THE GAMEMAKER’S FATHER
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© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER 27
Roya Fetova
A Crowd Sourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
At the sound of the door, Desi Grasso glanced from his computer and then looked again in earnest. A well-tailored businessman stood in the open doorway. Bald. Glasses. Old, yet he looked fit. How did this guy get past the guards? How did he get inside and reach the second floor of the shop without tripping the alarm? The thought of how that might happen sent an instant chill up Desi’s spine but he determined not to show fear. “Who the hell are you?”
The man strode into the office and placed a business card on the desk. He took a seat. Leaned back. Crossed his legs. Didn’t say a word.
Desi grabbed the card. Anthony Dmitri, Investment Counselor. Aon Building. Desi always wanted to move his operation there but Uncle Uomo was too cheap. The man in the suit exuded a nonchalant attitude except that he watched with an intensity that made the younger man squirm. Desi picked up the phone, glanced at the number written on his blotter and dialed Aldo’s cell phone. It rang six times. Then came the recording. Where were Aldo and the other guard? He cleared his throat. “How’d you get in here?”
The man’s eyes didn’t break contact when he answered in a mild voice. “Aldo Gionelli used to be a friend of mine.”
“He had orders to guard the place.“
“I didn’t meet much resistance.”
At that flat tone, Desi felt beads of sweat on his upper lip. He fought to keep control of his thoughts, of his voice. “What’re you tellin’ me here?”
“You’ll find Gionelli and his nephew outside. I’m an investment counselor, Mr. Grasso. My partners and I want to offer you a business proposition—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. My team believes you’re ready to be your own boss.”
Desi turned the card over and over until he noticed the nervous tell and placed it flat on the desk like a playing card.
Dmitri went on: “Uomo Grasso is a powerful man but we think he’s old-school. We feel you have the intelligence and business acumen to step into his role.” He smiled. “Certainly you’ve thought about that from time to time, Mr. Grasso?” Dmitri got to his feet. He seemed to do it effortlessly for an old man.
“What connections you got, Grandpa?”
“It’s a rather large office. 9 a.m. Mr. Grasso. Don’t be late.” He walked out and closed the door behind him.
Desi stared at the door for a full minute before he regained control of his thought processes. First thing was to find out why those goons didn’t alert him. He lifted a snub-nosed revolver from his desk drawer and moved slowly down the metal spiral stairs, scanning the shop for this Dmitri guy.
Nobody there.
Outside, all was quiet. No traffic, no guards. He paced around the building.
Nothing.
The night air chilled him and he zipped his leather jacket, then pulled out a flashlight and moved more slowly through the alley, scanning corners, windows, doorways. When he reached the dumpster, he lifted the lid.
Aldo’s eyes stared upward, a look of surprise frozen on his blue lips. The other body lay folded beside him. Desi almost lost his greasy pizza supper. He went back into his office. Locked the door. Sat at his keyboard. Googled Anthony Dimitri, Investment Counselor. The search lit the screen with the name.
He selected the first website. Professional. Complicated. It looked legit.
Ten minutes later, Desi’s hands shook. He poured whiskey in the bottom of a paper cup. Moved to the water cooler. Topped it off to the brim, then downed it in three gulps and poured another. He needed to think this out.
* * *
When he made three blocks from Desi Grasso’s electronics shop, Tony Ferragamo, alias Anthony Dmitri pulled out his phone and called Roya. In a minute, her car glided to the curb and he climbed in.
“Any trouble?”
Tony just smiled. Easy—so easy. This businessman cover worked fine. Watching his words proved the only challenge. He’d done some acting before he got kicked out of high school and it finally paid off. Just like the teacher told him—nothing learned ever got wasted.
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to write it in.
1.) IT’S EASY – Just enter an idea, such as: “their jeep drives off a cliff.”
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – In general, if it wouldn’t fly in a 60′s Bond flick, then it’s out.
3.) SHARE – If I publish, I’ll list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.
