THE SHIT MUM, FUCK DAD CHRONICLES

STORY ONE: YEAR of the SERPENT

VOLUME ONE: Price Check on Freedom.

‘Shit Mum’, Innes mumbled into his scarf.

It was the second Sunday in May, in the year of a supposed Lord, 2028 and only minutes before a legalized ambush, the Northern Lands Shopping Centre had being enjoying record Mother’s Day sales.

 

BISHETITS had sold out of orange brand eyeliner and suicide-themed crop tops. CHODE-GURT was giving away a fun-sized Galaxy Bar with every 2 Kilo tub of Melonade flavoured frozen pig fat, and PINKFINGERS had sold their last copy of Miley Cyrus’ fifth sex tape It Won’t Twerk Unless You Use a Sledgehammer, the follow up to her best-selling Lesbian romp, LOL Then Twerk On My Junk.

Then, without warning, heavily armed police had burst through shattered shop windows and smashed down from domed glass ceilings. The flustered buzz of economy had been replaced by a resonating Capitalist thunderclap. Pervasive bars of fluorescent lights pinged erratically throughout the vast shopping centre, ticking themes of unnatural light along alabastrine corridors and inside sparsely fitted showrooms. Babies began to cry.

Innes was hidden. Wedged, tightly in a sterile grey-white corner of the perfume section in PENNEY MYER. He blinked rapidly as if the surroundings hurt his eyes. The shop floor was sporadically swamped with awkward clusters of trembling humans. They pressed against one another like clothed maggots, white-faced and sloppy-lipped, hugging the various shop fittings and display counters throughout the jewelry department and bathroom product section. Overhead tea-strainer speakers aimed down over the product displays and softly ejaculated second-rate renditions of Lee Hazelwood tunes that whispered ambiguously into the ears of the terrified women and children.

Innes’ face was a similar shade of pale to those of the horrified people around him. However, unlike them, his insides were churning from something other than fear. His ankles were locked together firmly and his mouth was cinched in a sour grin, like a drunk with a mouth-full of dog piss. He desperately hated cops, but wasn’t afraid of them. In reality, he had been suffering from irritable bowel syndrome for the past 8 years and when it flared up his face would pale and he’d start to feel faint.

Unfortunately for Innes, at that very moment; as the immediate general shopping population of the Fillmore Xiling Province was being home-schooled by lock-jawed policemen and policewomen with awkward hips, man-hating hairstyles, regulatory fashioned body amour and automatic weapons… all at once, Innes needed desperately to empty his bowels.

‘Shit Mum’, Innes whispered to himself for the second time that day. He knew none of what was happening in the shopping centre was her fault. It was his idea to risk detection, pose as a regular shopper, and steal her the perfume she had once worn, a long time ago. In truth, his warm-heartedness was watered down with equal parts self-interest. He remembered that smell and as he was old enough to remember life before the New Republic, he yearned for that momentary, outlying comfort of nostalgia.

His mother, himself, and the sustained citizens of FX Province had been victims long before the government had issued a nationwide assault on all citizens of The New Republic. They were made casualties of dictatorship, methodized by the mindless allure of mass-consumption and status-fuelled consumerism of the highest degree. None of them were truly innocent. One could argue that they’d had no choice; they’d been born into it. Institutionalized and systemized prospectively. But most people, at some stage had had some kind of option to choose, they’d just been successfully distracted; followed neon lights and boutique signs and ignored their primordial gut.

Along with a legally crooked banking system, television and the Internet had proved the greatest weapons for the World’s economically and politically elite. Television had been a successful tool for the most part of the twentieth century. It weakened the minds of a universal public with repetition; subduing imaginations and individualism with uncultivated narratives, hollow stories and discount sales on the appliances needed to elevate one’s emblematically holographic social status. Television ingested a constricted essence of mankind and spewed out a radiated, synthetic image to which humanity combed its hair, powdered its nose and bought memberships by the billions.

