Dead Rising

Now then, this is a piece I wrote for a competition on AGS a fantastic forum for amateur Adventure Game designers. The challenge was to create a story with the same title as a computer game. I decided to take a drastically different approach to the title 'Dead Rising.' I hope you enjoy it! By the way, parts 3 and 4 of 'The New Departure' are written but may take a while to type up.


Dead Rising

All the answers I got were on the morning of the 99' Dead Rising. The townspeople aren't free about it during the year, all you get is blank stares and bland denials of knowledge. The occasion is something you don't talk about.

The town is so small you can see the 'Welcome to Willamette' sign from the 'See You Again Soon' one. A community of 500 or so souls, and half that many people.

I had stopped there for a coffee on my way through. I got talking to one of the waitresses for so long, before I knew it, it was dark outside. Funny, it was the first time in months I'd spoken over a few sentences to anyone at a time. There was something about the people there, a comforting anonymity you felt as the only stranger in town.

When I mentioned that I had to get back on the trail again, the waitress, Sarah, stopped me. It was far too late to drive, and the next town was hours off, she insisted. Why not stay here, she suggested.Stay at my place,you can leave your car here and get it in the morning.

Well, why not? I wasn't thinking so straight and her sudden generosity caught me off guard. I allowed myself to be led by Sarah into an old cream sedan, owned by her father, she said.

The house was a tall, white, beautiful period building, clearly a former courthouse or the like. An empty flagpole poked out above the door.

I was too muddled at the beginning to even notice the food I was shoveling into my mouth, but as the meal went on, my head cleared a little, like it hadn't in months. These were people I could talk to, anonymous friends who could offer advice without the history that pervaded everything I heard from others. I began to open up about myself, my life. What had happened.

The woman's father was an open and talkative man, looking like nothing so much as a child's drawing of his grandfather. He didn't seem at all disturbed that his daughter had brought home a strange man, complete with tales of his tragic past, for dinner. He said as soon as I canme in he knew I was troubled. He instructed me to sleep on it, and in the morning I'd have all the answers I wanted.

At first I insisted on finding a hotel, saying that I had imposed on their generosity far too much already. They weren't having any of it. This huge empty house, she said, is just waiting for someone to fill it.

The next day is so clear in my head that it's as if I'm living it every time I shut my eyes.

The sunlight flows in through the giant window beside my bed, a stark counterpoint to the yesterday's gray, overcast look. I get up and shower quickly. There's no sign of either Sarah or her father.

As I leave the house, after penning a note thanking them for their generosity, I notice the absolute stillness over the town. A few hundred metres down the road an oldish couple sit on the front of a car, talking quietly to each other.

I walk ito the centre of Willamette and all around me people are in twos and threes, heads close in intimate talks with each other. In the distance I spot Sarah and her father with a middle aged woman wearing a beautiful blue dress.

Someone taps me on the back. I turn and see a tall man of unguessable age, hair down to his shoulders, smiling at me. He wears an expensive bespoke suit and a look of sublime contentment on his face.

'I expect you're wondering who that woman is.'

'Well yes, an aunt or?' I leave the question in the air.

'Ha, no, that woman is Patrice Belkin, Sarah's mother.'

'But...'

'In case you did not know, she died on the first of March 1988.'

'But...'

'Before you ask, let me tell you a little story. Don't worry, it won't take long.' He smiles even wider and begins, 'In 1964 a child of Willamette died. How she passed is not something I wish to get into but on Christmas morning we buried her in the little cemetery behind the chapel. In a town this size a death is a blow to everyone, a child is...' he trails off slightly and he isn't smiling anymore,

'What that woman went through I can only imagine. A few days later, on the 30th, she came out for the frst time since the funeral. She wasn't wearing black, she seemed normal at first but we noticed that she was talking to her daughter still. None of us wanted to give the poor woman any more troubles than she already had, so we, uh, played along.' At this point he pauses, and slowly, like the rising sun behind the mountains, the grin returns to his face.

'It was Father Simon who saw her first, the little girl everyone loved tugging at his robe, her arms outstretched to hug him, like she did half the town.'

'The next day, well, she was gone. Her mother knew this and she moved on. the next year it wasn't just that woman who got to see an old face. So there you have it, stranger. Willamette's big secret. We don't talk about it, save for today, because there's nothing really to say, is there?'

I take this all in in mute astonishment but I don't for a minute question what he says. It doesn't feel like the sort of thing anyone would make up. I do have one question though, 'Where is the person you want to see?'

