The Story is back in full swing! Enjoy this one-shot of Tannenbaum in his natural habitat. Enjoy! As always, contact me at email@example.com -BW
There is a townhouse in San Francisco. It is tall, painted gray, and rarely lit up for special occasions or Christmas. The neighbors thought this was a little odd, but whoever lived in the house kept his small back lawn neatly trimmed, so they didn’t care and left it alone. After all, this was San Francisco. As far as they were concerned, if there were no wild hippie parties or drug busts, they didn’t care what kind of neighbor lived next door.
There were no wild hippie parties or drug busts next door, but maybe the neighbors should pay more attention to the man who lives beside them.
His name is T. Radcliffe Tannenbaum.
This afternoon he woke up suddenly, lying on the floor in his the back room, the room he called his office. The room was devoid of decorative furniture. The desk, table, and chairs were piled high with computer printouts and other sheets of paper holding various pieces of information. On the desk, a Colt 1911 automatic handgun functioned as a paperweight alongside a fully operational mechanical heart. Tannenbaum’s interests were rather eclectic, unlike his style palette which allowed only the single color gray.
Tannenbaum’s eyes opened and he sat upright. He knew without looking at his watch what time it was. He stood, stretched momentarily, and walked to the door, snatching up a small weekend bag perched atop stacked papers as he did so. Tannenbaum had a plane to catch. To an ordinary person, this may have seemed odd, owing to the fact that Tannenbaum had flown in on a jet plane only 5 hours earlier. The fact seemed odd to everyone but Tannenbaum, who know exactly where he was going and what he would do when he got there. He had come back to his townhouse because he had need of a small piece of information that he had in his office, that was inaccessible from Miami, Florida, where he had come from and to where he was now returning.
Tannenbaum and his bag walked together through his living room and to his front door. The living room, although austere, was the only room in the house that could be called a room for living. The other rooms in the house were rooms fit to exist in, but the living room alone was worth living in, if just barely. The Decor left much to be desired for a regular human being. A person could drown in that much gray and beige. The furniture and art was modern, except for a few pieces that were solidly conventional, such as the twin chairs by the fireplace. It was not the room for a party of any kind, but rather a room to meet acquaintances in, rather like a waiting room in a hospital suddenly transported to a person’s house.
Tannenbaum thought to himself how glad he was that the living room connected to the front door. To leave the house he finds it necessary to walk through his living room. If the room were not connected to the door, he would never see it. He was glad to see it, warmed by the thoughts of hearth and home.
It was no mistake to rent this big townhouse for only himself, Tannenbaum thought. It was a comfort to come to his home and be alone, away from the distractions of the world. He could certainly utilize the additional space, and there was no reason to justify the expenditure. Tannenbaum could afford it. And he liked his townhouse very much. Tannenbaum did not believe in Heaven, or any other idea that could not be verified, but he thought that his townhouse was as close to Heaven as he would like to travel.
Before he left, he loaded a pistol with hollow point rounds and drove to the airport.
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