The World Wide Web with its cabalistic networking strangled what was left of a waning impartial economic ideology. It designed and manufactured a plethora of hackneyed millionaires and insensible billionaires, and then, after any legitimate information had been watered down to an anemic broth of muted exposé and counterfeit political orientation, the Internet was terminated. During the final stages, The Net existed solely as a cyber notice board for mutilated, self-replicate cultural analogues that continued to amuse the majority of wholly systemized sectors of society, and cement the death of human edification in the hearts of the minority. Feeble bands of multicultural fringe dwellers were left to sleep in cold beds with lukewarm memories.

Cyberspace had picked up where television left off. It uncoiled its invisible, venomous frequency into every recess of the globe and enticed every variety of human. It catered to the rapacious appetites of the fashion conscious. It glazed over the holes at the core of the lonely and socially segregated and provided them with expedient conversation, meticulously reciting the alternate dimensional exploration of science fiction film and television from 1961 – 2018. It housed animated porn characters, made real in their individual virtual playgrounds, dungeons, classrooms and prison cells. Fictionalized assault victims performed a customized brand of submission, theatrically intoxicated by a highly unlikely desirous pleasure obtained by forced sexual intercourse, molding to the abhorrent fantasies of the profoundly antisocial. Only man’s design could forge such a concept. A consensual rape that transcended pixilation and infected what was left of any social culture with a virus that began in the mind and eventually sacrificed idiosyncrasy for something far more economical. The Internet even fashioned a sphere for the cynical few and rubbed its seductive, androgynous finger up and down the crotch of the audacious, willing them to reach a climax of uncommon knowledge, and then flung their brittle carcasses under the feet of a browbeaten mainstream ideology. They quickly became false prophets in the ears of the suppressed and tinder in the eyes of the supreme one percent.

Innes had been waiting for this day to come. For a long time he had doubted it’s inevitability. Not because it was too cruel to imagine, and not because he questioned the evil The Republic was capable of, but because he had somehow doubted his mindfulness when the usurpation was fully realized.

He unset his jaw and looked at the palms of his hands. His father’s words pealed in his mind like the personal thunder you hear before you fall asleep. He searched his knapsack and took a worn piece of waxed paper out and moved his eyes across the words, biting his lip until he tasted blood.

 

You are a human being.

You have been removed from a germinating autocracy.

You will sense the push and pull and observe the crowds

around you lean to and fro.

They will walk following gilded light, and then they will march with there eyes to the ground.

While new anthems are carved into their bone, they will make not a sound.

You will see through the light and identify it for what it is.

You will hear the chorus of mindless souls, chanting with their mouths closed.

There will come a time when the tribulations in your subconscious will stimulate an incarnate power within you.

                  This power is the only thing you need have faith in.

When the time comes…you will shed blood but you will not hear it fall.

You will kill the serpent before it uncoils.

 

 

The past seven years of his life had felt like a stunted interval between living in inception, dreaming an immobilized reality, and now, reawakening to the loudest siren in history. He identified this new feeling as, excitement.

Before they’d increased drone runs in rural areas, Innes had begun training as a mercenary for The Anti-Republican Army. His talent was firearms and he would shoot the lights out every day for five years on his uncle Morris’ farm, which stagnated at the bottom of a decomposing ravine in what was once called the Victorian Wine Valley. His uncle owned an old Mossberg bolt-action, the only type of shotgun made available to farm owners after the Old Government had flagged a mass shooting in the South Island and craftily used the tragedy to steer ‘concerned’ public voters in the direction of an anti-firearms lobby. They were happy to settle for a ban on semi-automatic shotguns. Morris also kept a .45 caliber Owens submachine gun he’d bought from a retired army mate in the late 1960s. He often referred to the weapons as ‘one of a kind’.