'Aha, well son, here she is.' He spreads his arms out wide, as if to embrace the whole town. 'And now, I shouldn't detain you, because it looks like someone wants to see you.' He points behind me.

I turn and there she is. There is nothing ethereal or ghostly about her. not made of fog or dreams but real, solid and in my arms again.

We talk for hours and hours about everything. How things are, how they were and finally, where they can go now, after this day ends.

As I hold her tight the dawn is approaching. I know when I let her go, she'll be gone once more. She whispers almost inaudible in as I release her.

'Take it slow and enjoy every minute of it. I love you.'

***

We do take it slow, Sarah and I. Every year we make a visit to Willamette, to meet with friends, old and new. To see those people in the next room. We travel a lot, talk a lot, about how someday we'll settle down, maybe think about the future.

For now though, we take it slow, and we enjoy every minute.

The New Departure Part II

I do apologise for the long wait, I have actually been busy recently (seriously!) and haven't had time to type up the stuff I've written. In any case, it's here now and the third part is written up, but not typed yet.

I should mention that this is actually going to be a four part story as opposed to the original three part idea. I need another section to pull of the ending as I chose to introduce more characters than I had originally envisaged. Enjoy this part, written in a very loose, first person style.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ he raises his hands up high like he’s praying to the god of arms trading. With another breath he says ‘Let me introduce you to The New Departure.’ You can hear the capital letters click into place.

I try to listen but I find my mind wandering off, not out of boredom but out of sheer disgust at what this excuse is saying. Outside the seventy-fifth floor boardroom the rain is hammering down, so unsuited to the lofty words being spoken,
I’m shaken out of my self imposed exile from the conscious world by the smiling suit’s introduction.

What am I now? Did he say Visionary or Paragon? Who cares? I stand and face the assembled faceless drones. Jesus Christ I must be higher than I thought, they really do look faceless.

‘Esteemed-’I snigger inadvertedly but manage to turn it into an almost convincing sneeze. Drone #1 at the head of the table becomes alarmingly smiley, like he’s just realised that the coffee cup he’s drinking out of contains raw sewage and he’s unsure how to come to terms with the situation.

‘Esteemed persons of the board.’

‘You may not know me, I’m…uh…I’m…’ I look down at my cards, which aren’t there anymore. Holy shit, did I just forget my own name? Must recover this. Must stay focused.

‘I’m the man who designed the T-Chip that currently resides in the uh…um…’ Christ, what’s a diplomatic name for killing machine?

‘The uh…Recon and Combat assist vehicles being used by our armed forces.’ Used is perhaps the wrong word. Unleashed? Nah, it has too many negative connotations. I’m a wee bit zoned out at this point. Guy Smiley across the room hints at me that I’ve been staring blankly at the windows for the last 15 seconds.

‘Protecting our soldiers is our number one priority’ Just above suppressing our rampant alcohol and drug addictions.

‘We at…’ only a few moments pause as I try to remember who writes me cheques every month. ‘Davis and Davis Corporation are committed to protecting our assets…uh our troops. Our troops are our most valuable assets, we here at Davis and Davis and…Davis know our most valuable troops are our most um…’

Smiley has just stood up, ready to take charge. Good thing too.

‘I need to piss.’

Did I say that out loud? Ooh probably time to exit.

‘Mr. Gleeson everyone!’ The hollow, confused applause follows me down the hall.

The executive bathroom. A bright, sparkling tribute to what rich people do with their trousers down. Chrome and expensive wood are in evidence everywhere. The urinals are made of only the finest china, handcrafted by Tibetan monks in a monastery high above the clouds. Probably. I wonder if they knew what they were going to be used for.

The bathroom attendant creeps up to me, takes one look at my face and backs away slowly.

None of the cubicles are occupied and I’m free to sing fragments of songs at the top of my lungs to entertain the bemused attendant.

‘All finished!’ I say as if there’s a nervous crowd outside awaiting news of my bathroom engagement.

Damn my head hurts, I need another fucking…oh for the love of…I’ve dropped the goddamn box. I root around on the pristine floor a bit. No such luck. I stand and open the door, forgetting the vital step of removing my hand when it has finished opening. I stumble forward and shake my head. Bright black spots ship across my vision and I fall unceremoniously to the floor.

***

Images dance in and out of my eye line and muffled sounds filter through the buzz that blankets me morning til night. Am I on a plane?!?

