Lamb calmly crossed the long entryway of the lobby, the wooden heels of his thousand-dollar authentic leather oxfords—from genetically unique cattle, not those clone farm abominations—clicked with each step upon the quartz floor like a metronome, a prelude to the requiem. Though, the impressive space was designed such that the sounds of the lobby lived short lives; echoes would not be conducive to the secret and volatile sorts of conversations had between the representatives of Wolfram Syndicated and their clientele.
A filthy smile appeared so briefly across Lamb’s lips that an onlooker would have assumed it to be a wild imagining. The stillness before the impending chaos was his only source of delight. In an hour’s time, when the executive board would be marched through this same lobby under the custody of agency officials, black hooded and cuffed to one another in a chain link parade, there would indeed be chaos.
A metal detector separated him from the reception counter, and a red spotlight fell upon him as he passed through. He had only one metallic item large enough to upset the scanner. He opened his jacket and revealed his badge.
“Terrance Lamb, here to see Chairman Blist, please.”
Notes: I used an image as a writing prompt for this piece. You may be able to find the image on the artist’s ArtStation page.
Warmup Pages 