Template:Opco business day convention scene: Difference between revisions

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The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar ''hard'': [[Actual/actual]] chit-chat is thirsty work.  
The [[business day convention]] winds down. The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar ''hard'': [[TARGET]] chit-chat is thirsty work. The MTM Grand is buzzing. The house band plays flat-stick Cajun washboard scat. They play it loud. It kicks an angsty groove.


Waiters boogie-woogie through the crowd. They flog cold beers and live crabs on overhead trays. Nippers gnash. Punters chug [[Bitcoin|Satoshi]] Extra-Dry. It’s an [[Blockchain|on-chain]] open bar. The vodka luge hits peak. [[Day count fraction|Daycount]] chit-chat hits peak. The accordion swing-jive hits peak: ''breakneck'' BPM.  
Waiters boogie-woogie through the crowd. They flog cold beers and live crabs on overhead trays. Nippers gnash. Punters chug [[Bitcoin|Satoshi]] Extra-Dry. It’s an [[Blockchain|on-chain]] open bar. The vodka luge hits peak. [[Day count fraction|Daycount]] chit-chat hits peak. The accordion swing-jive hits peak: ''breakneck'' BPM.  
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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. ''This'' is the moment.  
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.  


He rams a [[Cayman Island rum cake|Tortuga chaser]]. That bad boy gives him wings. He sidles up.
He knows it: ''this'' is his moment.  


She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “You ''[[Following business day convention|following]]'' me, youngster?”
He rams a [[Cayman Island rum cake|Tortuga chaser]]: that bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?”


He cracks out ol’ *innocent face*. “Look, lady: I was here first.”
She stares straight at him. “Not yet.”


She looks him up and down. “Is that a fact.” 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]]''?”
She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “Weren’t you in the [[day count fraction]] break-out session?”


He shrugs. “I guess I figured you would wind up here eventually, so I just made sure I got here first.”
The Negotiator grins. “Actually, —”


So, you were, ahhh — [[Modified following business day convention|''modified'' following]] me?”
“You’re a funny guy. Are you ''[[Following business day convention|following]]'' me?”


He spits his drink. She pops an olive. The zydeco wails. They get ''close''.
He cracks out his *innocent face*. “I was here first —”


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 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., so you were ''[[preceding business day convention|preceding]]'' me?”


He wants to explode.
“I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I was in place.” He shrugs. “Call it [[Modified following business day convention|''modified'' following]] you.


“Have you got something for me, big boy?”
He pops an olive.


He whispers back. His lips touch ''her'' lobe. “Well do you want something?”
She spits her drink.  


“Oh, honey, I’ll take ''anything''. No questions asked.” She runs a finger down his
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 – 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?”


“Come find me. Come find ''yourself''.”  
She takes a step back. That half-cocked smile. “Come find me. Come find ''yourself''.”  


“When?”
“When?”
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“End of the month. For ''business''.”
“End of the month. For ''business''.”


“End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at the Rolodex on his wrist: a Perpetual Oyster “Datejust” — top of the range.
“End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at his wrist: a Rolodex Perpetual. Top of the range.


“Nice piece.”
“Nice piece.”


“Tomorrow?”
“So, tomorrow?”
 
“Work it out, big boy,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, upon a raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “''[[Actual/Actual|Actually]]'' –”


She leans in close. Her breath is hot. “Work it out, big boy.
As she floats away she tosses something. He snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: ''HACIENDA 547''. She floats away.


His professional circuits click in fast. Tomorrow is Saturday. It is the thirtieth. It is  month-end proximate. He tips the ambiguity right off the bat. “Wait: Following or Modified Following?”
“Wait – what’s your name?”


“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 –”
She floats on. Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “[[Marissa Planasset|Marissa]].


“I – Actually? But wait – what’s your name?”
He reaches out but she’s gone, her wake dissolving into an angry sea.


As she floats away she tosses something. The Negotiator snatches it. It’s a room-key. There is a number punched into the plastic. HACIENDA 547. He turns to look at her but she is further downstream. The ocean closes up, and she is gone. Through the chatter, there is a tight-point whisper, and it 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]].”

Latest revision as of 14:02, 27 March 2024

The business day convention winds down. The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar hard: TARGET chit-chat is thirsty work. The MTM Grand is buzzing. The house band plays flat-stick Cajun washboard scat. They play it loud. It kicks an angsty 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.

He knows it: this is his moment.

He rams a Tortuga chaser: that bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?”

She 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 his *innocent face*. “I was here first —”

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., so you were preceding me?”

“I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I was in place.” He shrugs. “Call it modified following you.”

He pops an olive.

She spits her drink.

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 – 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?”

“Work it out, big boy,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, upon a raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “Actually –”

As she floats away she tosses something. He snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: HACIENDA 547. She floats away.

“Wait – what’s your name?”

She floats on. Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “Marissa.”

He reaches out but she’s gone, her wake dissolving into an angry sea.

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.”