Semn, an adventurous man in his early twenties, logged off his Nairaland account, a social forum he had been using since time immemorial. The wall clock says 9:50pm. Heavenly exhausted and earthly famished, he dragged his semi-conscious body to the kitchen. His girlfriend had left nothing behind, except heaps of dirty dishes and pots taller than Mount Everest. He hissed loudly and walked down to the dining room.
“Some drinks may be available in the fridge,” he thought.
Well, his guess was good; he finished three shots of Vodka before somersaulting himself into the king size bed that filled one-fourth of his room, same bed he had vigorously bleeped his girlfriend for four hours nonstop in the afternoon. Probably that was what drained her energy, preventing her from washing the dishes.
In next to no time, Semn began to snore; his snores produced an odd rhythm potent enough to resurrect a five year old corpse, the only defect he himself was ashamed of.
Sweet dreams; only if he truly had such dreams, maybe he wouldn’t seem pensive the next morning.
I decided to check on Sterling, a vibrant super hyper-sensitive moderator of a fast growing social network. He looked frustrated; many girls from the website were giving him a tough ride.
"Henceforth, I would be much stricter," he consoled himself. If only he could stick to promises, maybe he would have had a good night sleep.
He shut down his laptop at exactly 10:00pm; no girlfriend to send him a good night text, he slept off with a clear mind.
Larry, an exceptional detective trained in Southwest Calypso, athletically built with a seducing face, many knew his name but few knew his real identity. He owned passports from over ten different countries, and faked indigene of over seven. He had solved series of mysterious cases under different staged names.
He felt mild discomfort on the left side of his abdomen, such pains he usually experienced when disaster lurks around. He got up and headed for his secret passage to hall of fame. The pains pushed and pulled to take a prominent part in his body. He groaned, loud enough to wake up the late Michael Jackson.
“Someone is pock nosing around the closet of secrets,” he envisaged.
He picked up his 10 inches bronze coloured pistol, a 45 inches bronze silencer adorned the nozzle of the deathly machine.
“No need to spill blood,” he reasoned. The infiltrator must be working on information he or she is given.
Silently, he opened the secret passage, and with careful steps, he moved towards the room entrance. He switched on his surveillance cameras as he tucked his bullet proof armor.
The cameras gave him a shocker as none showed the presence of intruders. He searched and searched, nothing suspicious showed up.
“My instincts have never failed me,” he thought aloud.
He moved with calculated steps down the tunnel leading to the closet of secrets. Few had heard of this place, out of the two hundred million living souls, but only two people knew the exact location – Skarley and Gen. Woods.
President Chris had just finished a three hour behind-closed-door meeting with his executives and partners in crime. Major bone of contention was how to move the secret files and folders from the closet of secrets. Some supported the motion while others rebuffed it, saying it was too dangerous; after all, none of them knew where the closet was.
The president was agitated. Just last night, an anonymous writer had sent him two duplicates of parts of the secret files. He wondered how many of those files the unknown writer had in possession, or how many people knew about the secret files.
General Wood had just finished taking a cold bath. He strapped a clean blue towel round his tiny waist. Despite his 45 years of service, he still maintained his statue; many even thought he never grows. His flaccid penis dangled between his legs as he walked to the door to pick up a new mail he had just received. With water still dripping from his body, he opened his door and picked up the letter. It was a threatening letter, the fourth he had received in a period of three days.
He laughed out loud; only a coward threatens with letters. He moved inside his house to find an intruder - Agent Mann. He senses trouble.
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