The Gathering Storm: An Opco Boone Adventure

The Adventures of Opco Boone, Legal Ace™ →Go uptown Index: Click ᐅ to expand: Opco Boone Finance fiction Tell me more Sign up for our newsletter — or just get in touch: for ½ a weekly 🍺 you get to consult JC. Ask about it here.

A gunmetal sky was spotting Barrington Road with fat cold blobs as the station clock struck nine. The underground exhaled: a musty gust of sullen commuters spilled onto the pavement, prompting a squabble of black brollies. The squabble dispersed, leaving Edd Sweeney standing under a dripping eve. He didn’t have a brolly or an overcoat and was, as usual, late. He sighed, tucked his chin into his collar and began his scuttle to the office.

Neither he, nor of the brolly-wielding pigeons about him, noticed the great bird perched atop the broken battlements lining the tenement across the road. Nor did the workmen affixing a new sign to the tired bricks below it: EAGLE DWELLINGS.

Sweeney snagged a copy of The Morning Bugle and opened it over his head. He did not notice the billboard: FUNDAMENTAL PARTICLE DISCOVERED. The paper was sopping grey rag within a minute. Sweeney scuttled along.

He hopped over a puddle. Behind him, an urgent toot. “Hi, Sweeney, old man!”

Sweeney turned to see a plump face beaming at him from a taxi. The face belonged to fellow with apple cheeks, floppy hair and a chalk-stripe suit whom Sweeney recognised at once.

“Oh, hallo, Roly.” Roly Punchface was a trainee in his department.

“I say, aren’t you running a bit late? Cripes, I’m late enough, and I’ve got wheels!” Roly slapped the taxi door happily.

Sweeney nodded and approached the taxi door hopefully.

“Oh well: See you at the office! Don’t get too wet!” As he pushed the window back up, Roly barked, “Let’s crack on, driver!”

Sweeney stared in damp disbelief as the taxi pulled back into the traffic, drenching his trousers as it went.

***

***

The artist once known as the Barber collected a sheaf from the printer and stalk back towards the office that he shared with Roly.

A mildewed graveyard of tombstones stretched away across his desk hemmed in and overgrown by gnarled stacks of offering circulars. He cleared a space for his printing precipitating a small avalanche a metre away in which a wad of overgrown trust deeds and closing agendas, belching side letters and half-wrecked amendment agreements cascaded into a wastepaper basket and onto the floor.

Elements of the blues brothers putting the band back together and wake up neo. BJA costs in the through some technological technology service then makes his way into the office in a client meeting room. Also no element of weird wizards at the beginning of Harry potter that he sees all around is Fleet Street office.

I’m reviewing
The confirmation
Can a fellow be a minion all his days?
All the folders — this information
Who knew a bank could set-off in oh, so many ways?

“I say has, that deal of yours gone pear-shaped?” Barber looked up at a smug, pudgy, floppy-haired youth, leaning on his door-jamb. The kid pronounced it paar.

The Barber sighed. “Yes, Roly, you could say that.”

Barbers head was framed by poster of the grand canyon bearing the legend “Keep going: it may not be by the path you anticipated; it may not be the outcome you expect, but you will get there. Don’t give up!”

Barbers skin was grey, his complexion waxen.

One more closing agenda slid spontaneously — gratefully — into the wastepaper basket.

“File that one in the circular filing cabinet,” quipped Roly. He pronounced it sahcular. “I had one earlier” — ahleear — “this week that properly cratered. Client was a total” — taytle — “wally.”

Roly gets acosted by some brutal rentseekers in an alley. barber sees it, goes down and pulls some legal ninja moves. he has to put a stupefying move on Roly so he doesn't know. Barber continues to get roly out of trouble, roly wakes up and assumes it is something he did himself, and lords it over stupid barber. basically a hong kong phooey vibe.