The Word Cloud

As a new boy here, I don't know if this has already been done as an exercise, but let's give it a whirl.
All converging on a single point and using a maximum of 250 words, take any route you like to arrive at the ending 'it was a man in a suit'.
Good luck.

Independence Day

When Grace Deerborne turned down Richard Zymer’s proposal of marriage, he thought that the disappointment would last forever, like a scar, or a bad reputation. He’d known her for years as a friend, admiring her from afar, and then one day her husband, Raymond, had died. Richard had been supportive. He’d waited on the sidelines, leaving appropriate distances between them, being respectful. Being there. And a year later, he had asked her. And she’d said no.

Leaving her house, walking back to his Buick, it seemed as if the whole world was laughing at his impetuosity, ridiculing his declarations and promises of fidelity. Fourth of July flags fluttered in the breeze, mocking him in their carefree dance and the sun that glinted off the ocean seemed excuse enough to momentarily allow a tear to his eye.

But as he sat in his car, he realised that maybe Grace had been right. Maybe they were better off being friends, needing each other, helping each other, looking out for each other, without the complications of romance and, because it would have been part of it, sex. And he thought of other moments when hope had been dashed and he realised that they had been worse. Like when his college football team had dropped him as wide receiver. Like when he’d been overlooked for promotion three years running and had eventually quit the firm. Like when he’d realised that the Santa in the mall wasn’t real, it was a man in a suit.

i bez in Gwinitch Parc wun day, an teh hyoominz bez fwowing pnutz at me an sum ov mi fwendys, wen sudnli orl teh hyoominz r skweems an runnings awai. It r a fyooge gerwila, orl hary an havs biggage! i climes up mi twee an wotching teh gerwila steelz teh pnutz wot teh hyoominz bez givs 4 squirlys. Tihs r makes me vewy angwy squirly! So i climes bak doun an sneeking up on teh gerwila hoo r not bez lukings, coz hims 2 bizi steelings mi pnutz. Not steelz mi pnutz! Pnut Cat wuvs pnutz! So i biting teh gerwilaz ankls, an hims sezs "Arg! Gerrof!" an tehn hims puling hims oan hed of! But it r not reeli bez hims hed, it r a marsk - it not bez a reel gerwila, it r a man in a soot!

CUBISM

I had never yet won a competition.

Hillock always seemed to pip me at the post, whether it was flower arranging, writing a short story, or making home-made wine. He seemed to have the flair to pull off coup after coup. But now I had a chance. More than that, I had an artistic muse. And the Old Boys fraternity was holding their annual challenge: any freestyle painting.

My style is in the Botero mold; paintings are united by their proportionally exaggerated or "fat" figures, as he once referred to them. Mine was similar; a large man clothed in formal evening wear about to enter a dance hall. To one side, an ensemble of fat women, bosoms heaving and smiling coyly at him.

But this was very much about my man: handsome and debonair, a devilish gleam in his eye; the one who would topple Hillock.

They opened the doors, murmurs of “bloody good show”; the rosettes had been awarded. Mine had come second. First place, according to the judges, was the painting by Hillock; unanimous decision, a splendid work of art in the style of Picasso’s cubist period.

His picture was a random mass of grey and blue geometric shapes. An oval shape seemed to designate a head with one large eye staring at a black, zippered moustache. Body parts were disjointed contours, one of which showed what looked like a triangular tuxedo and tails.

I peered closely at his title. It was, “A Man in a Suit”.

The grey man, who is he? where is he? he is there mingling and mixing with all that the ministry has an interest in, you will never see him (a bit like that clown in Tesco's who hides from ugly people-don't worry if you haven't seen the him-I have.)
When the time is right he will strike and then leave, no one remembers him, but the damage is done, moving onto his next job, information gathering to bring down the foe, drinking with you, working side by side, the big picture is his job to hide, cause confusion and distrust these traits of the job are a must.
Look behind you fast'' and he you will not see, he is one step ahead, those that got close are probably dead.
When questioned after the event, many have said they found there savings spent, ain't that the truth, the grey man or a man in a suit.
.

I'd not be much of a man if I didn't respond to my own challenge.

The Interviewer

If there was a type, he looked it. Lank, unkempt hair, filthy jeans, dirty camo jacket and threadbare Converse. They’d picked the dirty bastard up not far from the scene.
In closing the spyhole, she made sure it slid home with an authoritative clang. She hoped he’d caught the symbolism.