CHAPTER 24
Roya Fetova
A Crowd Sourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
Back in the car, Tony de-briefed with Roya.
“What do you mean you whacked them both? I told you to get them out of the way.” Roya chewed her lower lip. “This is not good.”
Tony felt a distinct annoyance at her shrill tone. Two clean hits. What was the problem? “Hey, that’s what I do, okay? And what’s the risk? Nobody can recognize me in this banker’s suit. Grey. Bald. I look like a 50-year-old businessman.”
“Tony, I want Grasso and his mob—not a war with Vegas.”
Didn’t this gal understand the power plays that went on between mobs? “Listen little girl: Aldo Gionelli is close family out in sin city. Killing him might get that group to pull back. That’s what you want, right?”
Roya didn’t respond.
“I stuffed the bodies in the dumpster. We can go right up to the office like you wanted.”
Roya pulled away from the curb. “No Tony, as it is now you’re going in alone. Next time do exactly as I say. Now I want you to see Desi Grasso personally and set an appointment with him for tomorrow morning at 9 am. Here’s your ID.”
Tony opened the black leather wallet, glanced at the credit cards, the driver’s license, the business cards. Conservative. Nice embossed lettering. He studied his name—Anthony Dmitri, Investment Counselor. “This says our office is in the Aon Building. Nice real estate.”
“We’re renting it by the hour. When you talk to Desi, just try to sound like an educated man. No tough stuff. Give the air of big money. And Tony—don’t threaten—don’t kill—no matter what. Just invite him to the meeting. Be polite.”
Her phone rang and she listened for a moment. “Tatiana, you’re hysterical. Take some deep breaths…Yes, I’ll send a lawyer and see what I can do at my end…No, don’t you do anything—don’t say anything, not a word…He’ll be there soon…I’m sorry Tat, but these things happen. Try not to attach so much importance to it…Okay later.”
Roya snapped the phone closed. “Be respectful, Tony. You’re making a friendly visit—delivering an invitation. Make it cordial. If he asks how you got in, just say his employees gave you some resistance and leave it at that. He’ll find the bodies soon enough.” She squinted at him. “Think you can pull that off.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She grinned. “After your pleasant talk, the sight of those bodies will put him into a tailspin. He’ll believe he’s out of his depth. I think we can turn Desi against his uncle Uomo with the right combination of fear and greed. Remember, we’re putting on a front and you’re my ambassador.” She pulled up to the curb in front of Desi’s electronics shop. “Can you handle the lock?”
Tony glance at her from under his brows and said nothing.
“All right, Mr. Businessman. The show is on. Get in, get out, and walk away. Call me with a pickup location.”
Tony climbed out of the car.
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to fit it in.
1.) IT’S EASY – Just enter an idea, such as: “their jeep drives off a cliff.”
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – In general, if it wouldn’t fly in a 60′s Bond flick, then it’s out.
3.) SHARE – If I publish, I’ll list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.
© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER 13
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Uomo. Both of ‘em were already dead when we got there.”
A massive fist, came down on the desk and Desi watched Grasso’s bloated jowls tighten. “Do not—do not ever simper with apologies. If that were necessary, you would already be…let us say I would have no further use for your services.” He scowled and leaned back in his massive chair, suddenly placid or seemingly so. Desi knew his uncle’s changing moods.
Oumo tilted his desk chair back a few inches, a chair Desi had personally chosen. $1,500—a birthday gift. It held his uncle’s 450 pounds and could hold more. Desi ordered a new one every year. Now, standing before the crime lord, he tried to appear calm and competent.
Fat lips formed words slowly in a low growl. “I sent you too late, Desi. I must speak to my people about their—shall we say inadequate alacrity?”
Desi tried not to let his expression change as his uncle went on.
“Now I have something of a dilemma. Not only must I find the traitor, Mr. Ferragamo, but I have lost two of my best men, the men who knew the most about his location. The airplane cannot be traced to me but I do not like the fact that Gort is dead—a man who possessed a peculiar facility to instill obedience. And I will miss my friend Luigi, who was not only intelligent but loyal like a brother to me. Always remember, Desi, loyalty is most important. It is difficult to buy outside of one’s family.
