tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-200895632024-03-08T21:55:35.128+08:00Poison Bayerebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-21425626374321156602006-08-20T22:34:00.000+08:002006-08-20T23:19:54.272+08:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-weight: bold;">Burke & The Wolves</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Chapter III</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">The Pressure Problem<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/2779/2452/1600/bullet.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/2779/2452/320/bullet.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /> </div><p class="MsoNormal">They were sweating. The children of the revolution. The wolves. They couldn’t handle the blood. The large black guy was trying to take some sort of control. He was sweating profusely. As a steady stream of blood flowed out of the short stout man they had saved minutes ago. He lay prostrate, awkwardly on a crate of some sort. The blood dripped onto the naked floor of the van like a leaky tap and splattered around every time it made another high speed corner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Burke pushed himself up against the far wall of the van. He wasn’t supposed to get involved. He was a newby. So he just watched. In his confusion the large guy had pumped all his vials of morphine into the man. Atleast the poor guy would feel no pain as he bled out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Right. We have to stop the bleeding”, the black guy stammered “Everybody, apply pressure on the wound. As hard as you can.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s not a good idea”, Burke blurted out. Against his instructions. He knew he would regret it. There were two other kids in there with the large black kid. They all stopped. Froze in their places and looked up at Burke. So he continued, “The bullet. It’s still in there. From the blood I would say it’s lodged pretty deep. Probably close to the axillary artery. You put pressure and the bullet will move around. And if it slices the artery, it’s all over. He’ll have about 2 minutes to bleed out.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The black guy held Burke’s gaze. He wanted to challenge it. But somehow he was relieved that somebody else was calling the shots.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Fine”, he said “Don’t put pressure.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“That’s not going to do much good either”, Burke mumbled. “He’s losing blood pretty fast. He has maybe another 15 minutes. After that he would just have lost too much blood. Only way to save him then would be a transfusion.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The other faces were stunned.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“But we have another 25 minutes atleast till we reach the den.”, said one of the other kids.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">He needs medical attention. A hospital”</span>, Burke said softly, almost wishing he hadn’t.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">There isn’t going to be a hospital</span>”, came the reply from the black guy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Burke stood hunched and looked down at floor, avoiding the gaze of the searching eyes. He didn’t want to say it. He dreaded s<img src="file:///C:/backup/gryphonheart/My%20Documents/My%20Pictures/bullet.gif" alt="" />aying it. But he finally did.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">“The bullet has to come out. Then the bleeding has to be stopped.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>He knew they would look shocked. So he dared not make eye contact. He hobbled over first aid kit and fumbled a while. He pulled out a pair of forceps, and antiseptic lotion. He went over to the man lying on the crate, almost unconscious. He pulled off the cotton swabs and exposed a gaping hole of a wound on the right shoulder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>He looked up at the black guy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);">You have to do this. Put your thumbs on either side of the wound and pull it apart. Like breaking bread. And hold it. Don’t let go until I tell you. You must not. Ready?</span>”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The black guy nodded and put his fingers where burke had asked him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The black guy pulled apart the wound, widening the hole as a fresh spurt of blood gushed out. Burke swabbed the blood away and peered in. He saw a glint. There it was. Lodged exactly where he predicted. Resting against the artery. The bullet itself moved back and forth with every pulse. He would have one shot. A jab the wrong way would cause more damage. Fatal damage. He yanked off the cap from the antiseptic with his teeth. He poured half of it onto the forceps and the rest onto the wound. He didn’t care. Infection could be haldled. Dead people couldn’t. He needed a drink. The black guy was looking away. He gripped the forceps hard. He stared at the bullet. The swaying of the van. The pulsing artery. The spinning lamp. And then for one moment - one fraction of a second – it all stood still. He reached in and pulled it out in one smooth motion. He dropped it onto the floor with a clang.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Close it. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Pressure. Pressure</span>”, he screamed. The kids put large pads of cotton and pressed down on the wound. Within minutes it worked. The dripping slowed down.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">Burke clumsily sat down on the floor in a corner. Hugging his knees. His hands shook inconsolably. He shoved them inside his shirt to hide it.</span></p>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1141488960475537042006-03-04T23:39:00.000+08:002006-03-05T00:16:00.706+08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51); font-weight: bold;">O'Malley's Descent</span><br /><br /> Chapter VII<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;"> Freedom</span><br /></div> <a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/02/o-malleys-descentchapter-via-breakout.html"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">continued from chapter VI: breakout</span></span></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/freedom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/freedom.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />One of the key features of the Poole Street police station was its heritage holding cells. Half submerged below ground level, there were three cells. The walls were built of the toughest granite just like the rest of the building. The gates were made of iron and steel with immense locks. The only new addition was an electronic door to the entrance of the basement. And a uniform who sat just outside.