Intro: Sequal to May Madness.The Detective story continues after three years in an low security asylum
Picking Up The Pieces
It’s been three years, three yearssince that day I watched every member of my team die in cold, cold blood. I spent two years locked up in a damn asylum, popping pills like they were tic tacs, having some idiot in a suit tell me I’m unstable and a dangerto those around me. I spent two years being the only sane personin there, even the staff were crazier than me, beating the sick and stealing meds. I finally was “rehabilitated” and left the disgusting pit, but I can’t live properly anymore, jobs come rarely nowadays and my family have disowned me. How I’m gonna survive is unknown to mebut I have to find that creep, that creep that killed my colleagues.
I walk out the security gates with nothing but the clothes on my back and £70 in my pocket, I whistle a taxi, and you know those taxi drivers who are only talk to you twice, yeah I haven’t get one of those. I got an Indian bloke who never shuts up and always answers the questions he asks you. So I have to spend two hours listening to this joker go on and on about the weather,women and his goddamn family.My ears are literally bleeding as I jump out the taxi, I don’t say thanks, I just chuck him the notes. I look up at the apartmentblock where I’ve been moved too, it’s not much but it’s home for now. I push the grubby doors open, walk up to the receptionist about to talk but she interrupts and tells me my room and gives me my key, howshe knows me is strange but I thank the woman and stroll into the lift. As the doors close my eyes do to, I’m on the 23 rd floorand this lift music is maddening.
Get to my new home, there’s an argument next door cant help but feel I should do something but I know without my badge I’d be breaking the law especiallyif a fight breaks out. I grit my teeth, trying to unlock the door as I push it open the fake gold handle falls off as does the door number. I sigh as I turn on the lights, it would be empty but they have brought my furniture and tried to squeeze it into a onebedroom apartment. I rummage through the boxes, finding itemsthat make me remember that terrible day three years ago. I find a picture of my ex-wife andI clutch the picture with all my heart, I stare into her dark brown beautiful eyes. I still hear here whispers, the sweet nothings she would silently speak into my ears, it used to fill my heart with love and affection but now it just reminds me how much I hate herfucking guts. In a wild fury I hurlthe picture across the room, the glass shatters into several shardsand they stick into the crappy carpet. God I hate this apartment, hate this city, hate this world.
It’s getting late, my eyes are bloodshot with exhaustion, this comedy show re-run is pissing me off. I reach for the remote but it falls off the sofa, I crawl on the floor looking for it when shadows appear outside my doors. I hear some thug like whispers, I hear a slow countdown and before I know ittwo men are bursting through my door. They make no other noise, they are clothed in black suits and black ties but with pure white shirts, they stride over to me with gun in hand. One tries to kick me while I’m satdown but I grab his foot, I wrench it One Hundred and Eighty degrees and both fibula and tibia crack and pierce through the skin and prod into my hand. He screams in agony, he lies on the floor clutching his leg, he rolls around the floor leaving little puddles of crimson blood. I search around for the other and a flailing fists hits me square in the nose and it breaks, blood squirts on his shirt as well as mine, tears stream from my eyes instinctively, I explode in a fiery rage of jabs and uppercuts,leaving no space of his face left unbeaten, one last uppercut to the jaw incapacitates the attacker and considering the crack his jaw made talking is definitely going to be a problem for him. I stumble through the broken furniture, and past the snoring attacker. I grab the crying attacker and start to pull the bone which penetrated his flesh and skin, millimetres at a time, watching him squirm and scream. I press a cold steel blade to his temple and he starts to rabble on, I silence his bullshit with a quick jolt of his bone. I ask him over and over “Who sent you?” each time louder, each time pulling more bone out of the poor blokes leg, I can tell he’s just a mercenary as he starts spewing information about his employer all accept his damn name.
I check him and his colleague for weapons and chuck them away, I pull off a sofa cushion to find my silenced pistol - you never know what’s going to happen - Ipress the pistol to the sleeping mercenary’s forehead and pull the trigger, brain and blood splatters on the floor and blood pools around his head. I grab a spare bed sheets and cover bothand individually place them on the window ledge and push them out onto the bins below. As they both collide with the concrete I grab a coat, and my wallet, phone and keys. I leave my apartment with no hesitation, door slams and I find myself leaving the place I’m supposed to call home, once again I’m on the road, just this time not in a police car.
I check my phone, there’s a voicemail and a feeling of discomfort falls upon me as I listen. It’s my ex-wife, at first I really didn’t care but then she started blubbering and I heard the click of a pistol on her forehead, two slightly distant screams in the background, my children are in danger and its all my fault.
