Thursday, April 17, 2008
After a long day's work
After a long, hard day's work Ryan decided to take himself on an excursion to the local strip club owned by Big Rick. There he relaxed in the smoky air admiring the young and pretty hispanic woman working the pole. She was of a medium height with long, dark brown hair. For some reason that Ryan couldn't place, she didn't seem like she belonged there. Suddenly Ryan realized that the same chick he passed in the bar was there in the club. He worried that she would get the wrong impression of him in that place. But what was she doing there? Her body looked so perfectly shaped. Ryan decided that such a perfect figure should not go unacknowledged. He was still so angry he was worried it might interfere with any relationships he might try to forge. Oh well, he would try anyway.
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I know I don’t pay much for this place, but damn! Can a person get some peace and quiet? Just cause its daytime people get to thinking they can make all the noise they damn well please. Inconsiderate bastards, don’t ever think about people not living according to their time. Ain’t my fault I sleep during the day. When the hell else are they going to watch a show? During Lunch? Wonder who did what now. Sirens goin off all over the place. Guess I’ll just get up now. Got shit to do anyway.
Think I’ll were the pink jacket today. Seems like I always need a jacket in this hell hole, never warm enough to walk out in a nice blouse like it was back home. I miss the way things used to be. I know I decided to do this on my own account, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this. Should take a job as some stuffy secretary for some arrogant ass. No, no. This is ok. It wont be for too long. I’ll make my way out soon enough.
I hate walking down this hall. Always dirty, always stank. No more stank than the elevator though. ‘bout time it got here. Great its that guy from Rick’s. I didn’t know he lived here. I hate seeing people from the club outside of it. I’m not ashamed or anything, people round here know what I do. Just don’t like it. Maybe he won’t recognize me. He didn’t stay too long. Think he left with Coley. Don’t really remember what happened. I’m taking the stairs.
The town is even dirtier than the damp and nasty hall. Least there ain’t no sketchy lookin strangers lurking round the corner. Seems to me like somethin’s always goin down around here. But then again, I’m always out at the time when most eerie shit is going down. It’s not that kind of time right now. Sun is still out. Probably got something to do with that Italian dude from the club. He seems like he’d be involved with sketchy looking dark vans and sirens. Maybe he’s out to get someone, or maybe someone is out to get his ass. He seems all right to me. Nice enough for a gangster, not too bad looking. I’ll stop by there before I go to work today.
The Car That Almost Finished Him
Jefferson's string of Robin Hood-like robberies had been successful up until that night. He had amassed a small collection of riches hidden under his floorboards that he had purloined from undeserving drug lords, which he intended to distribute to the poor somehow. But he made a mistake; he had to have the car. It was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Miura he had found in one particularly well-off drug dealer's garage. The Lambo was pristine and collecting dust, proof its owner didn't use it. Jefferson didn't know how he would return it to the community; he just knew that its current owner didn't deserve it in the least. So Jefferson stole it. The theft wasn't difficult; cars that old didn't have that much of a security system. The garage, on the other hand, did.
As soon as Jefferson started up that glorious engine, three thugs with machine guns ran out of the dealer's crib. Jefferson gunned the Miura in reverse and broke through the garage's wooden wall. He slung the car around and flew down the street. The thugs peeled out of the garage in two black Cadillacs. The Miura was much faster than the Cadillacs, but the thugs had machine guns, and he couldn't outrun a bullet. The thugs fired at him; his car was riddled with bullets, and his rear window shattered. Jefferson swerved left and narrowly missed hitting a minivan. The Cadillacs followed easily. Jefferson weaved through traffic wildly, but the thugs still kept up. Then he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror - three police cars had not surprisingly taken notice of their activities. Two of them rammed the Cadillacs and forced them off the road. The third followed Jefferson. Jefferson floored it. The police car could barely keep up, and Jefferson almost got away. Then it began to sleet.
The sleet made a sound similar to the bullets as they hit his car. Jefferson could barely see. A truck pulled out in front of him and he swerved into the left lane, then back into the right as another car almost hit him head on. Jefferson spun out of control, but regained it and sped down an adjacent street. The police car was still hot on his tail. Jefferson slowed down; the Miura's speed was no use to him if he couldn't see. The hail grew heavier. Jefferson looked in his mirrors. More cars had joined the chase. This would have to end soon. The lights of Washington Heights stood out in the darkness. He would have to ditch the car; he knew this now. At least it wouldn't be in the hands of a drug dealer. Suddenly, a black van pulled out in front of Jefferson. He swerved right. He didn't see the small coupe until it was too late.