On a still day, Innes could take the top of a Slades bottle at 50 feet with a .38 revolver, make thirty hits centre circle with the SMG on semi auto, and fifteen hits using full auto from a thirty three cartridge magazine and could break clay at 120 meters with the shotgun, though he considered the weapon impractical due to limited cartridge capacity and tiresome reload.

His gun training came to an abrupt halt however about 7 years ago when Morris changed the locks on the ammo drawer and bought a new gun safe. Morris had discovered his nephew’s organic drug habit and deemed a stoned shooter a potential stoned killer. His uncle was a sharp old bastard with a quick wit and would often announce a flaccid brand of philosophy that he’d sifted from random inspirations. He would sit opposite Innes at the breakfast table and suck noisily at the rim of his coffee mug.

‘Your assumptions are your windows to the world Innes.’ He would proclaim, spitting an unrefined spray of black coffee of the table.

‘Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.’

Innes had once, even heard his uncle ineptly paraphrase Frank Zappa one day while they were pulling onion weeds out of the roof gutters.

‘The inner workins’ of ya head are like a parachute,’ Morris professed as he shook soil from of a handful of roots.

‘It doesn’t work if ya don’t pull the bloody cord Innes, and open it up.’

Innes came to the conclusion that the concept of smoking the odd joint swamped Morris’ intellectual window box with proverbial weeds and burnt too many holes in his hypocritical parachute. The last quote he heard his uncle informally translate was to the key of a less impartial viewpoint.

‘Fuck the Government!’

Three years later Morris was cut in half by Military gunfire. Someone had informed the Government that his farm was a weapon compound posing as an organic produce farm, even though it was common knowledge that chem. trails had terminated the growth of private produce back in 2017. Turns out an 80-year-old sub machine gun hadn’t been the only automatic weapon Morris had owned. The military and police had seized over one and a half tons of weapons on his property that day. The article claimed that Morris had been babysitting a 800 pound crate of Browning GP-35 Hi-Powers and a 2 ton cargo container nearly half filled with of automatic weapons and RPG’s, ranging from F88S-A2 Austeyrs and SR-25 semi-automatic sniper rifles, to grenade launcher attachments for the F88s and 2 Mk 19 Automatic Grenade Launchers; enough firepower to equip an army of 250 men and women. Before he was killed, and probably due to his steadfast paranoia about a Government attack, Morris gave the Owens gun and Mossberg to Innes and warned him to ‘be ready for the fuckin’ vipers to strike’.

A photo of Morris’ detached torso and swollen legs where stamped across the next day’s papers under the heading FIRST KILL OF TERRIORIST SEASON. The supporting paragraphs informed the public about the 80-year-old zucchini farmer who’d fronted a weapon smuggling ring and lead a small army of ARA fighters. The waxed expression of fear loosely masking the bloated head of his uncle’s corpse in the tabloid served as a warning to the tightly governed society.

Our guns will always be bigger than yours, and legal.

Innes unhinged a slow burning anger and turned his attention once again to his immediate situation. He looked sharply from side to side, taking in the blubbering faces and shopping bags strewn across the floor. The navy blue militants were aiming their short-barreled weapons at the twitching clusters of hostages, and whispered in between muffled static blips into their shoulder-mounted radios. He regarded the cops with a reproachful grimace. He had always been on a perverse side of the law. Not an outlaw in the romantic sense; he’d never stabbed a cop with a bowie knife or performed armed robbery, though he was always armed with a gun. A well-oxidized black Smith & Wesson .38 he’d bought when he was fourteen from a Chinese dry-cleaner/underground gunsmith. It was an awkward looking pistol with a shrouded hammer and the sight had been crudely filed off and replaced with a makeshift hard rubber night sight. The faux walnut grips were bound in their grooves with electrical tape, which left his hands sticky for days after gripping it. It fired surprisingly straight but had a deafening report, kicked like a .45, and the hollow casings would stick in the third and sixth chambers.

