for @likeprotege bc monty is a little cockshit:
just like a bond film, he would think him to quip, if circumstances hadn’t demanded a still tongue. they saunter through the length of a parquet hallway waxed to a glossy sheen, each step punctuated by the crisp clop of spick and span oxfords. his own, then followed after by eggsy’s, a rhythmic tandem over and over again. they pass along shows of excess, gaudy drippings of ornate baroque hung high, larger-than-life in their sheer size looming from tall walls reaching up for the skylight.
it’s reasonable to maintain a precautionary watch on their surroundings here as they foray ever deeper into a veritable bear pit. deception paints innocuousness with decided verve; nothing ever is what it seems to be. the more picturesque the tableau, the more pernicious the odds. that much experience will foretell in unwavering truth.
they’ve received the invitations ahead of time, a private soiree and auction meant to be attended by an international list of heavy-hitting financiers from high society’s netherworld. weaseling in was easy enough to do when they went under the aliases of mouthpieces for a clandestine buyer. one can easily reason with the high degree of discretion practiced. no real names, no real lives; only real currency in unmarked bills.
the silence is thick, almost perceptible in its pervasive omnipotence like a low fog that curled by earthen ground and peeling tree bark. eventually, they come up before a set of doors and a keypad set to the right, a conspicuous anachronism to the otherwise consistently victorian choice in furnishings. turning to regard his ward, he demurs. “when we go in, you will follow my lead. external communications will be cut off by a jammer. transactions are conducted in hard currency only.”