(Okay, maybe I'm over selling it a little)
The roller-coaster that is 'Chris And Mike vs' just keeps going. This could end up being my magnum opus; the thing I'm most remembered for. Which I'm fine with because I love writing these stories.
This week I went for the heartstrings again. The original draft had more explanation regarding new character history and the villains dialogue. As the world is getting bigger it's becoming harder to fit each installment into the 90-110 word limit.
CHRIS AND MIKE vs THE MURDEROUS THREAT
“Play it again, Stan,” says Mike.
The toy bunny rewinds the cassette player concealed in its belly and presses play.
Several seconds of heavy breathing followed by a static baked voice.
“I hunt the hunters.” Then a maniacal laugh.
“Who is that, Stan?” says Chris.
The rabbit pulls out a notepad and starts to write. Mike reads over his shoulder.
Before the name can be revealed a gunshot rings out from across the street.
Stan’s chest explodes and he collapses on the sidewalk. His stuffing fills the air like snowflakes.
Chris scans the buildings but the sniper is gone.
I loved the prompts this week. How could I fail with this picture and the requirement to include a Spy as a main character?
For the first I thought I'd mix it up a little and not stick to the 007 archetype. But for story two, it kinda helps if you picture the female of the piece as Judi Dench. Trust me.
My arse is numb from the cold, damp slabs that make up my pitiful throne. I’m invisible; an unwanted city landmark.
But I’ve got eyes. I see what you can’t, what you won’t.
Take that black Mercedes over there, the one that parks in the same spot at the same time each morning. City workers pass me by, their change secure in their pockets. As they go about their morning routines he pulls up in that over long, petrol guzzling piece of German crap. He pulls up and just sits there.
I’ve got all the time in the world so it’s no bother to venture from my doorway and solve the mystery of the Mercedes Man.
Besides, it does me good to stretch my legs.
What’s that up there, what is it you’re looking at? The apartment building? And three floors up there’s a woman getting dressed for work. Is that what you’re looking at? Pert breasts snuggling in her bra. Long legs coated in stockings. Is that what you’re doing here, you perv? Is that your thing?
I sacrifice a little from my coin cup to BT and soon a police officer approaches Mercedes Man and knocks on the window. Mercedes Man looks embarrassed.
Totally worth it.
LOST AND FOUND
“My God, it’s him.”
“Yes, ma’am. Terrance Arkwright; Agent 79. Photographed this morning not far from Waterloo.”
“Are we sure?”
“As sure as we can be without a DNA sample.”
“Do surveillance still have eyes on him?”
“Yes, ma’am. He hasn’t moved from that spot since we tagged him.”
“I still can’t believe it’s him. I’m seeing a ghost.”
“What’s our next move, ma’am. It’s dangerous to leave him out.”
“Very dangerous. But it will be damn risky attempting to bring him in. Who knows what’s happened to him in the last three years.”
“What if he’s . . ?”
“Yes, ma’am. After all, protocol wasn’t followed.”
“We’ll have to assume the worst until a full evaluation has been carried out. I want to know what went wrong on the Athens assignment and why the hell he didn’t come back to us.”
“I’ll get Oscar Team briefed immediately. Will that be all?”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Go easy on him. Whatever has happened to him, whatever state he’s in, that man is a national hero. He’s saved this country more times then you’ve had birthdays.”
After last weeks stint in the judges chair it was back to writing for me.
There it is again. Two girls giggling outside in the street.
I peer out from my blue and white stripped cocoon and the alarm clock tells me it’s a little past midnight. I just want to go to sleep.
I throw off the covers and leave the bed but, before I can pull back the curtains, I hear it again. This time it sounds like it’s coming from inside my flat.
That can’t be right. I must be hearing things.
It’s gotta be in my head, of course it is. It’s because I went back to the park today, that’s what’s done it. The first rule is never go back. I don’t even remember why I ended up there. I left the supermarket and must have been daydreaming. Next thing I know, I’m walking past the spot where it happened.
The papers ran that story for weeks. The bodies of little Abigail and her sister Jennifer found dumped in Coffey Park. It brought the community to its knees. Everybody wept. And then, when their tears dried up they decided to put up statues of the two girls in a pose that would have them playing in that park until the end of time. I thought it was a little tasteless myself.
So, I saw the statues and now I’m hearing little girls giggling. How crazy? I’m cross with myself. Of all the young lives I’ve ended I’ve never once felt guilt or remorse or anything. I killed these two on the other side of Christmas and have slept peacefully every night since. And what, because I see two pretty little girls immortalised in bronze I can’t get some shut eye? Ridiculous.
I’ll get some Night Nurse, that’ll do the trick. And maybe tomorrow night I’ll go back to the park and deface those statues and that’ll be the end of it.
Damn it, I tripped on something. Christ, my toe is killing me. What the hell was that? It’s there, right by the corner of my bed. Something, cold and metallic. It feels like a foot, a little girls foot.
I hear the giggling again.
It’s very close.