Russ Pitts Fan Fic
Durham, North Carolina
The office was deserted. Everyone was gone. The calming blue light of a single LCD screen lit the office of Mr Pitts.
Russ Pitts. The Editor in Chief of , was spearheading the last bastion of intelligence – A glimmer of high-brow hope for the gaming community. Week after week he commissioned intrinsic analizations of the state gaming was currently in – Heck, he even wrote a few. Life was good.
The hours weren't.
Russ Pitts. The Editor in Chief of , was spearheading the last few hours of his day - A glimmer of moonlight slashed across his desk, the blue glow emulsified by the calming night light. It was late, too late, it was incomprehensible to his workmates why Russ insisted on staying so focused on his job. The saying of the office was "Russ Pitts has one holiday a year – and that's only 2 hours for a Nerf battle!" It used to be funny, but everyone knew running a intellectually focused web based magazine has its grasp on the human mind.
Was Russ Pitts even alive? Or was he just a string of code, so similar to the games he writes about.
Nobody knew.
Russ leaned back on his mahogany leather armchair and contemplated the next few words. If the semantics of these next few utterances were not right, the entire article would desecrate his reputation. He swivelled around to the large glass window behind him and leaned over to the pulley system controlling the blinds. He uncovered the night sky like an Olympian god. The soothing beams of light glazed the room. Stars twinkling, Moon hanging, Russ thinking.
A perfect night. Clear and navy blue. Stars shone brightly and Russ stroked his well groomed facial hair.
Russ removed his sweater and undid his tie. He slovenly tossed it to the floor while he undid the first few buttons on his blue chequered shirt. He stretched his legs out and slumped into the chair.
Bliss.
For once Russ was unwinding.
Until someone banged on his door.
"Russell? Russell, are you in here?"
The door creaked open, a crack of warm yellowing light illuminated the room, section by section. This shaft of light slowly increased in size as the door was pushed ajar and the room was engulfed in the orangey artificial light.
A battle of luminosity occurred, the clash of the crackling, electronic blue beam against the flood of fiery, burning orange flush. It stood as a mirage like background of the silhouetted encroaching figure. A hand thrust towards Russ as he sank into his chair. The leather groaned and wheels shrill squeak cut through the silence.
The black shape twisted and contorted itself into a recognisable profile.
It was Susan.
Susan Arendt was the backbone of Russ, without Susan there would be nothing. No silly jokes, no insightful criticism and no object of affection.
"Russell? Russell? What are you doing here this late?" She said softly.
Russ rose out of the leather pit he cast himself into. He brushed down his shirt, the blue colour morphed into a shade of sanguine due to the sunny light Susan cast upon the office. Russ rose to his feet and pulled a weak smile which Susan answered with a smug yet friendly gaze.
"Just – Just getting this week's issue ready. There's been a load of tat that needs sorting. Duty be where duty done, eh?" Russ replied. They both knew he didn't make any sense, the pressures of work Susan pondered.
"Let's get you home. Come with me, I'll give you a lift."
Russ hesitated. He didn't think this was a romantic liaison, but his wealth of experience was not vast enough to decode the pragmatics of this peculiar offer. He stood their puzzled, dumbfounded even. Susan smiled again. "I'll even make you bacon Russell."
"What is this?" Russ thought. "Perhaps this is flirting. Perhaps bacon is a euphemism for something? Something more?" Without worry Russ leapt upon the opportunity.
"That sounds lovely. Yes. Let's blow this joint!" He said with a chuckle. Susan looked impressed, Russ was not as uptight as he usually is. She speculated that she may have interrupted an illegal 'creative' session, and if so, driving him home would be the best thing anyway. She opened her palm at hip level and gestured towards Russ. He clasped her dainty hand as she led him out of the office.
She pulled him through the mesh of desks and cubicles and towards the exit.
"Wait!" Russ said.
Susan looked worried.
"Aren't we going to turn the lights out before we go? Aren't we, Susan? Aren't we?" Russ said with a cheeky rictus grin.
"This bloody joke" Susan sighed.
"Oh come on! It's funny! Because you're name is Arendt and Aren't sounds like it! Aren't, Arendt, aren't, Arendt!" Russ gushed.
And with that spectacular comedy line Susan dragged him out the room and bundeled him into the car.
" Tomorrow is another day" she whispered to herself.
Daylight hit Durham. A new day, a chance to set things straight.
After the mess of the night before, Russ realised he had left his car in the company parking lot. His sudden infatuation with Susan had blinded him of simple common sense. This was a rarity, as Russ was renowned for being a cunning and logical man, a man who could manipulate the chess pieces on the board into playing checkers – He was that good.
Fastening the clip of the ocean blue helmet under his gristly chin, Russ headed towards his utility room. He hauled his bicycle out of the house and wheeled it to the curb. He flourished with his right foot, knocking out the attached kickstand leaving the bike standing upright.
"Smooth criminal" Russ said under his breath, chuckling at the thought.
Russ darted inside and grabbed his MacBook Air and gently placed it into the pretty basket on the front of the bike. He locked his front door and darted back to the bicycle, to protect it from potential ne'er-do-wells while munching on the last few shards of buttered brown toast.
The commute was not far from Russ's abode. He picked out his accommodation to accommodate his new job as Editor in Chief just a few years ago; he needed to be near the office at any given time in case something awful happens to the weekly edition. Russ's reputation was also his responsibility, a rarity in most careers. Russ knew this and took pride in what he did and always made sure what he published was the best. He once sent out an entire edition with all 4 articles written by himself, as all the submitted trash he was handed did not meet his expectations of quality. That was a rare occurrence, if there is any problem with an article Russ normally finds his best friend to help.
"There's no junk in John Funk!" Russ say's, seemingly daily.
John Funk was a man who did not expect how his life would pan out. While a video gamer at heart, John spent his school days playing football on the field at day and getting drunk surrounded by beautiful cheerleaders at night. He always thought he'd go into professional sport, either as a player or commentator, but life is not what you anticipate. John found himself with torn ligaments in his leg at the age of 21. His professional days were over. He took solace in the joys of whisky and his old friend, GoldenEye 64. He worked as a freelance writer on several high profiles gaming news websites until Russ Pitts eyed him up and brought him out for a high price. Their friendship blossomed from there, even if to begin with John only played along to get favours from his boss.
"I know good people." Russ thought to himself as he pedalled along the highstreet in the early morning sun.
Russ arrived at the office at 8:59am precisely and opened up shop. He was always the only 'early bird', most people arrived around 9:20am, but Russ's responsibility dictates a rigorous set of time keeping rules that he must abide to. What he didn't like to remember was the 'early bird' is forever the lonely bird.
Ascending the cold steps Russ thought about the coming day. It was a Friday. "Most people get lazy on a Friday" Russ thought. Russ placed his MacBook in a drawer in his desk and fell into his leather armchair. He sprawled over the mahogany masterpiece and contemplated techniques to motivate his staff.
And then it hit him, like the plane to the tower.
"Terrorism!" Russ shouted as he leapt to his feet.