Innes felt the weight of the .38 in his knapsack and drew air sharply through his nose. He knew there were two unspent shells in the revolver. He understood that firing the weapon now would only result in his definite termination. He also appreciated that he was going to need more than two bullets to kill upwards of 30 police personnel. However, The immediate problem Innes faced was not the potentially sociopathic cops enforcing a wrought government system; it was the 600-gram bowel movement that was pushing internal alarm buttons. Once he’d relieved himself, and only then, could Innes unshackle half a lifetime of anti military training, kill every cop in this place, and get the fuck out of the Northern Lands.

There were three cops that he could spot. One cop was standing rigidity behind a powder desk to his left, and two were on his right talking to each other near the entrance to the food court. With his back to the glass of a perfume display case, he slid down till his backside met the cool vinyl of the shop floor. From this position he had a visual on the one cop to his left which meant only one of then could see him if they looked in his direction. He held his breath, focused on the policemen to his left, breathed out and spun around on his crooked haunches and backed into the sales counted directly in front. His pulse throbbed and fed a circumnavigating twitch, moving from his neck to his eardrums and down to his groin. He quietly removed his boots and gripped the carpet between his toes and felt a slight ease come over him. Déjà vu.

The music cut out abruptly and was replaced by a hollow mechanical hiss. Innes looked up at the ceiling speaker above him. It was offset in its groove and a brown water stain bordered the speaker mount like a coffee stain on a ply board mattress.

Without warning, the cop to the left of Innes, jerked to attention and raised his gun. Innes heard the clatter of hollow steel bouncing off the hard-surfaced flooring, following by quick, short footsteps and a woman yelling a mesh of English and Greek between heavy breaths. The woman’s outburst was followed by sharp verbal blast from one of the cops.

‘Stop Bitch, you will be shot!’

Without a word, the cop on the left discharged his weapon. Three shell casings pinged off the vinyl floor and rolled in neat circles. The crisp snap of thick glass and shattering of a display case resounded through the shopping floor.

The cop stepped forward and Innes pitched his shoulders and turned slowly to look over the counter. The body of a heavyset woman had merged callously with jewelry display counter. The top half of her had disappeared beneath a cheap cerement of youth inspired necklaces, bracelets and broken glass and her large rump presented itself with a pair of naked, chunky calves, dangling precariously in the air like loaves of bleached sourdough sticking out of a vat of vanilla pudding. Innes’ eyes widened. Some silent, stoic force snatched his breath away and he literally shat himself.

Attention citizens of Fillmore Xiling Province an emotionless voice crackled throughout the shopping centre…

Outside a bitter wind tore against the grey walls of the shopping centre. It swirled a flitting army of lightly caustic acid rain drops in fractious cycles across grey clouds, then spat them violently against windscreens and warped aluminum parking signs. A police helicopter encompassed the complex like a shiny black eye on a rotor, supervised the wet asphalt, dauntless flash of police lights and leaden horizon.

The government officials that have seized this building do not want to kill you…but they will!… If every body in this building does not co-operate with the following instructions… he or she will be shot. This is your first and final warning. You are required to follow the instructions of the Policemen and Policewomen controlling your area. These instructions will include undressing; forming organized individual lines of men, women and children. You will then be instructed to present your RFID injection zones for scanning. If you do not co-operate you will be shot with live ammunition. At the present moment not all of you understand your government, but you will be made to understand your Government’s law. Your Government knows what is best for you…

 

As the speakers fizzed to an idle, static hum, Innes listlessly considered the announcement and thought back to the many meandering conversations he’d exchanged with his parents regarding the bootless topic of politics. Although they’d fiercely rejected the ideals that made up the backbone of an Old Regime, they were Platonists at heart. Cultivated in a bitter climate of World War, they’d been solicited by the forged glow of socialism, a weed The Powers That Be had planted in the rubble of a contained cataclysm. They were bred to be survivors, or at least bred to believe that’s what they were. They carried a unique brand of optimism into their future, to be passed on to their children, maybe even as far as their children’s children. But perhaps that was as far as any flame of anticipation needed to travel. If you give a soldier one glorious victory, if you take him to the edge of extinction and allow him to claw his way back with tooth and nail, he’ll disregard a fractionally exposed truth, for the intrinsic flame that burns in his viscera.