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">It was considered to be the most secure holding facility of its kind.</span><br /><br />Although new cells had been created at the back of the station, these ancient junctions were still considered to be very useful. It was chiefly maintained to hold high profile criminals as they were undergoing trial. The court house was 7 minutes to the North. Saved them the journey all the way from Raven Woods Correctional Facility. Also minimized the risk of having the convoy blown to bits on the way. Or having key witnesses dying because of one of the sudden and frequent prison riots. So they held them here while they were still worth something to the state. Quite literally, under the arse of the city’s toughest cops.<br /><br />By the time O’Malley got downstairs, the uniforms had pushed out the truck. The smoke was clearing and they were running around aimlessly, their weapons drawn. Sirens were going off as they found their squad cars. The station was almost empty. He got to the electronic door. What was the code? He was one of the few people who knew it. He scrunched up his face and slammed his forehead and it suddenly came to him.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> 362432. Perfect dimensions. </span>The door flew open.<br /><br />The first cell confirmed what O’Malley had been fearing. There was a hole in the back of the cell. Blown apart by a huge charge of explosives. Just about large enough for someone to crawl through. But nobody had been held in the first cell so it hadn’t mattered.<br /><br />The second cell had held that slimebag Baine. And it was empty as well. The whole looked larger. Somebody had pulled out loose chunks of the wall. Baine was small anyway so he had squirmed through like the snake he was.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">The third cell held Eduardo. And it wasn’t empty. Yet.</span><br /><br />Eduardo was clawing at the wall like desperate feret. Rumble cascading around him. He was pulling out chunks of stone and throwing it away. The whole got larger as O’Malley watched.<br /><br />He didn’t know what to do. The cell was locked. The guard would have the keys and he had no idea where the guard had run off to. So O’Malley did the only thing he could. Threaten.<br /><br />“Freeze. Stop what you are doing right now and move away from that wall.” O’Malley pulled out his gun and pointed it straight through the bars.<br /><br />Eduardo didn’t stop. He didn’t even care. He pulled out even more chunks of rock.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">O’malley cocked his pistol and knelt down, taking aim. This time Eduardo turned.</span><br /><br />“It doesn’t matter brother. I am dead either way. Maybe I deserve to be dead. So you can shoot me if you want. At least I will know my baby brother can’t be bullied anymore.” He gave a little laugh. “So I am going to go for it. Just like the guy next door. Maybe you’ll miss. Maybe you’re gun will explode. I got nothing to lose. But I can win my freedom.” He turned around and pulled out a large chunk of granite, which crashed into the floor.<br /><br />The hole was big enough now. Eduardo pushed himself through it but got caught at the shoulders. He pulled back and tried to claw away some more rubble. Maybe another minute. O’Malley took aim at his thigh. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">The fleshiest part. He could wound him enough to stop him. But thighs were risky because of the femoral artery. </span>The shoulder then. As long as he missed the lung.<br /><br />He tightened down on the trigger as Eduardo pushed himself against the hole again. Suddenly his shoulders went through. Chest upwards he was out. Maybe this was right. Maybe this should happen. There was no way Eduardo would make it out of this mess through the legal channels. Maybe this was the only chance he would have at freedom. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">As a brother, maybe this was the only gift O’Malley could ever give him.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">He took his finger off the trigger.</span><br /><br />The three shots went off so close to O’Malley head that his ears would ring for days after.<br />They hit Eduardo in the back. In a neat triangle around his heart. The body jerked with every shot and then went still and slid out from the hole. It left a streak of red on the wall of the cell as it collapsed face down onto the floor. A pool of blood started spreading rapidly over the grey concrete floor.<br /><br />O’Malley turned around.<br /><br />The barrel of <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">Quinn’s</span> magnum revolver was still smoking. He was still peering down the sights.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Dammit O’Malley. What were you waiting for? Christmas?”, he said.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">One more episode... till all the questions are answered... all the puzzle pieces fall in place... the finale of "O'Malley's Descent".... you can never guess what happens next!!!!</span></span>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1141486690967866472006-03-04T23:23:00.000+08:002006-03-04T23:38:10.980+08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Burke & the Wolves</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Chapter II</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Not the Best Laid Plans</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/02/burke-wolves-chapter-i-starting-with.html">continued from Chapter I: Starting with a Bang</a></span><br /><br />Jimmy/Jammy had got what he deserved.<br />The plan had been working. Manny had crushed the truck into the entrance. He was unscathed. He and Jimmy/Jammy were covering the ground floor windows. A couple of pigs had popped up their heads, but Daka and Manny had discourage them with a few rounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/alley.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/alley.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Then there was the silence, which got to Jimmy/Jammy. The silence killed the kid. “<span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">I am gonna get me some pigs!”</span>, he had yelled and jumped out of cover.<br /><br />Seconds later his head was blown away.<br /><br />And that set off panic. They pulled him in and a large sweaty guy went to work. It looked to Burke as though that guy was supposed to be the medic or something. He fumbled with the kid’s clothes tried to steady his jerking body. He took off the mask from the kid’s head and realized that his fingers were covered in blood and brains.