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Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Original Fiction: Little People By L.A. Sykes

   The pistol with the serial numbers filed off stabbed into the agent provocateur’s crown 
   with malicious    impatience. The carrier of the pistol shouted, “Bag the explosives and 
   don’t turn around. I know you’re an amateur dramatic.”

   The undercover special policeman knew the pistol man was with it and did as told. Said, 
   “Don’t be linking whatever shit you’re up to with me. I’ve got three wives on the go, two 
   pregnant, and subversion is imminent. Three years of graft you’ll ruin.”

   “Why are you lot always after the ones trying to do good change? Fuck it, nevermind. 
   Pass the bag and count the lines in the floorboards. Find your own conscience when 
   reckoning comes. ‘Cause it will, they’ll throw you overboard too sunshine.”

   He handed over the bag. Said, “Whatever. Get the fuck out.”

   DI Johnny Massis exited without replying. He jogged down the fire escape, descending 
   footsteps like hammer blows on rusting anvil, pocketed the gun and got in his car. Took 
   a long look around at the night silence, started the engine and slowly and carefully cruised 
   through the deserted streets. The black vehicle following had no plates but Massis couldn’t 
   see it anyway.

   It had all started when Massis took a statement from a ten year old who’d told him that 
   she’d been passed around a pedophile network that ran throughout the length and breadth 
   of the country. She was asked to look through the mug shot books of the local beasts. She 
   glimpsed the local and national papers in the background and positively ID’d perpetrators 
   from all walks of life. He asked for names and swallowed sick in his throat. He excused 
   himself and vomited in the gents.

   He drenched himself from the cold water tap and screamed and punched the walls. The 
   childrens home the girl had come from was the same one that twenty eight dead people had 
   gone to – all twenty eight former residents dead from coroner ruled suicide. All barbiturate 
   laced and suffocated with pillows after they’d passed out, bar one who shot himself in the 
   head four times, tied himself up and then jumped off a bridge into the canal. Shit stretched 
   decades. He’d been warned off linking the deaths and told he’d face psychiatric evaluation 
   if he carried on believing in conspiracy theoretical crackpot nonsense. He believed the girl 
   was telling the truth and at that point he knew his mortgage and pension didn’t even 
   concern him anymore.

   He marched to the Chief Inspector whos ruddy poker face spouted about a briefing at eight 
   am sharp. Massis made eyeball then left to knock himself to sleep with three litres of 
   whiskey that didn’t touch the sides.

   He made the start of the briefing and excused himself immediately, spewing blood and 
   yellow bile in the toilets. Fought off collapse and headed back down the corridor until 
   those once familiar faces trounced out of the room signaling the briefing over. He saw 
   some furious, some relieved, some indifferent and he could never be sure of any of them 
   forever.

   He caught up with DS Tavistock. Said, “What’d I miss?”

   The gruff copper ground his back teeth. Replied, “Investigation over. Orders of national 
   security”.

   “Not a fucking chance.”

   “Goes right to the top, seems to me. One person specifically we are not to storm is the 
   right honourable cuntface. Get me?”

   “Clear as day. See you, Tavistock. Thanks.”

   Tavistock nodded and walked away with clenched fists and a paling complexion.

   Massis grabbed his clean pistol and harried over to the politician’s constituency home. 
   Pistol whipped him until he coughed up the list of members to the club. He forced the 
   right hon. at gunpoint to write a signed apology and then executed him with two clean 
   headshots.

   Drove back to his house to retrieve his passport. Saw rapist nonce spray painted across 
   the brickwork and knew the smear had started already. Entered his house with the gun 
   drawn and his eyes watered at the smell of excrement, everything decimated except the 
   TV set which was blaring out the ten o’clock news. The newsreader read out a report of 
   him being accused of sadistically assaulting a woman he’d never even met, followed by 
   a rogue cop now wanted appeal. Climbed upstairs through the ransack and gripped tight 
   to the passport, not having the time to wonder why it was left there. Sprinted back into 
   his vehicle still unaware of the black unmarked.

   Massis remained unaware he’d been followed to his drug dealing snitch’s semi-detached 
   semi-respectable house bang in the centre of the semi-funded council estate. He never 
   even knew local councils had bugged the damn lampposts. He apologized for barging in 
   on the stoned knock out merchant, Chaser. Chaser was chilled, “No worries man. What 
   you want?”

   “Roll the camera”

   The smile flicked to perplexion but Chaser filmed and listened with intensity. “Now? 
   You want this going live on the web now?”

   Massis considered for a second. “Give it eight hours. I’ll be done by then and out of 
   the country. Call it eight hours from now. Any funny shit then just go for it anyway 
   regardless.”

   “Hell of a story, this sickness.”

   “You’ve never been more right, Chaser.” Massis squeezed the dealers shoulder and 
   left, driving hard.

   The occupants of the black car slipped into Chaser’s house via the back door and 
   deliberately scattered bullet holes into his torso and furniture to make it look an 
   amateurish thug killing. They caught up with Massis on the motorway via satellite 
   relay with ease.

   Massis drove on autopilot towards to the security services building as the first stop. 
   Once that was burning he planned to move onto special branch and then parliament. 
   He wondered who the establishment would blame for his actions via what narrative 
   that suited them.

   Out of curiosity, the occupants of the black unmarked asked the handlers how they 
   were going to spin the explosions in the press. They were told the narrative was 
   already waiting. They shrugged and carried on the pursuit, looking forward to the 
   fireworks with a professional detachment.

   Johnny Massis dismissed the black unmarked as a figment of paranoia and unscrewed 
   the cap from the whiskey bottle and gulped the firewater like elixir. He thought to 
   himself about the red faces of the complicit or disinterested and or scared who clung 
   to self-preservation as an excuse and hoped they’d see forever warped reflections of 
   themselves flickering in his fireballs as he hit one hundred and twenty and pushing for 
   faster.

   For all the little people.

   The little people.

   The little people who’ll never 

   Have 

   A 

   Fucking 

   Voice

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