Innes thought of the energy he’d spent trying to expose the truth to his parents. He wanted so badly for them to see through the veil shrouding the cruel intentions of a merging world power soon to be realized as The New Republic of America.

He turned his attention to the homicidal cop, who was withdrawing his sidearm. The cop ejected the magazine from his MP5 with one hand and cocked the pistol with the other and placed it on the counter in front of him, and with lightly shaking fingers, he thumbed three bullets into the top of the discharged magazine, clicked it back into the breach and spat some adrenaline on the floor.

Innes had a fair idea how this day would conclude after he’d studied the cops weapons and equipment. The cops carried 3 extra SMG clips apiece; 120 bullets per cop. This wasn’t just a routine chip-check, their manner of entry to the building had made that much clear. But the lack of restraint shown before executing the woman, the dictatorial tone in the announcement moments earlier, and the glut of ammunition could mean only one thing; a nationwide culling of NRA citizens.

Innes swallowed a lump of watery mucus, tilted his head forward and sniffed the foul air rising up from his crutch. Up until then, he had never purchased a single article of clothing from PENNEY MYER. In truth he preferred to support charity-clothing stores (rare as rocking-horse-shit these days), but in consideration of his predicament, he had to find some clean pants.

Reluctantly he shifted onto his rump again, taking care to keep his weight on the lowest point of his back. He knew had to get his pants off before the moist excrement began to itch his gouche and inner buttocks. Unbuttoning his sullied brown corduroy pants, he slid them down over his thighs and calves, grunting slightly as he pulled his ankles through the trouser legs. He mouthed ‘thank you’ to a nameless divinity as he gazed down at the mattered bowel gravy, which had come to rest as a sticky, but contained shallow dune of pungent waste in the seat of his boxer shorts. Innes breathed out an enduring breath, comforted in the belief that he was well hidden behind the sales counter. But, as he inhaled a long draw of air through his nose, a sickly realization dawned on him.

Poo, in its physical form could be concealed from the naked eye, but the fresh diarrhea in his pants was giving off a bouquet of cheap dog food and stagnant drain water. If you thought the smell of your own shit was strong, it would be nothing compared to how potent an outside party could potentially perceive it. Fortunately for Innes, he was holding up in the perfume section of a department store, and just as one couldn’t enjoy the sweet without enduring the sour, that same ideology also persevered adversely. He reached blindly on the shelf behind his head until his fingers found a small, ornately shaped bottle of liquid. He gave his pants half a dozen quick squirts of Ode de Chattel, and then aimed three blasts of the musky fragrance at his backside, rubbing the area down with the leg of his trousers. He then tucked his mucky cords and heavy boots at the far corner of the shelf behind him, wincing as he pivoted on his haunches. As liberating as being half-naked in a Capitalist department store was, his testicles were not accustomed to being rubbed across cheap carpet.

Smelling like debauchery and cringing as the potent cologne made its way into the delicate recesses of his anus and urinary meatus, Innes slowly raised his head to peer over the counter. There were only two cops left guarding the area. The third cop had exited through the entrance into the food court. Innes could faintly make out her shape through the warped glass of a display window. He had to act now if he was to get an upper hand, and a decent pair of pants.

There was a rack of red, orange and purple trousers behind him, about 10 yards to the left.

