Sentence The Onehundredandninetieth
George Gill sighed, and laid aside his book on the cenotes of the Mayans of Central America – the Specialist Subject he was revising for his upcoming appearance on Mastermind and, being one of the few cognoscenti, for which, under the guise of Lemuel Prendergast, he was preparing the Questions which would be put to him and therefore had every expectation of being able to answer; “Morning, Martin,” he hadn't required to check the caller display, for his prodigious memory enabled him to instantly identify every one of the 200 numbers stored, by the different music played (for Martin Elginbrod it was, appropriately, considering the Advocate's proclivities, 'The Hall of The Mountain King' as whistled by the Peter Lorre, playing the child murderer in Fritz Lang's 'M') “what can I do you for?” the little jocular remark which had worn thin 25 or 30 years ago; “have you been peculating again? some of your clients' ill gotten gains gone ill-gotten again?” he chuckled, for the seven hundred and twenty-first time, by Elginbrod's count; “someone's been sniffing,” hissed Elginbrod. “I don't know who – he's left no tracks, but my security's been well and turly broached, the fucker's been into my files, the secret ones, the Fucking Top Secret ones, even uploaded a photo of me and My Man, I don't know how he got it – I've had my whole office swept and practically dismantled, but haven't found the camera – you'd better warn the others!” and George stared at the phone in his hand, as if he didn't quite know what it was, he felt as though a sink-hole had just opened beneath his Morningside house and he was falling into it, like the title sequence for 'Mad Men' though it was the music from 'Vertigo' that swelled and died in his head; “who,” he asked, though he knew exactly who; “the others from Shangri La, don't come the Dummy with me, George, there isn't time; meet tonight at The Canny Mans, 8pm, tell them all they have to be there,” and with a click the phone went dead, and with a click, George Gill switched off, fell to his knees and vomited all over his book of
superb colour photographs, some taken inside the amazing sink-holes, and his bookmark, “a rather indiscreet one”, he thought as his face turned puce, of himself with a tasty little girl he'd enjoyed on his last visit to The Yucatan Peninsula, “I mustn't let Sandra find that,” and his face splashed into his vomit as he sprawled on the thick-piled carpet and in the distance, far off, faintly, he could hear the vacuum cleaner his wife was using up in the Gable Room where she liked to spend her afternoons, repairing the embroidery on his Masonic Regalia, and sewing little cross-stitch vignettes to sell through one of the Charity Shops George supported; she wouldn't be down for a couple of hours and he might be dead by then – “what a way to go,” he thought, “not with a whimper but a squelch!”
George Gill sighed, and laid aside his book on the cenotes of the Mayans of Central America – the Specialist Subject he was revising for his upcoming appearance on Mastermind and, being one of the few cognoscenti, for which, under the guise of Lemuel Prendergast, he was preparing the Questions which would be put to him and therefore had every expectation of being able to answer; “Morning, Martin,” he hadn't required to check the caller display, for his prodigious memory enabled him to instantly identify every one of the 200 numbers stored, by the different music played (for Martin Elginbrod it was, appropriately, considering the Advocate's proclivities, 'The Hall of The Mountain King' as whistled by the Peter Lorre, playing the child murderer in Fritz Lang's 'M') “what can I do you for?” the little jocular remark which had worn thin 25 or 30 years ago; “have you been peculating again? some of your clients' ill gotten gains gone ill-gotten again?” he chuckled, for the seven hundred and twenty-first time, by Elginbrod's count; “someone's been sniffing,” hissed Elginbrod. “I don't know who – he's left no tracks, but my security's been well and turly broached, the fucker's been into my files, the secret ones, the Fucking Top Secret ones, even uploaded a photo of me and My Man, I don't know how he got it – I've had my whole office swept and practically dismantled, but haven't found the camera – you'd better warn the others!” and George stared at the phone in his hand, as if he didn't quite know what it was, he felt as though a sink-hole had just opened beneath his Morningside house and he was falling into it, like the title sequence for 'Mad Men' though it was the music from 'Vertigo' that swelled and died in his head; “who,” he asked, though he knew exactly who; “the others from Shangri La, don't come the Dummy with me, George, there isn't time; meet tonight at The Canny Mans, 8pm, tell them all they have to be there,” and with a click the phone went dead, and with a click, George Gill switched off, fell to his knees and vomited all over his book of
superb colour photographs, some taken inside the amazing sink-holes, and his bookmark, “a rather indiscreet one”, he thought as his face turned puce, of himself with a tasty little girl he'd enjoyed on his last visit to The Yucatan Peninsula, “I mustn't let Sandra find that,” and his face splashed into his vomit as he sprawled on the thick-piled carpet and in the distance, far off, faintly, he could hear the vacuum cleaner his wife was using up in the Gable Room where she liked to spend her afternoons, repairing the embroidery on his Masonic Regalia, and sewing little cross-stitch vignettes to sell through one of the Charity Shops George supported; she wouldn't be down for a couple of hours and he might be dead by then – “what a way to go,” he thought, “not with a whimper but a squelch!”
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