '—someone's put a brick through your windscreen! And—' here he glanced at the other executive, 'there are more—mobs of them. Sir: where are security?'
       'Someone's—what?' spluttered Dick. 'Security! What are you asking me for! Calm down, man, what're you on about?'
       'Sir. Someone's just put a brick through your Bentley! And,' The little gent turned, 'Mr Hohl, your Porsche, it's… gone.'
       'Gone!'
      The parking garage attentdant reached into the pocket of his trousers and extracted a tiny red object, held it out to executive Hohl, 'This was in its place, sir.'
      Mr Hohl snatched the thing away from him, which turned out to be a two-centimetre model of a Guards Red Porsche 911 GT2, a note attached to the top of it with no visible fixative.
       'Andy, what the…' said Dick, that is, Richard Head, WB executive and Andrew Hohl's 'best friend'.
      As if the note had been stuck to the model by magnetism (though there was no visible magnet) it resisted a bit as Mr Hohl tugged it off. He opened it and read aloud, '"Dear Mr Hohl:

      As muggles seem to think smaller is better these days, like your computer, mobile fellytone, and brain, we thought you'd appreciate this. Thanks very much for moving the release date of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince to nearly a year from now, we're very sure you'll make great use of those extra galleons.

                                  Love,

                                  Your fans—wizards, witches, and muggles alike

                                  PS Don't slip on the ice.

                                  PPS Watch out for those tent poles!"'
       'What the bloody hell's that mean?' said Andy, flapping about his suit with one hand in search of his mobile.
      Another disconcerting noise rumbled the floor of the garage.
      The parking lot attendant used both palms to sweep his hair back, once, twice, three times, perhaps in an effort to calm his nerves, 'I've sent Jimmy to look for security and ring the police if he can't find anyone—I don't understand it, I—'
       '—Did someone—has my windscreen actually been bashed in by a brick?'
      The little fellow nodded.
       'And,' Mr Head paused, squeezing his eyes shut, 'you said—you said there were mobs? Did you see who…?'
      'The one who did it? Yes. He appeared to be leading the rest, teenager, with a funny scar on his forehead.'
      All three pale faces swung round to face a new, very nearby sound, a collection of soft roars. Orange glittered in beads of sweat, fresh gems of perspiration reflecting… flame. Torches, to be exact.
      And then Mr Hohl exclaimed, 'Scar!'