Christ I hope I didn’t bring any of the junk onboard. The company won’t bail me out again.

‘Excuse me; I have to take a leak.’ Damn that didn’t come out right, few things do these days. I try to stand but I’ve been strapped in like a fucking baby.

‘It’ll keep him out of trouble for a bit and it might even give us a bit of a boost in-’

Things feel a wee bit…fuzzy. Not booze fuzzy or coke fuzzy but the kind of fuzzy you get from expensive prescriptions to stop you killing your husband as he comes back reeking of scotch for the seventy billionth time in a row.

The ginger bloke, uh, Chaz? Chiz? He’s the one talking like I can’t hear. The other guy keeps snatching glances at me like I’m going to go postal any second now.

I wonder what the inflight meal is. When do we get the menus?

‘Passengers’ the speaker above my head intones ‘This is your captain speaking, we are currently cruising at an altitude of thirty thousand feet and we should reach Fort Baxter, Poland in about eleven hours. Until then, enjoy your flight.’

‘Oh for fuc-‘

The Key

Here's a short piece I wrote for a competition recently, It's called the Key and is a wee bit depressing. I was in a poor mood when I wrote it.

The Key

A Living room. The wallpaper has separated from the wall underneath and is sloughing off like a snake shedding its skin. The floor is covered in used plates and take-away pizza boxes. Little light reaches past the grimy window to illuminate the tiny, dank room.

On a couch in front of an expensive, enormous TV, sit three blank faced men. Pieces of stray food cling to their clothes. The only sign of life is when they deign to blink briefly before returning to their silent vigil.

On the television the picture is crystal clear. A fresh faced young man talks into the camera in a reassuring faux-American accent.

‘Hello and welcome to…’ At this, he turns to his left side and the camera swings around with him. The audience are on their feet, chanting and waving. As one, they say ‘FIND. THE. KEY.’

A brief look of disgust flutters on our presenters face but is quickly replaced by his trademark grin.

‘And let’s see who we have on the show tonight!’ A massive screen lowers itself behind him and we see a still image of a frowning young man.

‘James Regwin has been in and out of institutions all his life. From the age of thirteen he was described by a judge as being an “irredeemable criminal”. For a recent conviction of armed robbery he was sentenced to death. Thanks to our joint venture with the fine people at the Ministry for Mercy we have give him one last shot at freedom.’

Again he turns and says ‘What have we given him?’

‘ONE. LAST. SHOT.’ The crowd seem ever more zealous. A woman in the front row is visibly in tears.

‘Without further ado…’ The screen shows a narrow alley in the centre of a city. A nondescript white van opens its rear doors and dumps a man out. He lands heavily on his side, clearly stunned.

He scrambles up and grabs a nearby pole for support, his eyes darting about. He breaths heavily and then starts walking quickly out of the street.

The alley opens out onto a wide broadway, red bricked and blazing with sunshine. A few people are milling about, clearly not here for the shopping. One man stares at James and immediately races after him. Seeing the man, James sprints in the opposite direction. A close camera captures the tears and terror in his eyes.

More people join the chase; a woman dressed in black appears out of a shop doorway and lands heavily on James’ shoulder.

She falls but he manages to struggle on. Some of the pursuers are carrying weapons now.

In the studio, the presenter seems bored with proceedings ‘It seems our competitor has reached the first milestone.’ Loud boos emanate from the crowd. On screen James mounts a motorbike and speeds off. Almost immediately he is followed by a four by four, screeching out of a garage.

The camera switches to overhead CCTV shots of the bike racing down the main streets of the city. James looks nervously back over his shoulder and loses control of the motorbike. The front wheel turns and the bike flips end over end, catapulting him into the pavement.

His leg is twisted almost out of its socket and one of his arms is clearly broken. Blood streams from a long cut in his forehead and he spits feebly in an attempt to clear his throat of fluid.

It’s not long before the cars pull up. Hungry eyed contestants swarm around his broken body, brandishing their knives. James opens one eye and manages to croak out a weak syllable.

‘Please.’

He finds no mercy in their eyes, nor in the studio with the rabid fans and the bored presenter, or even the passers by or the dead eyed watchers at home.

As they carve his chest apart, not even stopping to end his suffering, he slumps back against the wall. One lucky contestant brandishes the shiny piece of metal, the joy of greed lighting his world. He holds the key, but not to what he thinks. He possesses only the privilege of being the next contestant.