Desi nodded, but remained standing and controlled his expression. He’d kill Uncle Uomo if he could figure a way to take his place.
The low voice again: “We have Mr. Ferragamo to thank for this—this outrage. I will not underestimate him again but I will have my vengeance. Put the word on the street. One hundred thousand to the one who brings me his—shall we make it his head?” The fat lips curled into a sneer that Desi recognized as Uomo’s smile. “Yes, his head—on a silver platter. It’s so exquisitely Biblical.”
* * *
“Paul, get me Dan Mahoney at organized crime.” Agent Harris waited for the signal then picked up the receiver. “Mahoney let me pose an interesting question. Is your suspended agent capable of strangling a 300 pound giant?”
Mahoney chuckled and responded in his nasal whine. “Even for Roya that’s a bit unconventional.” He paused. “It does seem unlikely, but I suppose it’s remotely possible. She is quite resourceful and does what it takes to get the job done. Don’t let her petite frame fool you. Pound for pound she is physically very strong.”
“Okay, that’s all I wanted to know.”
“I haven’t finished, Stan. Since she is technically still my responsibility, I would like to be kept in the loop. There are some ongoing undercover operations that could be compromised if we don’t handle this correctly.”
Harris balled a fist. “What gives you to think it won’t be handled correctly you Washington pencil pusher?”
The nasal voice: “No offense, but recall that incident with Sergey.”
“That was your screw-up, not mine.”
“It happened in your jurisdiction, Harris.”
“You’ll hear from me when I’ve got something for you. Till then, stay out of my way.” Harris slammed the phone on the cradle. “Paul, find me these people. We got an agent gone bad and new muscle out there. I want them off the street. Got that?”
Paul nodded.
* * *
Tony Ferragamo watched Roya duck into the women’s restroom at Union Station. She hadn’t spotted him—he was sure of it. He stood half hidden behind a kiosk selling sunglasses. How she’d eluded him on the train, he couldn’t figure, but now he knew what he was up against. This needed more care, more thought. For the present, he’d follow her and she’d lead him to Frank Smith. He could plan his next move once he took in the whole situation.
There she was, marching out the door at full stride. She went right up to a beat cop. What the hey? In a minute, they both marched directly to him. Tony looked over his shoulder and scanned the room. No escape. When he turned back, the blonde and the cop stepped up to his face. She pointed at Tony and spoke to the cop. “Officer, I don’t know about rules and stuff, and maybe I watch too much TV, but this guy has been stalking me all the way from Joliet. You can see he’s carrying a gun in his pants.”
Tony saw her flash a quick smile then switch back to a frightened look. He wanted to shoot both of them right there.
The cop’s expression turned from blank to grim and he unbuckled the flap on his holster. “Sir, do you have a permit for a concealed weapon?”
Tony tilted his Cubs hat back on his head and tried to look innocent. He watched the blonde back away. She kept backing up. Then she turned and walked briskly to the stairs. He was losing her.
He looked the cop in the face. “Officer, I’m a Federal Agent in pursuit of a criminal. Here’s my ID.” In one move, Tony pulled a hunting knife and plunged the blade into the cop’s solar plexus and up to the heart.
The feeling gave him an instant thrill. The policeman went down immediately. Crouched on one knee, Tony withdrew the knife, wiped it on the uniform, then wiped his hand and wrist across the policeman’s coat. He slipped the knife into a sheathe in his jeans.
Those in the crowd that saw the act stood stunned then they made way for him.
He quickly moved through the milling crowd to the stairs. Posing as Frank Smith gave him a feeling of invincibility.
* * *
Frank Smith sat quietly on the Metra ride to Crystal Lake, watching Roya in the seat facing him, reflecting on what he knew and what he could surmise about events to date. Roya had to know more than she let on. “The guy chasing us—who was his target?”
