Author Topic: Inside Out  (Read 940 times)

Offline andyman64

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Inside Out
« on: August 14, 2006, 04:24:40 PM »
Hi Guys,

Just wondred what anyone thinks of my 'humour fiction' attempt...all comments gratefully received.



“Have you gotten any idea of the kinda mess you’ve put us in?” bellowed Agent Jim Crouchman “I mean the faintest whisper in your empty skull that this kinds shit shouldn’t be happenin…period”
Rule number 1: Don’t retaliate
“Yes Sir, I am aware that this situation is less than ideal” as the words exited my mouth I wanted to take them back. I even knew which words Crouchman would pick up on.
“Less than ideal, what planet you living on boy? You just wasted 36 hours of overtime stock on a ‘hunch’, and followed it up by arresting the Police commissioners son” raising his hand as though he was about catch apiece of meteor with which to throw at me he carried on “but that was just for starters right, you beat the crap out of him, force a confession from him and tell his lawyer to kiss your…now let me quote ‘kiss your milky white asshole’ have I got that right?”
Rule number 2: Look for common ground
“Not quite right Sir. I actually said “Kiss my curly white asshole” not milky, and as for the beating, he resisted arrest, abused the men in my control and” at that point looking into Crouchman’s eyes I wondered if this was how Joan of Arc felt as the flames licked up her legs “but I guess it doesn’t look good where you’re standing”
For a moment, and I mean a moment I thought old Crouchy had begun to soften. He flopped into his leather captains’ chair, and sagged his shoulders. I looked at his desk as his fingers spread like wayward sausages on a barbeque; I had never noticed that the tip of his left index finger was missing. I had heard so many accounts of the soon to be retired officer in the past three months since New York had loaned me out to D.C.
The guy was a legend, field Op’s for 12 years, highest arrest rate at any F.B.I backwater dead zone he’d worked out of. Taken more than his fair share of bullets in ‘the line of duty’, unorthodox, brusque, bigoted and most of all totally focused. This guy was a first class ball breaker. Unfortunately, right now it seemed it was my balls that were in his hands.
But at least I was obeying the rules!
I snapped out of my nerve induced hypnosis and decided to take the initiative “Sir, we had real good intelligence. The bureau just kept playing craps whilst Torres and his guys danced around us. We’re not talking small time here, as you know, this group have dodged every indictment we’ve thrown at them. Nothing sticks, ever, but what we had…what we’ve still got is more Intel than anyone has had in the past decade.”
I hoped I was reading it right, because Crouchman was nodding, his sausage meat fingers now rubbing the dark brown whiskers that somehow had managed to overcome photosynthesis and grown in the darkened cleft of his chin folds.
I carried on “I ha no idea that the commissioners son was going to be there, he was a legitimate target, “no wrong place wrong time” squeal the guy was carrying a loaded weapon, holding classified documents and at the scene of a homicide”
Stopping, partly because I’d said a lot, and partly because Crouchman was out of his chair and moving quite quickly towards me, I felt my toes curling. This wasn’t a good sign. Ever since I was a kid, in times of high anxiety I had suffered from ‘toe crunchies’. It starts with the skin across the front plate of my ankle and foot becoming very tight, pulling my toes into an oblique arch, not dissimilar to a banana had its maximum curve. The arch doesn’t bother me, I’m used to it, it just what follows it I hate.
Crack, crack, then quicker…crack, crack crack crack….about ten in all. A mini firecracker box as the toe knuckles and bones retract. Crouchman stopped about 2 foot away from me
“What in the name of Sweet Jesus is that?” he asked as he looked downwards.
“I’m sorry Sir my feet have a habit of making a noise, it’s a sort of reflex thing. You know like sneezing when you look at the ….”
Crouchman looked like he was going to pop, I guessed about 260 lbs of fifty five year old jelly was trying to stay in its wrapper.
“You listen to me now” Crouchman’s breath arrowed towards my nostrils, pastrami particles hung to my nasal hair “I gave you direct orders, I gave you responsibility, I gave you resources we can’t even afford and you bring me garbage. No, not garbage you bring me shit, and who will shovel up this pile of dung you’ve deposited on my desk huh?”
The sausages on Crouchman’s hand were now jabbing into my chest:
Rule number 3: Do not grab and twist the hand of an F.B.I director and slam him on his desk
I broke rule three immedaiately
“Shit you talk about” I said as I closed the sausages back into my palm “I’ll tell you about shit, shit is being more concerned about overtime than breaking a known group of terrorists who we have already connected to at least four overseas attacks”

« Last Edit: August 15, 2006, 03:04:38 AM by Lin »