2-17: The Long Night
Just around the corner, thought Donnie walking back the way he had come. He was challenged at the checkpoint and wished he’d grabbed the air-pistol so he could repeat the weight-loss regimen by way of a dozen needles to the guards shins.
‘Donnie Penfolde, PI,’ he said, with hands held up parallel to his head.
‘ID.’ said Guard one menacingly. He had the gun to back it up. Donnie didn’t like things pointed at him, but gingerly reached inside his jacket pocket to retrieve his wallet. He held it up and it flipped open showing his court-appointed ID and badge of office: Fitzroy North Investegatore du Private. The guards checked the badge and reluctantly let him through with merely a touch-up as he stepped over the line.
A motorbike thundered by, its rider helmetless but looking fine with long blonde hair stretching out behind them. Donnie kept walking, trying in the darkness to adjust himself after the minor violation. The car that pulled-up by the kerb was large and menacing. The men that got out of it were large and menacing. It didn’t take a court-appointed Private Investigator to work-out what they wanted. They walked into Danny’s and ordered three Lamb Burgers and a Bacon & Egg sandwich with a coffee.
Donnie wasn’t surprised.
Freddy McWarwickson walked in. Donnie was stunned. He stepped-up behind the several-barrel-shaped man with fingers extended and poked them in McWarwickson’s back.
‘Stick them up, fatso,’ said Donnie in his best Marlowe impression. Another rule of the union. He felt for the women of the profession.
‘Fuck,’ said McWarwickson, extending his arms. The flab slapped him in the side of the face.
‘Turn around slowly,’ said Donnie, then stuck his fingers in his jacket pocket.
‘Is that a gun,’ said McWarwickson, ‘or are you just sticking your fingers in your jacket pocket?’
Donnie punched McWarwickson by way of reply. He would have admitted this wasn’t exactly according to the official rulebook, but there was a clause in there for instinctive behaviour that he’d take advantage of later. McWarwickson fell onto the three menacing men, who set-about him with gusto; they liked a bit of exercise before a meal.
The Freddy McWarwickson that woke ten minutes later was dazed and bloodied. Donnie had to admit it made him look all the more attractive, in the same way that a piece of roadkill was attractive to a swarm of flies. Donnie swallowed the last chunk of his Chicken Breast Fillet Burger (hold nothing) and picked up his coffee. He tipped the top layer onto McWarwickson’s crotch to see how fast the man could rise. Donnie wasn’t surprised.
There are a few ways to describe one's self when effectively trying to mask the fact that you're a complete hermit and spend your entire existence behind a computer screen sipping hot tea and eating cakes. The first would be to suggest that you're somewhat introverted and avoid coffee. Another might be to suggest you're a fan of Apple Macs but are cutting-down from the 6 you used to have to an even two (Macbook and Mac Mini in turn). Finally you might choose to say that despite the massive pay-drop, this writing thing is quite a lark isn't it? Not to mention enjoying the creative life a lot more than mindless tedium in corporate jobs, working the 40 hour week to the drumming of endless meetings and political intrigue that would have made Machiavelli blush and hand his pen over to the corporate slugs that run companies these days. Enough said really.