She undid the pony tail and shook out her hair. “What makes you think I know?”
“You figure him for a hit man. You figure it’s a hit gone wrong. You figure the target was somebody important. The guy looks just like me so you figure he wants the mob to kill me in his place. You were on the inside. So I figure you know the target.”
Roya closed her eyes for several moments then finally looked directly at Frank. “We know Uomo Grasso is after you and thinks you’re this hit man. He could have told the goons to make you disappear in Missouri instead of bringing you to Chicago, so, we know it must be personal with him. That means Grasso let the contract himself. So I was thinking. If Don Grasso himself wants Frank Speck so badly, it might help if we got to know the guy better. Maybe have him on our side. Of course we have to make sure it’s not a trap. I’m sure he’ll untangle himself from the police and find us again. When he does, I want a talk with him.
Frank looked at her. Was she crazy? “You’re joking. You already told me Speck will kill me himself if he can’t get the mob to do it. That’s how he disappears, right?”
Roya smiled. “What’s the matter, Frank? Losing your nerve? I just want to talk to the guy. He’s kinda cute, if you know what I mean.”
Frank didn’t respond to her innuendo. “No, Roya. We lost him now—let’s keep it that way.”
“How we gonna do that, Frank? He’ll find you eventually. This way, if he doesn’t want to join us, I can take care of things. Listen, I have a friend back at the organized crime division. He and Sergey were tight. I can trust him. I’ll just ask some questions. So far we’re acting on guesswork. We need real answers.”
She pulled a phone out of her bag and dialed a number. “Dan Mahoney, please.” A pause. “Dan, it’s RF…Can’t help that. Gotta talk to you…Yeah everybody’s after us—you guys, the mob, and a loose hit man. What can you tell me about the hit man?…Uh huh…Okay later.” She put away the phone and went silent, looking pleased with herself.”
“So, what did he say?”
Roya grinned. “The hit man’s name is Frank Smith.”
“What?”
She laughed. “Dan’s gonna call me back. We’ll know more later. Here’s our station, Frank.”
Roya’s sister was waiting as they stepped off the train. Frank looked around at the quaint, small town stores a good hour and a half train ride outside Chicago. He thought it looked okay for a place to hide.
Tatiana led them to her SUV and they drove the few miles to her large house on the lake. There was a room above the garage for Frank. Roya took the guest room. Frank decided to take a shower. As long as Roya was with her sister, she couldn’t do anything crazy.
When he rejoined them a half hour later, Roya put away her phone. “Listen, Tatiana I think I’ll take Frank for a walk—show him around.
Outside, they walked the lawn to the lakeshore. A breeze off the water. The air alive with insect noise. A speedboat tied up at the dock. “What’s up?” Frank asked. “Or did you just miss me?”
“Actually, yes, but listen. I just got the call from my contact inside. The guy following us? Turns out it’s not you after all.” She giggled. “He might be Tony Ferragamo, who happens to be a hit man for Grasso. I don’t know the target but maybe Ferragamo squealed to the Feds. Maybe he got on the witness protection program under the name—and get this—Frank Speck. And maybe Grasso found him. And maybe you’re his patsy because you look alike.” She laughed again. “Frank it’s too beautiful to be true.” She spoke through the laughter and tears. “Our guesses were on target. I love it. I just love it.”
Frank looked at the lights across the lake and turned his thoughts inward. What was so funny about it?
She leaned against him. “Listen, Frank, you ever see that old Steve McQueen movie, Bullet? Remember when he’s being tailed and he switches places with the stalker? That’s what we’re gonna do. My contact gave me an address for Tony’s sister, Delores, in Berwyn. I think we might want to do a little stakeout to see if he’s hanging out there.”
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 2
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
The burlap bag restricted his breathing and chaffed his face. Trying not to panic, Frank brought to mind mystery novels, movies, crime shows—anything that might help him know what to do. He sensed occasional headlights and the movement of the big car. Memorizing every turn, he listened for clues to pinpoint their location. Crowded between the two goons, he counted seconds, minutes, and sweated freely.
