"I'm seeing envelopes in my mind. Big, long, no nonsense. Envelopes. They may have cellophane windows, I can't tell."
"Richard."
"They're not tacky yellow, but white. A spotlight hits them, drawing my attention to their perfect cut, the perfect, triangular... fold."
"Richard."
"No paper cuts across my tongue, these babies have 'peel and seal'. I could spend my days peeling and sealing. Oh God. Oh kind, wonderful, manloving God, they're A4..."
"Richard?"
Ribbon leant over to check he was still breathing. The pathetic bundle of man and cheap black threads would ordinarily solicit a little sympathy, but she considered this the now exhausted Richard's 'happy time'.
"Stationery dreams babe," she whispered fondly and left him there on the empty warehouse floor.
Ribbon regretted making the 5am appointment as she stepped into the bitter morning lurking outside. Bloody Richard, why couldn't he cope with this end of the business?
She shook her head an instant later; it was better this way; less damaged tissue and foreclosure notices to deal with. He'd such a short temper with people who didn't understand his particular brand of brilliance.
On foot it took a good half an hour to make your way through the maze of alleys, back roads and lanes before you found anything that could consider itself a street. Another fifteen minutes got you to the edge of the industrial district, the rusty sheds and closed factories halting a small distance from the train tracks. These old buildings knew their place, fear kept them from straying past lines that no longer ran.
Understandable, thought Ribbon; the occupied world was a scary place.
It didn't take her long to cross into the suburbs and find the place she was looking for. The neighbourhood consisted of small houses occupied by welfare families and pensioners. Yet it wasn't downtrodden like other low class areas of the city. The gardens were neat, no home was in need of paint, cared for cats were returning to their sandboxes after a night's play.
It was unexpected. She was used to dealing in extremes; slums you could die in for less than $100 a hit, the high rises you couldn't park in for less than $100 a day. Not this, this suburban normality. Ribbon looked up at her place of contact. Peach and cream awnings, lace curtains that could be seen through windows. Pinwheels in the front yard. Inconceivable.
"Prepaid! Postmarked and predated! The glory of it all overwhelms. Mother!"
Richard turned over on the cold floor and dreamt on.
'Donate your organs' was written atop the page in heavy, cursive script. Ribbon swallowed nervously, the guns pointed at her head not doing anything for her. The old man seated across the table held his hands steepled over a full ashtray, waiting patiently for an answer.
She shook her head carefully; "We don't do charity Mr McGregor."
Mac McGregor pushed the ashtray from him and rolled another cigarette with one-handed expertise. A short and stoat Mrs McGregor brought over tea in yellowed china. "Shortbread, dear? They're made with real butter?"
"Ow, Betty, can I have me one of them?" asked one of the gun toting geriatrics before Ribbon could reply. Mrs McGregor smacked his hand when he reached over to grab a biscuit. "Not with your sugar like it is Howard," she told him firmly.
Ribbon pictured the scene as it had played out. A director's attention given to detail.
PLUCKY YOUNG WOMAN walks up to quaint house, guard down. What's threatening about lace, peaches and cream?
CUTE GRANDMA FIGURE, complete with apron and permed hair answers the door. Invites PLUCKY GIRL inside for marmalade, biscuits, and, my, isn't morning the best time of the day?
GIRL takes seat at table and is taken completely unawares as THREE ELDER GENTLEMEN file into the room.
TWO GENTLEMEN smile at GIRL and take antique firearms from carrying cases. Guns are pointed at GIRL.
REMAINING GENTLEMAN takes the seat opposite GIRL. GENTLEMAN outlines proposal to GIRL.
"No! Not the postal service!! We're not monsters."
His subconscious giving him that final kick in the head Richard woke to light filtered through the boarded up windows. "Daytime?" he wondered.
Curses were muttered when Richard realised work had been interfering with his sleep again. His shoulders were full of tension and he was in no mood to spend the day dealing with clients. They only ever wanted to screw with him. Why could they not accept they paid him to do a job and let him get on with it?
Feeling around for his boots he noticed an absence.
"Ribbon?
I'm alone."
A slow draw from the cigarette emphasised the reality of Mr McGregor's hollow cheeks. This wasn't a man with a lot of life in front of him. He didn't use words, the illness doing most of the debating for him.
The threat of bullets and steady march of the morning's hours combined to ominous sonata; Ribbon could only sip her tea. Too much milk. The shortbread crumbled like shortbread does.
An obvious impasse. Neither side would get across the realities and economics of their positions. Left was this strange waiting game until time or gunpowder took one of them out.
"Maybe if you tried one of the bigger firms," Ribbon finally offered, part desperation, part pity.
Cigarette returns to lips. Inhale. Exhale. And McGregor continued to sit there calmly and die at her.
One of her wardens leant over like a conspirator: "You stick to small scale campaigns, but there's none better than you and your partner in this field. We did our research. Ol' Mac there always went after the best he could get, he's not about to get stingy now, not on the last thing he's ever likely to do."
He straightened quickly when the sound of the front door slamming reached the kitchen.
Before any of her keepers could react further a black figure materialised inside the room. It, he, froze when he noticed the revolvers brought up and aimed at his chest. A grin appeared on his face and he took a slow curtsy, arms spread wide. Mrs McGregor gasped as she noticed the weapons poorly concealed beneath his long coat.
Mac McGregor dropped the remains of the cigarette into the ashtray.
"Let them go boys."
Mac's head dropped into his hands. He'd had a chance with the girl. Not because she wasn't deadly in her own way, but a softer touch than the other partner. More inclined to hear an old man out. Too late now. "Let them go."
Richard tugged Ribbon's sleeve; they left the peach and cream house together.
As they walked Richard babbled excitedly about the brilliant angle he'd dreamt up for the Postal job.
"...and their moneyman will eat it up, we can do it on half the budget that..."
Richard's voice trailed off when he saw the distracted look on Ribbon's face. Reaching out to throw an arm over her shoulders: "Hey hon, you're not upset by those old folks back there are you? No one got hurt."
"No, it's only... very sad. That man's liver was being eaten by cancer, he'd watched the same take many of his friends. He just wanted to do something where it wasn't too late. Spread awareness. Educate the public on transplantation and the donation system. Do you know how long the waiting list is for a kidney?" Ribbon's eyes glistened.
"It was right of you to refuse him, we can't afford to be saints. Remember how much trouble the Whale fund got us into? And how much the channels screwed us over with the work we did for the Guide Dogs?"
"I know, I know, it's, just..."
Richard sighed. "My dear," he said, "it's the business we're in. It's a mince meat machine."
She threw up her hands.
"Yes, yes, the advertising industry is royally fucked," he said in commiseration as the executives of Apt Marketing and Communications continued the trip back to the warehouse.