Picking Up The Pieces
It’s been three years, three yearssince that day I watched every member of my team die in cold, cold blood. I spent two years locked up in a damn asylum, popping pills like they were tic tacs, having some idiot in a suit tell me I’m unstable and a dangerto those around me. I spent two years being the only sane personin there, even the staff were crazier than me, beating the sick and stealing meds. I finally was “rehabilitated” and left the disgusting pit, but I can’t live properly anymore, jobs come rarely nowadays and my family have disowned me. How I’m gonna survive is unknown to mebut I have to find that creep, that creep that killed my colleagues.
I walk out the security gates with nothing but the clothes on my back and £70 in my pocket, I whistle a taxi, and you know those taxi drivers who are only talk to you twice, yeah I haven’t get one of those. I got an Indian bloke who never shuts up and always answers the questions he asks you. So I have to spend two hours listening to this joker go on and on about the weather,women and his goddamn family.My ears are literally bleeding as I jump out the taxi, I don’t say thanks, I just chuck him the notes. I look up at the apartmentblock where I’ve been moved too, it’s not much but it’s home for now. I push the grubby doors open, walk up to the receptionist about to talk but she interrupts and tells me my room and gives me my key, howshe knows me is strange but I thank the woman and stroll into the lift. As the doors close my eyes do to, I’m on the 23 rd floorand this lift music is maddening.
Get to my new home, there’s an argument next door cant help but feel I should do something but I know without my badge I’d be breaking the law especiallyif a fight breaks out. I grit my teeth, trying to unlock the door as I push it open the fake gold handle falls off as does the door number. I sigh as I turn on the lights, it would be empty but they have brought my furniture and tried to squeeze it into a onebedroom apartment. I rummage through the boxes, finding itemsthat make me remember that terrible day three years ago. I find a picture of my ex-wife andI clutch the picture with all my heart, I stare into her dark brown beautiful eyes. I still hear here whispers, the sweet nothings she would silently speak into my ears, it used to fill my heart with love and affection but now it just reminds me how much I hate herfucking guts. In a wild fury I hurlthe picture across the room, the glass shatters into several shardsand they stick into the crappy carpet. God I hate this apartment, hate this city, hate this world.
It’s getting late, my eyes are bloodshot with exhaustion, this comedy show re-run is pissing me off. I reach for the remote but it falls off the sofa, I crawl on the floor looking for it when shadows appear outside my doors. I hear some thug like whispers, I hear a slow countdown and before I know ittwo men are bursting through my door. They make no other noise, they are clothed in black suits and black ties but with pure white shirts, they stride over to me with gun in hand. One tries to kick me while I’m satdown but I grab his foot, I wrench it One Hundred and Eighty degrees and both fibula and tibia crack and pierce through the skin and prod into my hand. He screams in agony, he lies on the floor clutching his leg, he rolls around the floor leaving little puddles of crimson blood. I search around for the other and a flailing fists hits me square in the nose and it breaks, blood squirts on his shirt as well as mine, tears stream from my eyes instinctively, I explode in a fiery rage of jabs and uppercuts,leaving no space of his face left unbeaten, one last uppercut to the jaw incapacitates the attacker and considering the crack his jaw made talking is definitely going to be a problem for him. I stumble through the broken furniture, and past the snoring attacker. I grab the crying attacker and start to pull the bone which penetrated his flesh and skin, millimetres at a time, watching him squirm and scream. I press a cold steel blade to his temple and he starts to rabble on, I silence his bullshit with a quick jolt of his bone. I ask him over and over “Who sent you?” each time louder, each time pulling more bone out of the poor blokes leg, I can tell he’s just a mercenary as he starts spewing information about his employer all accept his damn name.
I check him and his colleague for weapons and chuck them away, I pull off a sofa cushion to find my silenced pistol - you never know what’s going to happen - Ipress the pistol to the sleeping mercenary’s forehead and pull the trigger, brain and blood splatters on the floor and blood pools around his head. I grab a spare bed sheets and cover bothand individually place them on the window ledge and push them out onto the bins below. As they both collide with the concrete I grab a coat, and my wallet, phone and keys. I leave my apartment with no hesitation, door slams and I find myself leaving the place I’m supposed to call home, once again I’m on the road, just this time not in a police car.
I check my phone, there’s a voicemail and a feeling of discomfort falls upon me as I listen. It’s my ex-wife, at first I really didn’t care but then she started blubbering and I heard the click of a pistol on her forehead, two slightly distant screams in the background, my children are in danger and its all my fault.
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