In the interview room, her heart sank. The kid couldn’t have been much older than twelve. She was messed up really bad, her innocence brutally taken. The liaison officer had given her some clothes to make herself decent but she wasn’t allowed to clean herself up until the MO had attended to her.
None of the softly softly approaches worked. That’s why they’d called her in.

The interviewer used the drawing game. She drew something on an A4 sheet, folded it up and slid it across to the girl. Inquisitiveness got the better of her and her tiny bruised fingers carefully opened up the paper. The girl’s turn. No prompting, no rush. The girl drew, folded, slid. Containing her eagerness the interviewer opened the sheet. A cat.

A couple more drawings passed across the table, before the interviewer asked the girl to try and draw the man who had attacked her. Briefly, a pained expression, then, slowly she began to draw.

What seemed an age later, the interviewer picked up the paper and gently unfolded it to reveal the girl's drawing. It was a man in a suit!

Hey everyone, apologies for the length of the piece, hope you make it through to the end!



Saddle’s was quiet the night me on Ole McCormack lost Billy Bell’s money.

There had been a ruckus in the bar a couple nights previous. A couple of out-of-towner’s throwing their weight around after a drop too much bourbon. Billy Bell and two of his sons were sitting playing with the affections of a trio of Saddle’s ‘employees’. The girls, who slept upstairs and found their sleeping partners downstairs, were tipped off to Bell’s growing wealth. Their least stained corsets were scrubbed up and slipped into, their fishnet stocking just about keeping their knees warm. Well, the rowdy boys got a sight of some leg, got over excited and decided that the trio of whores would be better off in their company. Bell and the boys didn’t take too kindly to their territory being invaded and no-one can blame ‘em. One of the boys got sent home with one eye less than he’d walked in with. The other got sent home a day later in a cheap box.

The bar tends to stay quiet for a li’l while after there’s been a killing. Me and Ole McCormack, we find ourselves in that damn bar most days now. No place else to go. The day after the ruckus, when Bell came in to speak to Bartender Bobby, we happened to be sat at the bar. I’d known Bell’s pa, we both had been part of the first settlers in this town. But having no kids of my own, (owing to a condition that itself earned me the nickname ‘Limp Dick’) after settling in the town, I tended to keep myself to myself. Well, to myself and to Ole McCormack. We made enough to money to drink playing poker and sometimes made enough money to eat by sweeping up the bar at the end of the night.

Anyways, Bell comes in to straighten his story out with Bartender Bobby, just in case he ends up with one of those sonbitch Judges who may decide to try and make an example of him. Chances are it’ll all get swept under the saloon floor, so to speak. Two out-of-towner’s getting what’s coming to ‘em is usually enough to persuade the Sheriff to leave be. But there’s always the chance he’ll be in the mood of a mule with a cactus up his ass when the killing gets reported, so Bell just has to make sure everyone agrees with his version of events.

He palms Barman Bobby a roll of notes then turns to us.
‘You boys in here the night of the ruckus?’
‘We sure were Billy, sat right on these damn stools.’ I always let Ole McCormack do the talking.
‘Well Bobby here tells me that you ain’t hardly ever out of here.’
‘Bin here almost ever’ day for the past four years. Nowhere else to go Billy.’
‘Well see now, that’s good. Just in case the law act as if I’ve committed some damn crime by protecting those fine girls, I’ve got some money I’m needing taken care of. Bobby here says he can’t hold it, but that the two of you could be trusted to keep it for a day or two. Don’t want some Sheriff’s men rifling their hands around in my pockets and searching my belongings and helpin’ therselves to my hard earned dollars now, do I?’
‘Sure thing Billy. We’ll be here with your dollars when you come back.’
‘And you, Mr Limp Dick?’
I just tipped my glass and nodded my head and Bell smiled and slipped the bundle of notes inta Ole McCormack’s overcoat pocket. I always let Ole McCormack do the talking.

And so we found ourselves with a bundle of a killer’s money and nothing to spend it on. The girls avoided us and as no-one knew, except Bartender Bobby, that we had all those dollars just lying there on Ole McCormack’s pocket, the girls continued to avoid us. Not that it fussed me none, being Mr Limp Dick and all. So we sat for another day, same old routine. We still swept the floor at the end of the night because we had nothing else to do. Then Ole McCormack suggested that we treat ourselves some. Bell wouldn’t mind if we skimmed a little off the top of his bundle. Hell, he’d expect us to do it! And so we crossed the street, got us a cooked up slice of steak, some of that imported European beer that tastes like cat piss and some of the finest bourbon to be found in the state of Texas, to wash it all down. Then we crossed back to Saddle’s and took up our seats at the bar.

