Twelve Red Roses

I found this languishing in a forgotten folder on my computer today. Like most of my stuff, unfinished, but as I can't remember what was meant to happen next, if I ever knew, I don't think I'll get it completed. Sorry about the change in fonts, I can't seem to fix it. It complains about something or other in the Html when I try.

Someone was at the door. Expressing my frustration by means of a series of onomatopoeic exclamations, I shut my book with a resounding clap (it was a 400 page hardcover), rose from my chair and made for the door. Hastily putting on my “about-to-receive-an-unknown-guest” face, I opened the said portal to find an impatient courier upon the step.

“Sebastian Teach?” he snapped, daring me to be anyone else.

“That’s me,” I stammered.

“There’s a bouquet of flowers for you – sign here.” He thrust a technological do-hickey at me.

“A bouquet of what!”

“Flowers.”

I signed. He snatched the whatchamicallit back.

“Flowers?”

“Yes, flowers.”

Observing the conversation to have stagnated, the courier pitched a large, cellophane entombed bouquet at me, leaped into his van and roared backward down the drive. A little old lady with a walking frame shook her fist and hurled bloodcurdling oaths at him as he narrowly missed running her down.

I hurriedly shut the door before my ears were scorched off at the sound of her profane cursing and examined the unexpected garland. There were twelve red roses – blood red.

Who could they be from? A morbid thought hit me like an icy snowball of compacted fear and horror. A girl? Never! “Doesn’t the Post Office screen anything?” I suddenly found new meaning in these words of my sagacious friend Calvin.

In feverish anticipation I drew the customary card from amongst the carmine petals. Tentatively I read the flourished inscription – at least, I tried to. These flowers can't be from a girl, I mused, they might be an incomprehensible barrier to understanding at times, but never so unintelligible as this. There was one word – pistachio.

My mind reeled and staggered in a merry Bacchic dance. I was not used to such enigmatic mail. Voting papers were nothing in comparison.

Beneath this word was a series of numbers that resembled a phone number somewhat. Acting contrary to my nature, I reached for the phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Hello. It's Sebastian Teach speaking, I've just received twelve roses and your number was on the card so...”

There was a gasp on the other end and the sound of someone conversing excitedly in the background came thru the earpiece.

“Are the roses red?” they asked.

“Well, yes, but...”

“And violets are blue. We'll be there in half an hour.”

“What? I just want to know...”

But they had hung up. All I could do now was to wait.

They came in black cars, black suits, black glasses and patriotic ties – all twelve of them. I could swear they stepped from their cars and walked to the door in slow motion. The tallest addressed me.

“Morning,” he said in a voice that reminded me of an elephant seal (don't ask), “Ruben's the name – not my real one – but that's the one you'll call me by.”

He seemed a nice sort of chap. Grabbed me by the collar and chucked me in the car.

As we drove along we passed a red headed youth executing an amazing bicycle stunt over an elderly lady's car. You could tell he was well practiced. But Ruben was unmoved.

“The Boss wants you...."