The New Departure Part I

This is the first part of a series of stories I'm going to write.It's Partially inspired by watching Kelly's Heroes the other night (If you haven't seen it I'd highly recommend it). The New Departure is about a group of soldiers in the middle east, not too far in the future. I'm trying to focus on the characters themselves this time rather than the events occurring. Feedback is always appreciated.

The New Departure
Part I

‘Who’s Camilla Wergeland?’ asks the taller soldier.

‘You wouldn’t know her. She’s really only popular in Norway.’ He pauses to look at the screen on his left wrist. He taps it a few times and says ‘Camilla Wergeland’ at it.

‘Here, have a look.’ He points the console in the other soldier’s direction. There is a small picture of a stunning woman with a microphone in her hand, various coloured lights shine behind her and her small army of dancers. The tall soldier seems impressed.

‘Christ.’ He looks out the window across from him. Smoke obscures the view somewhat but form the noise it’s clear what’s going on. The sound of heavy machine gun fire and high explosive discharge interrupt their conversations every few seconds.

The men are sting with their backs to the wall, inside an empty house. To their left is the front door, securely bolted. The wallpaper is fresh and clean and the whole place seems just built. A set of stairs lead to the upper floors. No furniture, except a small swivel chair and a desk opposite the door with a laptop on it, occupy the room. At the chair is a woman in army fatigues. All three are wearing the same camo save for a tiny flag just below the right shoulder. The tall soldier’s moniker is a Union Jack, the smaller one a Norwegian flag. The Woman carries only the UN symbol with no indication of her nationality.

Her helmet is lying on the floor and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s working silently at the computer with a frown on her face, her tongue clenched between her teeth.

Two Assault Rifles lie beside the men, along with their packs and helmets. Neither shows any sign of worry at the battle outside. If anything they appear annoyed at the racket.

‘So why did you join?’ says the British soldier.

‘Join?’ the Norwegian replies. ‘I was conscripted. I spend six months here and I get all my tuition paid in University. Better than working in those fucking soup kitchens for two years.’

‘Huh. I guess I joined cause of my brother. He’s in Iran. He says to me ‘Darren, the last guy I saw killed in this war was a bloke who drank too much and fell out the window of his barracks in Basra. It’s a sweet deal and no mistake.’

‘Was he right?’

‘About what?’

‘Is it a sweet deal?’

‘Well the foods frankly shit and I’m not a fan of taking orders. But I haven’t been killed. Or had to kill anyone as a matter of fact. So yeah, I guess you could say that. Pays better than what I was doing.’

‘Does it pay enough?’

‘Nah.’

‘Does anything?’

‘Nah. Not without a degree it doesn’t.’

‘So why don’t you get a degree?’

‘Can’t mate. Costs too much.’

‘Well that’s fucking true. Lucky me eh?’

‘Yeah. Lucky you.’

An explosion particularly close rattles the window in its pane. Dust streams from the ceiling. Outside it’s nearly dusk and a red glow is creeping over the city. The battle is dying off now. The woman seems calmer and she types slower.

‘Done yet?’ asks the Norwegian. There’s no answer from the woman for a few seconds, then she turns in her seat. Her voice is clear, with a faint trace of an east coast American accent. ‘Just about. It’ll be a few minutes before we can leave though. I’ve got the Rangers scouting for IED’s.’

‘Who’s your friend?’ She inquires.

‘I’m Darren.’ He pauses. ‘You?’

Again she waits a few seconds before answering. Just as he is going to open his mouth she turns again and says ‘Angelina. Erik here calls me Angel though.’

‘Sweet.’

‘Hmm, not really. It’s short for Angel of Death.’ Darren can’t help laughing at this. She smiles briefly and turns back to the computer. ‘I’m glad you find it so funny.’

‘Lay off him Angel, he’s new.’

‘Yeah, and British.’ She adds.

‘What does that have to do with anything’ he snarls, suddenly angry. Erik laughs again.

‘She’s making fun of you Darren. It’s the oldest trick in the book. He’s French so he’s a coward, he’s German, so he’s a psycho, she’s American, and so she’s a cold bitch.’ Angel tosses an empty coke can at Erik, who dodges it in a routine manner, as if this happens all the time.

The battle is clearly over. No sound except a faint mechanical groaning emanate from the window. The sun is sinking behind the skyscrapers, and the day’s extreme heat is fading. In an hour it’ll be colder than winter.

‘The rangers back?’

‘Most of em’.’

