Writer's Notebook

Brian sat in front of his phone for almost two hours. Even the mice came out to see what was happening. And a psychic would have had the greatest difficulty picking up any information transmitting himself through his brain. A foot moved; the mice scattered; Brian got up. He opened the draw, took out the keys. He was going down; he'd do it in style. 5 minutes later he was back in his office. Locking the door behind him, he spread everything out on his desk. Caviar, foie gras, truffles, duck leg confit, escargots, and an assortment of cheeses from all over France. And to wash it down, three bottles of Champagne, enough to push him over the top. He had bought these things just that morning. Apart from the samples he had taken, everything was still in the company transit van, waiting for him to get started. The spread was to be the highlight of the shareholders' meeting that evening. Now he would give them something else to talk about.

It took him a couple of hours to get through his condemned man's meal. No one phoned and no one tried to get into the office. Everyone knew he would be busy in his secret location exercising his magic for that evening. Downing the last of the Champagne he picked up the keys to the transit and left the office. He noticed with cold detachment the chairman's limousine in its usual place alongside the wall of the administrative block. He must have been doing well over a hundred when the transit smashed into the limousine and exploded. There would be no feast that evening.