Post by Ghost on Apr 20, 2009 5:21:19 GMT -5
Log entry 1 –
01:15 a.m. Oceanica, Flight 227. Florida to England
I hate Austin DeMiller.
No. The word “hate” is too mild a description for the emotions I feel towards him
…
Yes, “Loathe” is a much better adjective. I loathe Austin DeMiller – my newest babysitter.
I made it no secret how uncomfortable heights make me, how even being several feet off the ground makes my head spin, and yet he still insists on having my main form of transport being by plane. His excuse – “it takes less time and charge than travelling by sea does” and that “as someone as intelligent as you, Ghost, you should understand how important time and money is in your line of duty. In the months that it takes you to cross the Pacific Ocean forty severe crimes go unsold and the death count reaches higher.”
Idiot. The number of unsolved crimes is much higher than a mere forty. Besides, my contribution doesn’t have a major affect on those numbers, so what does it matter anyway? I have to suffer this much discomfort for people who I do not know – dead people?
Really, Quillish is getting worse and worse with who he employs to be my bodyguards. At least David, my previous form of protection, didn’t put on an act of caring about me. He always made certain to state that he was only following me around for money.
Urgh. Why can’t planes ever fly smoothly? And where’s the wine I ordered five minutes ago?
I know that self-medicating one’s self is stupid, no matter what form of substance they use, but the only way that I’m going to survive this plane trip is with the aid of alcohol. Even if I am, technically, too young to drink. Who’s going to tell me “no”, anyway?
The “Bay Harbour Butcher” was easily solved. Took me no more than a week to determine the murderer and gather the evidence to condemn him to his crimes. Really, Americans are hopeless when it comes to violence. At least I’ll be allowed to rejuvenate at Home for a while, there won’t be any annoying calls from the U.N. requesting my assistance, and Austin won’t be around either. It’ll be good to see Quillish again, and maybe … him too.
Finally, my wine is here. I’m going to try and sleep the rest of this nightmarish trip away.
My successful level for doing so is pathetically low.
01:15 a.m. Oceanica, Flight 227. Florida to England
I hate Austin DeMiller.
No. The word “hate” is too mild a description for the emotions I feel towards him
…
Yes, “Loathe” is a much better adjective. I loathe Austin DeMiller – my newest babysitter.
I made it no secret how uncomfortable heights make me, how even being several feet off the ground makes my head spin, and yet he still insists on having my main form of transport being by plane. His excuse – “it takes less time and charge than travelling by sea does” and that “as someone as intelligent as you, Ghost, you should understand how important time and money is in your line of duty. In the months that it takes you to cross the Pacific Ocean forty severe crimes go unsold and the death count reaches higher.”
Idiot. The number of unsolved crimes is much higher than a mere forty. Besides, my contribution doesn’t have a major affect on those numbers, so what does it matter anyway? I have to suffer this much discomfort for people who I do not know – dead people?
Really, Quillish is getting worse and worse with who he employs to be my bodyguards. At least David, my previous form of protection, didn’t put on an act of caring about me. He always made certain to state that he was only following me around for money.
Urgh. Why can’t planes ever fly smoothly? And where’s the wine I ordered five minutes ago?
I know that self-medicating one’s self is stupid, no matter what form of substance they use, but the only way that I’m going to survive this plane trip is with the aid of alcohol. Even if I am, technically, too young to drink. Who’s going to tell me “no”, anyway?
The “Bay Harbour Butcher” was easily solved. Took me no more than a week to determine the murderer and gather the evidence to condemn him to his crimes. Really, Americans are hopeless when it comes to violence. At least I’ll be allowed to rejuvenate at Home for a while, there won’t be any annoying calls from the U.N. requesting my assistance, and Austin won’t be around either. It’ll be good to see Quillish again, and maybe … him too.
Finally, my wine is here. I’m going to try and sleep the rest of this nightmarish trip away.
My successful level for doing so is pathetically low.
Ghost
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