‘Fuck it’, he hissed between clenched teeth. A major disadvantage to shopping centre apparel was the color range. The New Republic had outlawed all earthen colors as an option for any mass- produced garments. The idea, although it was never disclosed officially, was to detach humanity from any terrestrial linkage. Likewise, they increased the levels of fluoride in drinking water, toothpaste and processed foods and illegalized all forms of spiritual practice including yoga and meditation. The NRA feared the uprising of citizens with decalcified pineal glands and took every measure to blind humanity’s third eye once and for all. To accomplish this feat, the NRA concluded a savage task they’d begun 250 years earlier, and killed every last Indigenous life on the continent. The Aborigines had harnessed a spiritual power that, left uncultivated could have potentially ruined any chances of maintaining a New World Order. Innes had lost many friends during that year of genocide; the most repulsive period in a long history of evil.

He bit back a hot rage and focused on finding some pants that fit. He couldn’t spot a section for men’s and his simmering anger was momentarily replaced with a smirk as the contemplated the notion of going commando. In his hast, Innes grabbed a pair of purple chinos and rattled some wire hangers together. He silenced the dull clanging with a clenched fist and froze. His ears pinged in a claustrophobic silence as he waited for a reaction to the sound.

He listened for the footsteps of an approaching cop, and sure enough, he could make out the creak of military leather as someone advanced upon his position.

Innes looked around him desperately. He needed some kind of weapon, any object that he could wield or thrust. He glanced down at his penis and his brow lifted with the relief of some impromptu logic. He reached down, and hastily rubbed his limp cock into a semi impressive, if merely apathetic erection, then pressed it between his legs and trapping it behind crossed thighs. Quickly, he unwrapped the scarf from his neck, pulled his hood down over his face with one hand and fished into hand knapsack with his free hand. He producing a large red belt buckle from the sack, the face of a thin-faced cowboy gave him an embossed grin and the pewter weighted evenly in his hand.

Innes cleared his throat and waited for the cop to discover him.

‘Oh my god…’ a deep voice growled sofly.

Innes kept his hood down and his face hidden. Staring at his messy tuft of brown pubic hair, he spoke to the cop in a crumbling high-pitched whisper.

‘Please sir, um officer. Please don’t hurt me, I’ll do anything you want… just don’t hurt me’.

The cop let out a low rumbling chuckle and Innes heard his lips smack together, and raising his eyes under the hood, saw the barrel of the cop’s gun swaying down above his leather boots.

‘Oh my holy god’, the cop said again, his American accent lingering like rich gravy on each word he spoke.

All of the sudden, Innes parted his legs and his plump phallus lurched out in front of him, full bodied from the expanse of blood and tissue that had compressed in the thigh-vice. It swung crudely, like a curved punching bag after a hefty whack and as the cop stared down at it in astonishment, Innes swung his fist in a solid, swift and calculated strike. The blow caught cop’s jaw squarely which made a dull snapping sound as it broke.

Innes unwound the scarf from his right hand and let the buckle fall into his left. A red-faced Hank Williams grinned up at him. He looked down at the cop.

‘Your God is dead Shit-head, didn’t you get the memo?’

The cop didn’t reply. He wore a peculiar expression on his face, like someone surprised with their eyelids glued shut. His jaw hung pendulously, and his chin rested on his collarbone.

Innes parted a rack of orange shirts and spotted the second cop. He was walking towards them. Innes produced a sharpened, steel rod from his knapsack, bent down and forced it up under the unconscious cop’s eyeball and into his brain. He wiped the wet shaft on the cop’s collar, pulled the baton from his service belt and dragged his body into a changing room, taking off his boots and tossing them under a clothes rack. He left the cops socked feet poking out from under the change room door and hide behind the rack of orange shirts.

The second cop crept up slowly, his gun focused on the seemingly occupied change room.

‘Get up! …get the fuck up and open the door slowly’, his voice was steady, but indignant.

‘Boy, if you don’t get the fu- huck!‘ the cop made I hiccupping sound as Innes attempted to break the baton over the back of his head. As the cop tilted towards the floor, Innes struck him again with the baton and broke several of his front teeth.

‘What’s your name soldier?’ Innes questioned the semi-unconscious cop with an air of theatrical charm?

