Write a Scene placing two characters in this very fundamental conflict. One wants something that the other does not want to give. The something may be anything - money, respect, jewellery, sex, etc.
His hands shook. Not like a leaf in an autumn breeze. More like a feather in a hurricane. His breath was short, quick, the panic setting in. His beating heart thudded like race day at Ascot. He had to sit down, he feared if he rose his jelly legs would collapse beneath him. And then the noise came. The black Aston martin almost silently crunched up the gravel path. The headlights were extinguished, and then came the terrifying noise. The small noise of the car door opening, and closing. Magnified a thousand times in the silent hours of darkness. Handmade Italian shoes slithered up the pathway, and a gnarled hand reached for the door handle. The door opened without a creak - the man had expected a creak, even though he knew the hinges well oiled. The other man walked the few small feet into the small, almost desolate room. His squinty eyes surveyed thee Spartan apartment. This man was Anthony Sullivan. He was a large man, what was once muscle had soon run into fat. An after effect of the man's greed. A merciless greed that was held by no bounds. Anthony Sullivan was a man who made the lives of others a complete misery. That was what had happened to the first man. Money made the world go round. And the first man needed money, not alot, just a small loan. And he repaid it - in time. But Sullivan was not a fair man, long ago corrupted by greed and malevolent joy. He demanded more. Interest. So he took everything the first man had. All his money, his belongings. And still he came back for more. The First Man was sat in his one and only possession. A rickety old chair - ironically enough a gift from the man before him. The hated one stood before, the grin the wolf gave the sheep plastered across his face, clear as day.
"I have been more than patient Mister Monroe. I want my money."
The First man made a noise, somewhere between a sob and a whine. Eventually he managed to stutter out a single word "D-d-don't" before the Wolf interrupted his bleating cries.
"I want what is owed, Mister Monroe."
"C-c-can't"
Sullivan sighed, and then paced across the wooden flooring, the thud of his expensive loafers echoing across the barren room. He stopped when he was behind the first man. The first man whined, and the sobs were uncontrollable now. Behind him there was the velvety swish of Sullivan adjusting his clothes, and then an unmistakeable click.
"Then you pay the only way you can. Goodbye, Mister Monroe."
And then it went dark.
