Republic of Puerto Duquesa, central Caribbean
May 1958
"Ya casi estamos, Salomé. Let's go over the plan one last time."
"Ay coño, ¿otra vez, Claudio? We've done it a thousand times. OK then..."
Claudio stops the car in front of the mansion, a blot of amber light in the middle of the night.
"We go in. You talk, I smile and be pretty. If asked, you are the yanqui journalist, Alden York. I don't know very well what kind of articles you write. Mi inglés no es muy bueno. I know you from a few nights at the Casino del Ritmo. Good? Then let's go."
You take your clutch and wait for Claudio (that is, mister Alden York) to open your door like a gentleman. Accepting his helping hand, you emerge from the car, born into the tropical night, crawling with bad omens.
"¿Nerviosa?" he says, winning smile on, but you're looking over his shoulder, across the bay, towards the city.
Blinking lights along the eastern shore, the glinting Enjoyado and its expat palaces. Let them dance, let them laugh, let them gamble and grope the chorus girls. A reckoning is coming for all of them.
You breathe deeply. You feel its approach in each trembling inch of brown skin. Tonight.
8th place (out of 79) in the 23rd Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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