They pull their gear together, clearly in no hurry. Angel closes her laptop and pulls the tie from her hair. Darren sees her properly for the first time as she stands up. She’s of middle height, about 5’ 6’’, with ash blond hair and earthy green eyes.

Erik smacks Darren across the back of the head, waking him from his reverie.

‘Don’t bother. You’re barely high up enough to say hello to her. Ask her out in the middle of a war and you’ll be court marshalled. Save it for Camilla Wergeland.’

‘Shut up Erik.’ Is his only response.

Angel pulls the bolt on the front door and pulls it open. Dust is everywhere. The entrance opens out onto a broad street near the city centre. Tasteless steel and glass skyscrapers poke out of the ground, torn apart by missile and gun fire. The road is strewn with chunks of metal and husks of machines. Down the road a squadron of Mark III Predator Unmanned Arial Vehicles take off, their Hellfire missiles glistening in the late sun. Flanking them is a collection of other UAVS. Pathfinders, EagleEyes and a large group of Mark II Rangers are all in evidence.

One Ranger flies down the broadway and up to Angel with the eagerness of a puppy. Angel pats it and sends it on its way. Noting Darren’s stare she says ‘They need recognition when they’ve done well. Good dog, y’know?’

‘But it’s just a machine.’

‘This machine may have saved your life today. Would you like to be tramping through Dubai knowing that there could be a nail bomb around every corner?’

The Ranger pulls up to Darren and nudges him on the arm. He half heartedly pats it on where he thinks its head should be.

‘Anyway this is T Rex, he’s my favourite.’ Erik looks at him with a warning in his eyes.

‘Right. OK. Good boy Rex.’ Says Darren

All around is the smell of gunsmoke. Gaping holes pour it out incessantly. Smashed UAVS lie strewn on the ground, twitching uselessly. It’s finally night in the city. A deathly silence descends. It’s a battle without the smell of blood. No bodies can be seen.

Down the street the Predators clear the buildings and drift out of sight. The rest of the UAVs join them in stages. Finally the three soldiers are left alone in the empty street.

‘What next?’ Asks Eric.

Who Watches...

New Story. 1,300 words. Go.

‘We’re all pulling double shifts’ he sneers, small crumbs still lingering on his chins. ‘It’s a difficult situation for the whole station. I hope you understand.’

I hope you understand. And if I don’t? I shake my head slightly and walk out. Time off delayed again. We’re all pulling double shifts. Bastard. Still, I consider, it’s probably for the best that I’m the first to go on patrol with the new kid. The guys round here well, they’re not corrupt as such. Just a little, uh, tarnished. A corrosion of low level bad hangs around them, cultivated over years of seeing too much of the night and too little of their wives, manifesting itself in petty shakedowns and minor extortion. Sure the rookie will get exposed to that sooner or later, but he needs someone to show him that it’s not all alcoholism and abuse of power.

He’s waiting in the garage, by my squad car. Nice guess. He isn’t smoking or leaning against the door, just standing stoically waiting for me to join him.

‘Hey’ I shout, walking towards him. ‘Parks isn’t it? You’re with me today.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it briefly. ‘I’m Detective Blake.’

‘Nice to meet you sir, I’m Preston’

‘Any relation of Preston Parks on Duke Street?’

‘Uh…no sir, not that I know of’

‘Huh’ that, apparently is where the conversation dies.

We idle along Main Street, but the scanner is silent. I decide to show Preston some of the town.

‘You been here before?’ We haven’t said a word in twenty minutes.

‘No, sir. To tell you the truth I hadn’t even heard of the place until I was transferred’ I let out a short laugh at that. That’s word for word what I said to the old superintendent when I first got sent here.

‘Sir?’

‘Oh nothing, you just made me remember my first day.’

As the car rolls out of the nicer part of town I recall exactly what happened then. If memory serves Barr showed me the best place to get a freebie of coke and spent the rest of the round stopping in to ‘friends’ houses.

‘This is the place where most of your work will be.’ I say honestly. Really the police only deal with poor people’s crime; the stuff done behind closed doors around Trees Lane is none of our concern. The houses round here are tightly packed together, leaveovers from when the big steel plant employed the whole district. Preston seems about to say something, but he stops short.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Could you show me the other parts of town first, I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot of here.’ Preston’s shaping up to be a real comedian.