His cell phone—it might ring and he didn’t want it taken away. He slid his hand slowly into his suit pocket and silenced it.
The car stopped. The engine went dead. By his count, a twenty minute ride, probably north of home. The sound of an overhead door rolling closed. The car door opening. The sudden flash of light through the burlap fibers. The bag abruptly pulled from his head. The gravelly voice of the larger man. “Get out of the car, Mr. Speck.”
Frank Smith didn’t argue, didn’t try to claim his true identity. He merely obeyed. He found himself in a mechanic’s garage, the last of four bays. The man shoved him and he backed into a greasy tool bench.
The older man’s cultured tones. “Not so rough, Gort. That’s no way to treat our guest.”
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your own original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
SECRET
When a violent crime takes place, should the police always be involved? The quick answer is yes, but ponder a moment. I mean this as a human question, not an ethical one. We are emotional creatures and we make decisions through the filter of past experience.
Early in my novel, Zachary blunders into an armed robbery in progress at Big Jim McCullough’s service station. It’s not the first time it’s happened yet McCullough won’t call the police. His response is emotional, rooted in past memory. Logical or not, he will protect himself against a repeat of previous events. These things are hidden in his heart and Zachary can make no sense of the decision.
During a previous robbery, McCullough chases off a couple of hold-up men with a shotgun loaded with slugs—just fires over their heads. The police respond to the scene and arrest McCullough. You get that? The police arrest him right in his own place of business—they don’t pursue the real criminals. They charge McCullough for firing without imminent danger. That’s against the law in most places. To state it baldly, he’s not in the process of being murdered when he fires his weapon.
Fiercely independent, McCullough creates his own system for dealing with such incidents—a method that doesn’t involve the police. His system works. It keeps him clean with the law and the insurance company.
Later in the story, Zachary faces a similar decision. After a layoff, a disgruntled worker shoves a shotgun against his back. As foreman, it’s not the first time he’s been threatened but on this occasion, his friend, Ocono, knocks the man to the ground and beats him senseless. Should Zachary call the police?
If he does, a good machinist will not only be out of work but will face jail time. If he does, Ocono may be charged with assault. If he does, Zachary’s wife will worry about dangers that are a part of his job. What should he do?
TERRIFIED
Why does a kid ride a rollercoaster? Why does an outdoorsman shoot a rapids, climb a peak, hunt shark with a spear gun? Is it just the adrenaline rush? It can’t be. I can get that from a couple pots of sweet coffee. So why do we get such a kick out of being terrified?
As a pilot, when training for my instrument rating, I asked my instructor what he liked most about that kind of flying. “The shock and delight of making it back alive,” he said.
One day we flew through a series of imbedded thunderstorms. If I hadn’t cinched in my belt the turbulence would have thrust my head through the canopy of my Cessna 172. More lightning than I’d ever seen. The cloud to ground discharges looked to be eight inches in diameter and close. I longed to pop the window of my little plane and measure one. My instructor told me what to do. “Just keep the wings level and make slow, gentle corrections—don’t worry about your altitude. I’ve known a plane to get spit out at 28,000 feet and another driven to the ground.” With those words of encouragement, my eyes widened and I set to the challenge.
With our destination closed due to zero visibility, we headed to our alternate, Chicago’s Midway Airport. The rain drove down so hard it raised a fog high into the sky and we busted minimums tracking our instruments to the runway, only to dimly see the “rabbit” as we flew just a few feet over the thing. (The rabbit is that blinking chevron of lights at the end of major runways.) My instructor called for the controls and flared for landing, then lost sight of the runway in the pounding rain. I popped the window and stuck my head out, caught sight of the center stripe, and shouted for him to plant it on the ground.
I was shocked and delighted to make it back alive.
