wrath of doppelganger
He grabbed a bottle of gin, took a swing then threw it violently against the wall. It slammed as it shattered into hundreds of shards. One flew into his eye. Immediately blood spurted as a laterally thin, pressurized jet; flying twenty feet onto the same wall upon which the gin, dripping from its surface, streamed by the power of gravity, floorward.
The blood created a gestalt like pattern that briefly captivated his drunken mind. Though He felt dull pain; he failed to realize the severity of his injury.
Once his curiosity had been appeased, he realized by remaining logic; the necessity of attending to his now blurry vision.
"Why?" And "What the Fu...!"
"I explicitly ordered him to take charge. I will have your head, if you don't follow my order!''
He tugged at the nape of his latex mask. It itched, just like the way his skin now crawled.
"Fucken, Hollywood, they can create realistic movies, but can't make a fricken mask that breathes air. Damn sweat!"
He felt like ripping it off, but endured the discomfort. He had a meeting with the press and couldn't miss it otherwise he'd have to answer to his own handlers. There was too much on the line. Too much at stake. Too much power, money and sex. Too much to give up. Oh, he yearned for the pleasure of it all. The attention. The thrill of all.
He groped for a cigarette with his blood stained fingers; pulled it out of his formerly pristine, now moist crumpled shirt pocket. He struggled to light it, mangling it to where only an inch of its butt remained.
He lit, sucking deeply to the end point of it's filter. Then he grabbed his cell phone off the floor and punched his lover's speed dial with his thumb.
"Helen! call 911!"
"You okay? Why?"
"Don't ask why, just do it!"
Helen knew better. She instinctively pushed the red icon, fearing wrath from him more than any other danger.
"What is your emergency?"
"It's not mine, it's my friend's, please send help right away. His address is 2134 East Franklin Avenue, New York."
"What is the state of his emergency, Ma'm?"
"I don't know! Do your job and send help, now!"
"Ma'm your call does not correspond to that addres . . . "
Helen hung up, confident that help would be sent. She grabbed her purse and ran out the door of the penthouse.
"How am I gonna get past security now?" She knew Jake's house was swarming with secret service and they had formerly been instructed to keep her off the premises since he had last thrown her out.