Template:Opco business day convention scene: Difference between revisions
Amwelladmin (talk | contribs) No edit summary |
Amwelladmin (talk | contribs) No edit summary |
||
| Line 5: | Line 5: | ||
Stage left: the [[Negotiator]] cuts a track through the hullaballoo. And then sees her. Hullaba-hell''oooo''. | Stage left: the [[Negotiator]] cuts a track through the hullaballoo. And then sees her. Hullaba-hell''oooo''. | ||
The counter scene is chaos. His bar presence is zilch. All the same he catches her eye — ''just''. There’s a flicker and its gone. She looks down. She looks away. She flushes red. ''There'': she steals another look through that tumbling fringe. '' | The counter scene is chaos. His bar presence is zilch. All the same he catches her eye — ''just''. There’s a flicker and its gone. She looks down. She looks away. She flushes red. ''There'': she steals another look through that tumbling fringe. The Negotiator knows it: ''this'' is the moment. | ||
He rams a [[Cayman Island rum cake|Tortuga chaser]]. That bad boy gives him wings. He | He rams a [[Cayman Island rum cake|Tortuga chaser]]. That bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?” | ||
The stares straight at him. “Not yet.” | |||
She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “Weren’t you in the [[day count fraction]] break-out session?” | |||
The Negotiator grins. “Actually, —” | |||
He shrugs. “I | “You’re a funny guy. Are you ''[[Following business day convention|following]]'' me?” | ||
He cracks out ol’ *innocent face*. | |||
She looks him up and down. She scoffs, but vibes playful. She runs a finger round the rim of his glass. Their eyes lock again. “O.K., soldier, so you say you were ''[[preceding business day convention|preceding]]'' me?” | |||
He shrugs. “I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I got here first.” | |||
So, you were, ahhh — [[Modified following business day convention|''modified'' following]] me?” | So, you were, ahhh — [[Modified following business day convention|''modified'' following]] me?” | ||
| Line 21: | Line 27: | ||
He spits his drink. She pops an olive. The zydeco wails. They get ''close''. | He spits his drink. She pops an olive. The zydeco wails. They get ''close''. | ||
She’s nervous. She bites her lip. She looks about. She ''gasps'' – clocks something, some''one'', over her shoulder. She leans in. She whispers in his ear – her lips touch his lobe. | She’s nervous. She bites her lip. She looks about. She ''gasps'' – clocks something, some''one'', over her shoulder. She leans in. She whispers in his ear – her lips touch his lobe. It’s ''hot''. | ||
“Have you got something for me, big boy?” | |||
He whispers back. His lips touch ''her'' lobe. It’s ''infernal''. | |||
“Well do you want something?” | |||
“Honey, I’ll take ''anything''. No questions asked.” She runs a finger down his gilet. | |||
“Anything?” | “Anything?” | ||
She takes a step back. “Come find me. Come find ''yourself''.” | She takes a step back. That half-cocked smile. “Come find me. Come find ''yourself''.” | ||
“When?” | “When?” | ||
| Line 39: | Line 45: | ||
“End of the month. For ''business''.” | “End of the month. For ''business''.” | ||
“End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at | “End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at his wrist: a Rolodex Perpetual. Top of the range. | ||
“Nice piece.” | “Nice piece.” | ||
| Line 47: | Line 53: | ||
She leans in close. Her breath is hot. “Work it out, big boy.” | She leans in close. Her breath is hot. “Work it out, big boy.” | ||
His professional circuits click in fast. It’s the thirtieth | His professional circuits click in fast. It’s the thirtieth: month-end proximate. ''Tomorrow is Saturday''. He tips the ambiguity right off the bat. “Wait: [[Following business day convention|Following]] or [[Modified Following business day convention|Modified Following]]?” | ||
“I like the way you’re thinking,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, on the raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “Actually –” | “I like the way you’re thinking,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, on the raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “Actually –” | ||
As she floats away she tosses something. The Negotiator snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: ''HACIENDA 547''. | |||
He turns to look but the ocean’s closing up. | |||
“Wait – what’s your name?” | |||
But she is ''gone''. | |||
Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “I’m [[Marissa Planasset|Marissa]].” | |||
He says it to himself: “''Marissa''.” | |||
A Bus-boy rocks by with bacon-wrapped scallops in newsprint party hats. He leans in casually, as he goes. “Careful with her, sir: She’s an agent.” | A Bus-boy rocks by with bacon-wrapped scallops in newsprint party hats. He leans in casually, as he goes. “Careful with her, sir: She’s an [[Process agent|agent]].” | ||
Revision as of 16:41, 21 January 2023
The business day convention winds down. The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar hard: Actual/actual chit-chat is thirsty work. The MTM Grand is buzzing. A band plays flat-stick Cajun washboard scat. They play it loud. It sets a groove.
Waiters boogie-woogie through the crowd. They flog cold beers and live crabs on overhead trays. Nippers gnash. Punters chug Satoshi Extra-Dry. It’s an on-chain open bar. The vodka luge hits peak. Daycount chit-chat hits peak. The accordion swing-jive hits peak: breakneck BPM.
Stage left: the Negotiator cuts a track through the hullaballoo. And then sees her. Hullaba-helloooo.
The counter scene is chaos. His bar presence is zilch. All the same he catches her eye — just. There’s a flicker and its gone. She looks down. She looks away. She flushes red. There: she steals another look through that tumbling fringe. The Negotiator knows it: this is the moment.
He rams a Tortuga chaser. That bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?”
The stares straight at him. “Not yet.”
She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “Weren’t you in the day count fraction break-out session?”
The Negotiator grins. “Actually, —”
“You’re a funny guy. Are you following me?”
He cracks out ol’ *innocent face*.
She looks him up and down. She scoffs, but vibes playful. She runs a finger round the rim of his glass. Their eyes lock again. “O.K., soldier, so you say you were preceding me?”
He shrugs. “I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I got here first.”
So, you were, ahhh — modified following me?”
He spits his drink. She pops an olive. The zydeco wails. They get close.
She’s nervous. She bites her lip. She looks about. She gasps – clocks something, someone, over her shoulder. She leans in. She whispers in his ear – her lips touch his lobe. It’s hot.
“Have you got something for me, big boy?”
He whispers back. His lips touch her lobe. It’s infernal.
“Well do you want something?”
“Honey, I’ll take anything. No questions asked.” She runs a finger down his gilet.
“Anything?”
She takes a step back. That half-cocked smile. “Come find me. Come find yourself.”
“When?”
“End of the month. For business.”
“End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at his wrist: a Rolodex Perpetual. Top of the range.
“Nice piece.”
“So, tomorrow?”
She leans in close. Her breath is hot. “Work it out, big boy.”
His professional circuits click in fast. It’s the thirtieth: month-end proximate. Tomorrow is Saturday. He tips the ambiguity right off the bat. “Wait: Following or Modified Following?”
“I like the way you’re thinking,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, on the raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “Actually –”
As she floats away she tosses something. The Negotiator snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: HACIENDA 547.
He turns to look but the ocean’s closing up.
“Wait – what’s your name?”
But she is gone.
Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “I’m Marissa.”
He says it to himself: “Marissa.”
A Bus-boy rocks by with bacon-wrapped scallops in newsprint party hats. He leans in casually, as he goes. “Careful with her, sir: She’s an agent.”