We taxied to the FBO and after a quick inspection for hail damage, he handed me a cigar and we just sat there, stunned. Then a strange thing happened. A strong urge built up within me to fly back into those clouds. Does that make any sense? No. Is it human? Yes. Also human was a three-day headache from the severe turbulence.
Life and death is the issue here. When you push the limits so far that your life is at risk, you experience something wonderful that I have no name for. What good is a rollercoaster that doesn’t make you doubt—even for a moment—that you’ll survive the ride? What use is a rapids that provides no life-and-death challenge? It’s true, you know. One of my family drown in a kayak.
We can experience something akin to that thrill vicariously if we identify closely with the person in danger. At a circus, watching a daring trapeze act. During a spectacular crash at the Indy 500. When reading an exciting scene from a really good suspense novel.
Do you care about the character, maybe identify with the character? Are you seeing events unfold through that character’s point of view? Then you are experiencing the danger as if you were there. At a film or reading a good book, I become so involved in the story that I feel as if I were there, but find myself helpless to influence events.
In the end, we appreciate everything in light of its contrast. Life and death. The human struggle. The shock and delight of making it back alive.
THE NEGATIVE CHARACTER
Drama encompasses human change. The main character is transformed. As a reader, I’d be disappointed if that change turned out for the worse. By definition, that means the main character must start out seriously flawed. Is this logical, so far? If so, then stay with me:
I’m talking about real character flaws here, not just some guy who needs to take a bath more often. I want to wear his skin for a few days and see what it’s like. He’s not the villain. No, he’s the main guy, the one we’re going to root for at the end. Yes, I’m one of those who always has to do things the hard way. I’ve written a novel through the point of view of a negative character.
In my life, I have yet to meet Mary Poppins—“Practically perfect in every way.” I have met George Banks and I’ve also met Scrooge.
I’ve been privileged to experience all sorts of work with all types of ordinary people. That includes time I treasure with boilermakers, pipe fitters, millwrights, electricians, ironworkers and machinists. We worked in heavy industry—power boilers 200 feet high, everything big and loud and dirty. These guys carried knives and guns on the job. They opened steel gang boxes at night with blow torches and made off with tools for their own garages. They spent their nights in bars. Two offered to do a hit for me—and at a bargain price.
My main character, Zachary, is a machinist foreman. He deals with guys like that every day and commands their respect. He’d naturally advise his son, “Don’t take nothin’ from nobody.”
In a novel, such characters come off as gruff at the beginning. Fortunately for me, most of my readers identify Zachary with somebody in their own lives. Some may recall a hard father or uncle—one they never understood, maybe feared. They want to get into that guy’s head and rummage around. It’s interesting. It’s satisfying to fix something that’s already hopelessly broken.
I like Mary Poppins as much as the next person. It’s a masterpiece and it cheers me. I’m delighted when George Banks flies a kite. But once in a while I want to read about some rough-edged individualist who needs to figure out what human love really means. That’s uplifting to me. It’s all very well for Dick Van Dyke to sweep chimneys and treat everybody with good cheer, dignity and respect, but a lot of people grew up under the thumb of a guy who could knock you out of your chair with the back of a hand and think nothing of it.
Now, admit it. Don’t you want him hit the wall? Don’t you want to see it happen through his own eyes? Don’t you want to feel his struggle when he’s forced to change? Or do you just want a nice sweet story?
“Bah! Humbug!”
MURDER
Life is precious. That’s my best response to the unanswerable question, “What place does murder have in fiction?” A few thoughts—
If a human life is threatened, the stakes are high. When a fictional character that we’ve come to know dies, something important has happened. It hits us at a primal level. We find ourselves caught up in an experience outside our norm. Nobody seems to say it, but we’re talking about the struggle between good and evil.
Often the event leaves behind a problem that must be solved, either by unlocking a puzzle or by direct action. We become personally involved in the story. Along the way we meet captivating characters. Hurdles are cleared—more threats encountered—we have a sense of danger survived.
At the resolution, our fear changes to relief or even triumph. Perhaps justice is done or shattered lives renewed.
