Magma, Chapter 3 – A Sunday Story

Image credit: juuli.s / Twenty20

Introduction Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“Into this wild Abyss
The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave–
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
But all these in their pregnant causes mixed
Confusedly… ”

John Milton, Paradise Lost


Chapter 3

A few short minutes earlier…

In the lobby of the hotel where Venomiss had been sequestered, one of the hotel’s female porters dashed to the private elevator. She guided a heavily-laden wheeled Louis Vuitton steamer suitcase with her arms and left shoulder.

Rushing into the elevator —the same one Venomiss used to ride down to the tunneled abyss under the hotel, the female porter placed the over one-meter-high unwieldy suitcase in the farthest corner of the elevator, hidden from view.

Keeping the elevator door pried open with her right leg, the female hotel porter opened the suitcase to expose its life-saving technology. She turned on the power. The armor-plated suitcase and its kevlar interior folds began to hum. Then she extracted a hooked walking stick, duct tape, and a doorstop from the outside folds of the opened suitcase. She quickly set out to work.

First, she placed the hook of the walking stick on the phone-type lever and duct-taped the elevator’s “basement” button to the walking stick securely. Next, for extra safety, she jammed the doorstop under the walking stick to keep it in place.

Then, the former Cirque du Soleil performer squeezed her nimble frame alertly out the elevator doors just in time before they closed with a disgruntled thud.

Slightly winded, the female porter dialed her cellphone;

“It’s done Lady Cat. Can I do anything else for you, my lady?”

“Thank you Roadrunner, you are a godsend. Just keep your eyes and ears open as usual. You know how to reach me. Cheers.”

Moments later…

Twenty meters below sea level underneath the hotel—the hand grenade meant for Venomiss and Mr. Goldman imploded.

The grenade’s concussion’s force was a saccharin affair.

Strange powder-laden silicon projectiles spewed forth in a massive eruption. Mercifully and mysteriously, the hand grenade had been re-designed to confuse and, disorient its target(s)—but not to maim or kill.

Remarkably, the sound that followed the sudden blast—which should have been cacophonous—was mysteriously muffled. The elevator rumbled in defiance and held its ground as a large debris field spewed from its doors in pyrotechnic bursts of brown and white-hued swaths.

Pieces of the large Louis Vuitton steamer suitcase flew violently, spiraling, out the open elevator doors, sacrificing themselves as makeshift shields for Venomiss, huddled on one side of the cavernous wall of the tunnel entrance, and for Mr. Goldman on the other side. In puzzled amazement, Venomiss and Mr. Goldman exchanged glances at the elevator’s triaged midwifery to their pregnant peril.

Mr. Goldman spoke first,

“An offensive grenade, non-shrapnel based, less lethal. What a stroke of luck, Lady Atherton!”

“Oh, I suspect that luck had nothing to do with this “strike” Mr. Goldman.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Mr. Goldman suddenly realizing that the two—still prone on the stone floor of the tunnels’ entrance on opposite sides of the labyrinth’s entry—were now alone. Their assailants had slipped away via the tunnels’ labyrinthed escape routes.

“I am beginning to think that our enemies, in whatever is going on here, do not want us dead but rather detained/distracted, Mr. Goldman.”

“Moreover—” Venomiss continued, sitting up straight and looking around at the devastation, “This space is quite confined. I doubt that our “guests”—paid mercenaries I presume, would have risked their own safety by throwing a defensive fragmentation grenade into the fray. But—the saving grace, Mr. Goldman, is that I do not think they had expected the elevator doors to open. That was someone else’s doing entirely—of that, I am certain!”

“Who—your network of helpers across Malta?”

“Possible, Mr. Goldman, very possible.”

“Now—” said Venomiss, standing to her feet and brushing herself off while straightening her jacket, unperturbed by her near-fatal encounter bartering with the boatman on the River Styx—

“What was it you wanted to talk with me about, Mr. Goldman?”

“Not here. May I come to your suite later after my shift, say…six this evening?”

“Very good. We shall see you then.”


Later that afternoon…

In Venomiss’ hotel suite her advance team and she relaxed as they awaited their guest. In the far corner of the well-appointed suite, Mr. Zero and his five wingmen (aka The Six, as they dubbed themselves), hunkered down in a game of poker. They enjoyed hefty portions of Malta’s famed cuisine stuffat tal-fenek, while Venomiss sipping expresso enjoyed a vegan meal alongside them at the table. She chuckled heartedly at their antics while volunteering her services as a croupier.

The Six” hollered and joshed one another about their gameplay prowess—all the while using real marshmallows as poker “chips.” The winner was obliged (courtesy of the croupier‘s encouragement), to eat his winnings at any time during the poker game.

It was five fifty p.m. exactly when a faint knock leaped to Venomiss’ keen hearing amid the jovial repartee—

She walked to the door and checked cautiously through the camera peephole in her suite. It was Mr. Goldman.

Venomiss opened the door.

Mr. Goldman stumbled in clutching his left shoulder. He had been shot…

****To be continued Next Sunday****

Published by Suzette Benjamin

Positive thinker, inspirational, writer, faith

53 thoughts on “Magma, Chapter 3 – A Sunday Story

    1. Chapter 2 mentioned how the elevator worked. The lever and the button had to be depressed together for the elevator to make its way to the tunnels — which ensured that only those who knew that combined maneuver could descend.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. 💛Strange powder-laden silicon projectiles spewed forth in a massive eruption.💛

    💛the open elevator doors, sacrificing themselves as makeshift shields for Venomiss,💛

    💛Mercifully and mysteriously, the hand grenade had been re-designed to confuse and, disorient its target(s)—but not to maim or kill.💛

    Shew what an elevator is able to do
    A whole chapter dedicated to the inspiration

    💛stuffat tal-fenek,💛




    💔Mr. Goldman stumbled in clutching his left shoulder. He had been shot…💔

    Oh noo where too from here

    Great inspiration
    Makes for compelling thrillers

    Liked by 1 person

    1. The suitcase did the magical deed in the elevator yes inspired indeed👍

      stuffat tal-fenek – is a rabbit stew slow cooked for hours -famous in Malta.

      The imagery of croupier dealing the cards…our heroine, Venomiss/

      Blessings to your day. May the upcoming holy week bring you renewed vigor in the sacrament of our Rebirth. Amen!


      1. Most interesting instruments of inspiration.

        Lol yes i got that about the rabbit stew.

        Wishing you a wonderful week ahead, as we pass through with grace.
        Amen and Amen

        Liked by 1 person

    1. So pleased that you are enjoying the story thus far. More to come…with a few twists.
      Thank you Goff. Your indelible support is like iron sharpening iron. Blessings to you my friend.


  2. You are something else Suzette. There is such great in this piece. I love that you think it is going to be violent but it isn’t. More like a powder puff explosion. Great writing. I really do hope you will submit something Suzette. You are such a great writer. Big hugs and my love, Joni 🌼🌻

    Liked by 1 person

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