orudge

Orudge, the SROTU, reminds me of… an Interpol agent. I have this fixed image in my mind of orudge grabbing someone’s arm, twisting it around to his victim’s back and slamming him against a wall, all inside an interrogation room (you know, one of those with the one-way-see mirror, and the metal table and chairs chained to the floor?).

Allow me to relate how I got to this image:

Orudge walks nonchalantly down a street in St. Andrews, Fife, Scotland. It’s a rather clear day, and the sound of waves can be heard nearby. Gulls and other sea-birds can be heard squawking in the distance, and the smell of salt-water is sweet in the air. It is almost sun-down, and orudge is heading back to his dorm.

As he makes his way towards his abode, his mobile rings. It’s a ring-tone he hasn’t heard in some time, and it startles him. He reaches into his left pocket, and retrieves his Samsung D600. With a sigh, he answers.

“Agent, we have a situation in your vicinity,” says a strict and anxious female voice.

“What is it now?” asks orudge impatiently. He preferred his previous operator, who seemed to have retired in the past month. The older woman had a softer, calmer, more composed voice.

“We have new information on the location of an assassin working for Obhiamoo” says the woman.

Orudge stops in his tracks and blanches visibly. He had arrested the noted Ugandan arms-seller a year ago, on a trip to Brazil. It had only been chance that the man had been hiding in a dwelling near orudge’s father’s home, and that orudge had noticed and recognized the man despite his extensive plastic surgery. A DNA exam from a cigar Obhiamoo had discarded carelessly had confirmed his identity.

“Who is it?” asked orudge, and continued his nonchalant walk, regaining his composure. He hated these parts… when he didn’t know where the person was, but could feel his presence. But walking quicker would arouse suspicion. Orudge liked to keep the element of surprise whenever possible.

As the operator filled him in with details, orudge reached his dorm. He expertly extricated his MacBook from a jungle of cables, book, and dirty laundry, and turned it on. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he logged into the Interpol site and downloaded the file his operator had prepared for him. He sighed as he got to work, reading the asasin’s biography and personal details, including weaponry taste and special tactics abilities.

Hyronymus, as he was known in the criminal world, was a mystery. There was very little information, save for extensive detailing on his computer and cyber-world doings and crimes. Trained and dishonourably discharged by the U.S. Navy (Seal), he disappeared from the main-stream world after being sent on a mission by the CIA to Uganda, where it is reported he met with Obhiamoo.

Orudge sighed, it would have probably been best to accept the offer from Interpol to be put into protective custody in the United States. Apple wasn’t bad to work for anyway. But he had insisted on waiting until the summer, and now he had a professionally trained (and well-paid) assassin on his tail. Of course, it wasn’t too late to take up the offer if, that is, he could somehow avoid Hyronymous.

 

TO BE CONTINUED . . . .