The coupe backed out of the garage. The Miura's headlights illuminated it suddenly. Jefferson didn't have time to think. He slammed the brakes. It was useless. The Miura slammed head on into the coupe's trunk. The trunk was obliterated. The Miura lost contact with the ground. It flipped over several times. It landed in an abandoned storefront. Everything stopped.
Jefferson came to. The hail had stopped. He was lying upside down in an upside down Miura in the front of an abandoned building. Everything hurt; something was bleeding. Cars that old didn't have much of a safety system. Jefferson laboriously pulled himself out of the wreck. He knew he didn't have much time before the police got there. He peeked out of the gaping hole in the front of the building. The coupe was sitting in the middle of the street, its rear end completely smashed in. A trail of glass and metal lay between it and the Miura. The coupe's owner was climbing out of his car. Jefferson recognized him as Ryan Ford, one of the tenants of Washington Heights. He looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Then Jefferson saw the police cars zoom around the corner; they must have been stopped by the black van. Jefferson stumbled out the back of the abandoned building and into the street.
He was able to evade the police as he limped back to his apartment. He walked behind the Chinese restaurant near Washington Heights so that he could get in through the back entrance. He saw the kid who worked there speed away on his bike. He hoped the kid didn't see him. Jefferson snuck in through rear entrance of his building and into the elevator. He pressed the button to his floor. He felt terrible. His mind raced and he couldn't think straight. He pulled a shard of yellow metal out of his bulletproof vest and dropped it on the elevator floor. The doors opened and he walked awkwardly into the hall. He stumbled to his room, opened his door, and fell straight onto his bed. He felt terrible. Sirens sounded throughout the night.
Clinic Duty
Let me see...Mr. George Jefferson stopped by this morning for treatment. Major bruising and cuts. Refused to answer questions pertaining to injuries. Left before actual treatment. A similiar situation with a Mr. Ford...
Well I imagine he would be in a hurry to leave the clinic when they ask so many penetrating questions in this cloister of a city. In fact, in the bulk of the patient records there are few who stay more than one night. Of course it makes for a harder investigation when every single person acts suspiciously.
"Oh-Um...officer Seebach?"
"Ah, forgive me, this is Seebach."
"Um, yes. Thank you for coming in. It's always good to know you are helping out in hand with the clinic."
Even if I had something to do today, at Ms. Evans invitation, all the red markings on my calendar had magically disappeared. Even if she requested we meet on the 29th of February, I would still be there. Who cares about something as trivial as a leap year? It is always a profitable source of information at the free clinic. Injuries tell secrets.
"Well please continue to report in officer, thank you very much."
"Ah. Please turn the light out as you leave."
"Aren't you reading--? Alright."
I toyed with the golden badge on my shirt as I hunched over a box of documents. The small closet was a bit more spacious than the room in my apartment. Gratefully many people don't see what's important, just the uniform. Of course that is as good a factor as bad in a place like this. The name on my uniform read "Barnheart." Technically it was Brone's uniform which he uses on certain occasions, but thats why I took his identification for alteration earlier.
Ring Ring.
A normal ringtone for my normal role-playing.
"This is Seebach."
"Michael, what the hell. Give me my ID."
"It's purpose has not reached fulfillment, I would like to use it at least once."
"I need it much more than you idiot. Don't think you can trade me a hundred bucks for it."
"You were asked for identification? Really?"
"Unbelievable huh? but that's not important, of course I'm calling you for a reason. So listen carefully, because I'm serious about it."
You called all of a sudden just to say you're serious? After such an ambiguous sentence, my wits were at an end as to guessing just what he was trying to say. Listening carefully it did seem he had a real reason for calling me rather than to complain. This could be a critical situation.
"Perhaps...I shall rendevouz with you later, time and place shall depend on the developing situation."
I thought I would be finishing up around here but it seems the grandson of that cookie woman has just arrived.
"G-g-g-g--!"
Ghosts? Grandma? Speaking of which, Mrs. Pearl seems to be holding a klondike bar. Should I ask her for it-No, she's already seen me before, I can't ruin this relationship I hold at the hospital. I should be meeting with Brone shortly, before the scene dissolves to nothing. While i'm walking, let us organize Alexander's Andromeda Strain-induced ramblings. Not to say it has something to do with clotting.
Perhaps Mr. Jefferson. Strangely enough, he is the only person whom I can recall with a "G" in his name. Ah, well. Out into the rainy streets.
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