‘If you like, I suppose’ I pull up the car at the next intersection and turn around. In no time at all we’re cruising past the tall white mansions of what the people call the better part of town. Old growth trees line each and every fence, privacy you can’t buy, privacy you inherit. Everything stinks of power and privilege and pots of really old money. The sharp contrast between the two neighbourhoods startles me for a second, despite the fact that I’ve driven this town end to end more times than I care to remember. It’s a difficult situation for the whole station. Damn difficult situation for the whole city, for Christ’s sake. Course, lots of the rich are on it too but they get the pure stuff. Makes no difference in the end. Shit build up in you, makes each trip higher, more intense. It makes you extroverted, by turns happy and violent; you’re either everyone’s best friend or breaking a bottle over the bar.

‘Preston, you ever heard of Trace?’

‘I…’ Before he can answer the scanner squeals, the tone urgent on the other end.

‘All cars, this is control, is anyone in the vicinity of Trees Lane? She asks. I pull up the mike and respond. ‘Affirmative Control, this is WPD Detective Blake WI-113. We are currently on Park Road, please advise.’

‘Detective Blake we have reports of a domestic disturbance at 21 Trees Lane, please proceed.’ I place the mike back in the holder and set off.

We stop the car in the driveway of the house. The front gate is lying open, odd at this time of night. As we approach the door, we can clearly hear shouts coming from the Third floor. I walk up the steps quickly and knock heavily on the door. No response. I knock again. ‘Sir, this is Detective Bl-.’

I’m interrupted by a pounding gunshot and the shattering glass that rains from the window above us. I kick the lock, but the door is solid oak. I pull my gun and fire a shot into the woodwork. The door yields to another kick. A second and third shot echo through the empty house Preston and I race up the wide marble staircase and open the entrance to the master bedroom.

A woman slumps, clearly dead, backwards on the four poster bed. Huge exit wounds show on her chest and a smaller entry mark on her neck. Ludicrous amounts of blood paint every surface, and standing, undisturbed, smiling like the devil incarnate is the smallish man of middle years who has just murdered her.

He stays stock still, with an ineffable grin decorating his pallid features. His eyes bear all the hallmarks of a chronic Trace addict. He stares off in his own world, unaware of the horrific scene he has orchestrated.

Both Preston and I are holding our pistols tightly, their sights never straying from his head. We need not have worried, the offending weapon lay, partially submerged in blood, at his feet. Large calibre cases surround it. He still hasn’t moved a centimetre since we entered.

Every fibre of my body screams to pull the trigger and punish him, to be judge and jury. Except the judge and jury of this city wouldn’t kill him; not by a long shot. Guilty but insane. Not Guilty by reason of insanity. Manslaughter, hell they might even get away with justifiable homicide. With the fucked up higher ups here they’ll probably give ‘em a goddamn medal. My thoughts are fighting against the revulsion I feel. Kill him and chalk up a score for us for a change. Kill him and clean up a tiny corner of the world. Kill him and show them that they’re not above it all. Kill him .KILL HIM.

The explosion of the gun deafens us all, plunging us into a pit of silence, punctuated by an incessant ringing. Sound returns in waves of unfocused noise.

When I open my eyes the man is lying back against the wall, adding to the blood all around him. Fuck. FUCK. I lost. I killed the poor motherfucker. The drugged up bastard didn’t even know what he was doing and I shot him right in the face.

It takes a while for me to notice that Preston is as ashen faced as me. I’ve got to do something, I’m the goddamn detective. I say ‘Hey, uh, Preston…don’t worry you did nothing wrong…you-.’

And finally, I realise.

My gun never fired.

But Preston’s did.

***

We didn’t even catch any heat for the whole thing. Resisting arrest; happens all the time. The chief countersigned all the paperwork without a second glance.

That was fifteen years ago, and Preston’s a high up in the force now, in LA or Washington I think. He manages the police force for the whole district and I’m damn glad he does. I’m glad there’s one person up there with the incorruptible moral sense to dispense justice like that.

Sometimes though, I wonder if I should be.

Laaaaazzzzyyyy

Once again I've gone over a month without updating and I'd like to say that I had things going on, that I couldn't possibly write another story, what with the hectic lifestyle I lead. Unfortunately none of that is true. I seem to write more when I am more busy and let me tell you that no one is less busy than I am now. Hopefully you (If indeed anyone reads this) will see something new over the next week.


Right. Back to doing nothing.

Ag Slowdown

Those fine blokes over at AustralianGamer.com seem to have gotten too big for their bandwidth, which means a temporary shutdown. Now all I can do is refresh the page again and again waiting for it to come back. Hmm actually that may add to the problem.