HDC Officer Jonathan Cohen swept the lint off the visor of his shiny cap as he leapt out of the giant white sport-utility vehicle, emblazoned with the stirring logo of the California Department of Housing and Community Development. Today, he was going to bust a landlord. Up in Sacramento, they'd received a hot tip that a scumbag owner in Santa Monica was trying to extort pet rent on top of the terms of a signed lease agreement. He'd been barreling down the 5 freeway at 65 miles an hour to get to Santa Monica by early afternoon, and he'd done it, him and his trusty Ford Explosion, steering with one eye while reading the case file with the other. Now, he was here; the gold braid on his dress uniform shone like the sun, and his epaulets were resplendent.
He knocked on the door of the bottom apartment, which was where nefarious owners were often found. "Mrs. Schreck?" The door opened a crack. He wedged himself inside, breaking the chain, and leapt into the dim foyer. Drawing his weapon, he shouted, "Freeze! HCD!"
"Jonathan, this is the second time you've woken me up tonight! Have you taken all your medicine?" Et cetera.
"WE'RE going through!" The Commander's voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. "We can't make it, sir. It's spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me." "I'm not asking you, Lieutenant Berg," said the Commander. "Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We're going through!" The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" repeated Lieutenant Berg. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the Commander. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. "The Old Man'll get us through," they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of hell!" . . .
"Not so fast! You're driving too fast!" said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?"
"Hmm?" said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You know I don't like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. "You're tensed up again," said Mrs. Mitty. "It's one of your days. I wish you'd let Dr. Renshaw look you over."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2006-06-23 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 06:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 08:19 pm (UTC)HDC Officer Jonathan Cohen swept the lint off the visor of his shiny cap as he leapt out of the giant white sport-utility vehicle, emblazoned with the stirring logo of the California Department of Housing and Community Development. Today, he was going to bust a landlord. Up in Sacramento, they'd received a hot tip that a scumbag owner in Santa Monica was trying to extort pet rent on top of the terms of a signed lease agreement. He'd been barreling down the 5 freeway at 65 miles an hour to get to Santa Monica by early afternoon, and he'd done it, him and his trusty Ford Explosion, steering with one eye while reading the case file with the other. Now, he was here; the gold braid on his dress uniform shone like the sun, and his epaulets were resplendent.
He knocked on the door of the bottom apartment, which was where nefarious owners were often found. "Mrs. Schreck?" The door opened a crack. He wedged himself inside, breaking the chain, and leapt into the dim foyer. Drawing his weapon, he shouted, "Freeze! HCD!"
"Jonathan, this is the second time you've woken me up tonight! Have you taken all your medicine?" Et cetera.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 06:45 pm (UTC)"Not so fast! You're driving too fast!" said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?"
"Hmm?" said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You know I don't like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. "You're tensed up again," said Mrs. Mitty. "It's one of your days. I wish you'd let Dr. Renshaw look you over."