The cop was young, about twenty-four and had a tattoo of a wolf’s skull breathing fire on his neck. He blinked until the whites of his eyes showed the gleam of an iris.

‘Eat shit’, the cop spat back painfully through bloodied teeth.

‘Well Eat Shit , here’s how this is gonna pl-‘ Innes paused and looked to the ceiling as if it held the answer to a whimsical riddle.

Eat Shit, that’s a very unusual name, what is that, Turkish by origin? My Dad went to Turkey a long time ago and I remember him telling me how attractive the women were, how interesting the food was and how the Turkish had such distinctive names, but Eat Shit…that is unique…is it indeed Turkish I wonder?’

The cop went to say something and Innes smacked his cheekbone sharply with the grip of the pistol.

‘I know that sounded like a question, but it was intended to be rhetorical. Truth is Eat Shit, I don’t give a fuck about you, or the unusual name your halfwit parents labeled you with. I would like to know, two things. Just two.’ Innes pouted like a man conversing with a small child, he was having fun acting out this part.

‘How many of you and your kind are roaming about this shopping centre? How many cops?’

The cop went to speak again but his head was met with another whack from the pistol grip.

‘Uh ah’, Innes tutted. ‘I’ve got another question’, he whispered, leaning in close to the cop’s face as he tried to shake the pain out of his head.

‘Second question’ Innes snapped, sharply.

‘What exactly do you plan to do with the innocent people you’ve humiliated out there?’

The cop pursed his swollen lips and looked the other way. Innes ejected the clip from the pistol, pressed a bullet out, held it firmly against the cop’s head and hammered the shell rim with the pistol grip.

The cop’s face screwed tightly in on itself like a piece of grey flesh being pulled into a hole it wouldn’t fit in. A small circular welt was already forming above his temple and shedding a bright stream of blood.

‘Hey!’ Innes Snapped, clicking his fingers sharply in the cop’s face. ‘Eatshit!’ He growled, leaning in again with his lips close to the cop’s ear.

‘This isn’t like in the moving pictures. There is no time to bide while you take the odd skull rattler in hope that one of your buddies finds you before I get the information I’m after.

The outcome is gonna be pretty cruel for you.’ Innes shifted his head back from the cop’s ear. He paused and watched the cop’s face intensely until the cops eyes lifted to meet his own, then he grabbed the back of the cops head and directed his eyes to the distorted face of the dead cop in the change room.

‘The truth is that you’re not a good guy.’ Innes paused again to shake his head and grin at the cop. The cop looked away.

‘I’m not exactly a good guy either but I haven’t raped and killed innocent women and shot bullets into their husbands and children’. As Innes said this, the cop’s eyes flashed back to met his.

‘That’s right! You nasty little man, I know what you and your fellow officers do to the people you purportedly take into custody…my sister was one of them.’ As Innes spoke he released his grip on the cop’s hair and withdrew the steel rod from his knapsack, holding it out before man’s bloodied face.

‘Answer the first question quickly or I’ll drive this steel behind your windpipe and push it our through your throat…and Eat Sh-…’ Innes paused and gave the cop a look like he was surprised to see him.

‘What’s your birth name?’ He asked.

‘Christopher’, the cop replied indignantly.

‘Christopher, believe me when I tell you that I’ll pull your throat out if you procrastinate. Literally. I will end your life. That’s a fuckin’ ridiculous tattoo by the way’.

The wind had stunted outside, and the air got still and clean. The Police Chopper had moved on to another sector, like a black ball of thunder following the emptying rainclouds. The Parking lots, laying flat, barren and still, began to slowly drink the shallow basins of water and some crows broke a silence as they wrestled a sheet of aluminum food wrapper from a dumpster and pecked crooked eyes in it. A slow shift of grey clouds moved above the outlying buildings and behind them, the sun blurred in an ashen circular haze, testimony that the earth may still be turning.

TO BE CONTINUED IN VOLUME TWO…

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