Play Pals Vs Barclay
A Child's Play Story
Chapter One
The low chime echoed across the open penthouse as the elevator doors slowly creaked open, the living space nothing but an unorganised collection of unlabelled, generic cardboard boxes stacked chest height and spreading in every direction. Unopened toys, skateboards, train sets and untidy piles of board games littered the floor and surfaces as the disgruntled figure emerged from the lift and plucked the cigar from his mouth, a plume of thick smoke in his wake as he strode across the cold floor and towards the open-plan kitchen area beyond the living room, a handful of belated Christmas cards and the days newspaper quickly cast aside as he returned the cigar to his mouth and chomped down, hurriedly removing his rain coat and throwing it across the work surface, between the boxes and selection of new toys. This was the moment he had been waiting for at the end of yet another long and tiring day, unbuttoning the jacket of his suit and reaching for the decanter full of single malt, the syrupy scotch within ever so slightly coating the crystal as he placed it upon the work surface and stooped to the cupboard below, eventually fishing a tumbler from the back of the shelf and slamming it down by the whisky. Lifting the stopper from the decanter and pouring a generous glass, he once again removed the cigar from his mouth and lifted the glass, downing the scotch in one, the whisky given no chance to be savoured as he quickly swallowed and felt the alcohol burn the back of his throat, the mellow aftertaste lingering momentarily as he placed a cigar laden hand upon the work surface and quickly poured another glass. A look around the penthouse, he lifted the cigar back to his lips and proceeded to run his now empty hand through his head of thick silver hair, the frustration more than slight as he lifted the glass of scotch and stepped away from the kitchen, stopping momentarily to nudge the envelopes aside and pick up the newspaper he had so recently jettisoned before stepping silently towards the vast windows overlooking the city of Chicago. The desk, positioned to take in the majestic view, sat isolated from the rest of the living area, the low hum of the computer and the almost radioactive green glow of the monitor catching his eye as he stepped up and approached the window just beyond with a deflated sigh. Scotch in one hand, newspaper in the other, smoke billowed rapidly from the cigar chomped between his teeth as he looked out into the night. Darkness had crept ever so quickly over the city, the lights of cars storeys below zipping up and down the roads, carol singers in full voice on the odd street corners as the snow slowly started to fall. The occasional flake lingering momentarily as it spiralled alongside many others, the blizzard quickly closing in as the air soon turned thick and dense outside, the flakes landed on the penthouse windows and quickly melted, the lights of surrounding buildings and the streets below soon nothing other than a dull glow in the backdrop of the oncoming storm as he turned and approached the desk. Christmas was indeed a wonderful time of year, to most, but to Derek Sullivan it was merely the busiest time of year. Always had been, always would, the lack of family and friends rendering him free to work the long hours over the festive period, even if begrudgingly his workers chose not to. Nonchalantly dropping the newspaper on the surface of the desk and allowing himself to flop into the reclining leather seat, he gently placed the glass of scotch on the nearest coaster and quickly dispatched the almost spent cigar butt to the ash tray by the keyboard, turning his attention to the newspaper and lifting it once again, allowing the front page to unfold into view as he quietly allowed his eyes to take in the headline and accompanying picture once again, a sigh of frustration, maybe more of disbelief as the words stared right back at him and no doubt half of Chicago.
Is this doll cursed?
Boy says Chucky did it!
His breathing slow, his face stern, he felt the anger rising from within, a quick jerk of his wrist sending the newspaper flying across the penthouse, the pages fluttering open and separating almost immediately as the tabloid took flight. Grabbing the scotch from the desk, he lifted once again to his lips and snapped his head back, the warmth caressing his throat as he took a generous sip and stared back out into the cold Chicago night. Stock prices plummeting, sales reaching an all-time low and a board of directors slowly twisting the knife. Make no mistake, she'd pay for this. As far as he was concerned she would get her fifteen minutes of fame and more.
In fact, if he had his way, the name Karen Barclay would soon be infamous.