It seems that that we are at a bit of an impasse. We are all here together at my conference table—yours truly, the Frenchman, the knockout, and the freakazoid.
Oh, and of course the three boxes.
“So what game are you playing?” LeClaire asks Markku. He’s been studying the boxes for the past few seconds. He seems troubled by their presence.
Markku does not respond. Daphne looks on, half-interested, apparently secure in the knowledge that Monsieur LeClaire has things well in hand.
Vanessa has come and gone, leaving fresh hot beverages and a basket of delightful blueberry muffins in her wake. I offer them around, but there are no takers. Daphne smiles sweetly and makes some throwaway comment about watching her weight. LeClaire gives me a polite, if distracted, merci non. He’s only got eyes for the big man. For his part, Markku registers absolutely no interest in my offer.
So, having done my hostly duties, I grab one, drop it on one of the dainty little china plates that Vanessa left for each of us, split it in half, and begin applying a generous helping of butter.
Perhaps the smell of the split muffin catches Markku’s attention—although I thought they smelled pretty good anyway. Good enough to get the old stomach rumbling, anyhow. Or maybe I was buttering too loudly. I don’t know. Anyway, whatever the problem is, Markku whips around and gives me a sneer.
“Do you require food? Now?”
Well, ah, gee…I guess I do, actually. I mean, I’m not sure that I actually require it. All told, I would probably benefit from a somewhat diminished blueberry muffin intake. But dammit, this is my office. And these are my muffins. Just because this mutant bird freak shows up and starts casually talking about how impractical it would be to kill me, does that mean I have to go without eating?
In case I haven’t mentioned it lately, this entire situation sucks.
