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April 17, 2013 by misterblank22



November 15th
New York

The world swirled around the carriage in a mix of fog. Occasionally Hoover could see the shapes of men along with the face of a wall but they quickly disappeared. No sounds apart from the horses feet could be heard, it was as if the city had died with Hoover’s leaving.

Buried in his pocket was a folded picture or his wife, she looked beautiful on their wedding day. A crooked smile formed on his face. He caressed the picture with his cold hand. “Where did you go?” Hoover mumbled to himself.

December 23rd

Tall gold pillars reached up to the ceiling and grabbed onto an extravagant mural. Hoover set at a small table littered with food and talkative men in suits. Hoover blindly nodded to their wall of voices as if he cared. His attention was set on a female dancer on the tiled floor; she switched from partner to partner slyly stealing sips from their glasses of wine.

“Joseph Dylan isn’t it?” Walter’s words alerted Hoover to answer. Hoover wiped his mouth before speaking.

“Yes, yes it is.” He took a look at his watch before turning back to the men.

“He is a strange fellow but not strange enough to lure a man across the ocean.” A large man said.

“He seems to live void of morals; if that isn’t enough for a boat ride then I don’t know what is.” Hoover rolled a tight cigarette on the table.

“I assume you have enough of that in America?” Walter snarled.

“Yes but none of them have such an abundance of hatred just waiting to burst out.” Hoover blew smoke in Walter’s face. Walter waved it away.

“Give it time Hoover; you act as if you’re on a pedestal. History speaks loudly my friend, pedestals break under the weight.” Walter felt he had won the argument but Hoover was quick to defend.

“Just look at Great Britain.” Hoover stood with his head held high and a smoking cigarette in his hand. He slid through the crowd of fabulously dressed dancers to approach the woman he had been watching. She looked at him and began to dance as the song sped up allowing the dance floor to bounce.

“You’re name?” She gently spoke.

“Hoover Adams, and you?” Hoover said with his cigarette in his mouth.

“I am Abigale we’ll leave it at that. You’re the journalist I’ve been hearing so much about. You’re writing a piece on Joseph Dylan, how interesting.” Abigale stopped her fluid dancing and led Hoover to a table in the corner.

“Do you know much about him? Anything would help, maybe even a location.” Hoover said as he drank from a random glass near his seat.

“If I did I would not dare tell you. Those men you were with, have you upset them, the big one seems to be flustered?” Abigale pointed to the table of suits.

“I insulted Great Britain, all in fun though, insult a man’s country and there will be blood it’s something I fear I’ll never understand.”

“As long as men have hands to fight with they will find a reason to use them. Are you such an animal yourself?” Abigale took off her white gloves to cool her hands.

“No, but I refuse to be a doormat for those looking for a fight to walk on.”

“Thus is the never-ending cycle, the pacifist who is forced to fight to keep his beliefs alive from the murderous aggressor shattering his passive ways. Either way both will end up in a pool of blood and in a crumbling country.” Abigale took Hoover’s cigarette from his mouth; she inhaled deeply before placing it between his lips.

“Have you ever heard of simply asking Abigale? I’ve seen you take drinks from every man’s glass tonight.” Hoover was not offended but did feel inquisitive.

“You’re men and men can be led anywhere by a simple flirtatious action, much like a farm animal to a pile of food. I find it interesting how animal you are, the human mind is something to be examined.” Abigale pressed her finger to her temple. “Delights and horrors live between our ears and I’d like to meet each sensation within my lifetime. No action is ever taken without an ulterior motive. Coming to England for Joseph Dylan has two motives for you, one is to stop such a violent man from growing in strength. Now number two is the publicity and the money that will be given to you once lights shine on him, which in turn gives you power. I feel number two outweighs number one for you Hoover. Sure you want to help but helping yourself feels more worthy of your efforts does it not?” Abigale smiled before she stood.

“You are very strange Abigale.” Hoover was intrigued by her beauty and mind.

“If you weren’t blinded by your attraction for me you would know that I just insulted you. Goodnight Hoover and I hope England treats you well.” Abigale quickly disappeared within the mess of dancers. Hoover began to analyze her words between his many drinks of wine.



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