Now it was almost a week since that boy went and got himself killed but the place still wasn’t back to normal. There were a couple boys with a spare dime or two who had found their laps occupied by some of the girls from upstairs. Over on the long table in the back of the bar, some of the fellas had started with a pack of cards. Usually me an Ole McCormack gets some credit from one of the boys at the table and we usually wins it back plus our drinking money by the end of the night. I play the cards and Ole McCormack does the talking, keeping his eye on any hustlers or damn cheats that may wander in. Tonight the table looked clean and Hold ‘em was the game.

Now, some people may blame the European beer we was drinking, others may blame that damn fine bourbon we had been swallowing, but I blame the steak. My belly was so goddamn full that I couldn’t concentrate proper. Bell’s money was finding itsel’ in the hands of these other card players and me an Ole McCormack were too damn stupid to realise it. By the time we did we had lost near half of it an Ole McCormack pulled me off the table.
‘Aw shit Limpy, we’s losing all Billy’s money. We gotta start winning some!’
Now, some people may say I was foolish but that’s for them to say. I winked at Ole McCormack and sat back down, the rest of Bell’s money sat in front of me.

A couple hands passed when the cards came to me for my deal. A quick shuffle and deal and I peered down at my hand, the ole ticker quickening when I sees the pair of black aces staring back at me. The boys at the table have been playing fast and loose and I know that I’ll get the rest of Bell’s money back on this hand, with a little extra on top to see me an Ole McCormack good for another week or two. The boy across from me, fella called Alexander, he likes what he has and we bet off against each other. I gets all of Bell’s money out on the table in front of me and Alexander hesitates a little. He then whispers into the ear of the boy sitting beside him, at which point he shoves all of his money in, along with some dollars belonging to the other boy, so as he can match my stake.

I flip my aces and he flips his own aces. Dammit, I’m only getting back the half of Bell’s money that I just put in. Then I start to turn the flop and three red card’s fall out. Three hearts. A queen, a jack and a ten of hearts to be precise. I eye up Alexander’s ace, the one with the heart in the middle. I flip another card and a black deuce hits the table. I take one last look at Alexander’s cards and I lift the last card from the deck as two men enter Saddle’s. One of ‘em is Billy Bell, making a beeline for me an Ole McCormack.

The other man is drawn on the card I turn over and is wearing a red suit with a big goddam heart in the middle of it.

It makes deciding on a winner so much easier when entrants fail to fulfil the brief.
Caoimh's offering coming in at 1096 over the word limit and not using the specified phrase to end with suggests it wasn't wholly written specifically for the task.
Kenty also fluffed the last line. Ruling out Pnut Cat for just being plain bonkers and my entry because, well, I set the thing, leaves just two valiant efforts.
While I admire the precision of Guero Davila's piece, I have to give first place to StephenTerry because, for me 'Cubism' embraced the ending, from the beginning, if you get what I mean.
Congratulations.
Let's see what you can come up with for an April challenge.

Conngratulations, Stephen, I enjoyed yours - a well-deserved win.

And a good idea for a competition, George. I'm sorry there weren't more entrants. I meant to contribute, but its been a hectic month and I guess that little 'do' in York distracted a lot of people.

And a good idea for a competition, George. I'm sorry there weren't more entrants. I meant to contribute, but its been a hectic month and I guess that little 'do' in York distracted a lot of people.

And a good idea for a competition, George. I'm sorry there weren't more entrants. I meant to contribute, but its been a hectic month and I guess that little 'do' in York distracted a lot of people.

Um... sorry about my stutter

I thought it was an echo!
I know what you mean, Tony. Real life often gets in the way of jolly little distractions like this.
It's only a bit of fun, and good exercise to boot.

It was a good comp Peter - a real challenge. I was surprised at the number of different approaches, all very entertaining and worthwhile candidates even if a couple didn't quite adhere to the rules.

Everyone, including your own brilliant entry, deserves a gold star. Let's hope we get a few more in April's comp just posted...

kind regards - and thanks
stephen

i r not bez bonkas, smelly poo!