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);"> And he was shocked.</span> There was another couple of kids, almost clones of Jimmy/Jammy who just stood over the body. One kept mumbling <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Ohmygod.! Ohmygod!”</span>. The other was fighting back tears. The large sweaty guy was trying to give him CPR. He was doing it all wrong. Either it was panic or ignorance. But instead of giving a cardiac massage, he was just crushing the kid’s ribs in. Burke would have said something but there was no point. <span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 255);">CPR can’t do much good if half your head is splattered over the pavement.</span><br /><br />So these were the children of the revolution. <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">The Wolves.</span><br /><br />“He’s here”, yelled Manny.<br /><br />Burke could see a short plump figure standing across the road. Daka fired off a few rounds and beckoned him to make a run for it. Which the man did. He ran as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.<br /><br />When he was about 10m from them, the shots went off, and the man hit the pavement.<br /><br />Now even Daka had panic in his eyes.<br /><br />He poked around and fired wildly with their only automatic rifle. “I see him. I see the pig.”<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Manny was barking orders.</span><br /><br />“The smokers. Throw the smokers. He’s alive. I can see him move. He have to get him out of here. You. Noob. You don’t have a mask.”<br /><br />He was talking to Burke. The big guy and the two other kids had given up on the body and they were throwing canisters onto the streets. They exploded when they hit the asphalt releasing thick black smoke. It had an awful odour which burnt Burke’s nostrils. He shook his head. He didn’t have a gas mask.<br />Manny pulled him up and suddenly pushed him out of the cover of the alley. What was he doing? He didn’t want to end up like Jimmy/Jammy.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">But no shots were being fired. The smoke was already thick as a blanket.</span><br /><br />“Go get the vans. And don’t breathe.”, ordered Manny.<br /><br />Burke looked over at Daka and he nodded. The three others had also run out of the cover and were lifting up the short fat man from the road. They were doing it wrong again. If he was shot in the shoulder, they shouldn’t pull him up by the arm like that.<br /><br />Suddenly Burke swallowed a gulp of the smoke and started coughing violently. It was burning up his insides. He couldn’t stay here. So he ran down the roads, covering his mouth. The vans would be just around the corner. Havelock ave off Poole Street.<br /><br />Even the best laid plans failed. And this plan hadn't even been half decent.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Something told him, this would be a long night.</span>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1139999954984584092006-02-15T18:34:00.000+08:002006-02-15T18:41:08.920+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ffff00;">O' Malley's Descent</span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Chapter VI</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#33ff33;"><strong>A Breakout</strong></span></div><p><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/02/continued-from-chapter-iv-blood.html">continued from Chapter V: A shock</a></span><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/window.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/window.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />O’Malley recovered quickly. The ground had stopped shaking. Plaster was still raining down from the ceiling. For a second he thought the roof might collapse or the walls might cave in. But nothing happened. He crawled out from underneath his desk. At that very moment there was screech of tires and another crash on the streets. He pulled out his desk and turned it upside down. He sorted through the mess find handgun and a handful of bullets. He moved to one of the windows, loading his gun as he walked.<br /><br />The streets looked. And quiet. Strangely quiet. He quickly took a peek outside.<span style="color:#33ff33;"> A truck had crashed into the front of the building.</span> Right into the doorway, blocking it off. It was an attack. Somebody was to out to get them. He took another peek looking for the source of the explosion. There was smoke coming from somewhere but he couldn’t be sure. But the building wasn’t on fire.<br /><br />There were shouts from downstairs. The boys were getting organized. But there weren’t too many of them at this hour. O’Malley felt a slight chill down his spine. He didn’t know what he was up against. He didn’t know what was out there. Maybe they had gone. If they were smart they would have left already. This was just a message. Or maybe they had other plans.<br /><br />He slowly peeked out again. And that’s when he saw the first one. A skinny young lad, in the alley across the station, poking his head out. The gas masked on his head almost made him look like some baboon. He held a gun his hand. A pistol. O’Malley took aim and fired 4 shots. The <span style="color:#ffff33;">boy’s body jerked backwards and the top of his head just disappeared</span>. O’ Malley smiled to himself. Got him.<br /><br />But then there were return shots. <span style="color:#33ffff;">The boy hadn’t been alone.</span><br /><br />O’Malley ducked down and started crawling to a window from which he would have a better view. Maybe they hadn’t actually spotted him. Logically they would be covering the downstairs windows. If he was lucky he could maybe get another one. There was banging from downstairs. The uniforms were trying to move the truck so that they could get out. They were brief shots exchanged. O’Malley built up his courage and took another peek.<br /><br />And that’s when he saw it. <span style="color:#33ffff;">A short, round figure wildly running across the street towards the alley. Almost plodding and rolling. Like a circus midget.</span> He would know that shape anywhere. Baine. They had him in holding cell number two in the lockup. And there he was now. Running. O’Malley lined up his sights and took two more shots. One missed. One got him. Knocked him flat on the ground. But it wasn’t a kill shot. Maybe the shoulder. But before he got get another round off, there were return shots. But stronger this time. No longer handguns. Automatic rifles maybe. And they had spotted him. As he ducked, the remains of the window he was at was blasted to shreds. A sliver of glass cut his brow, drawing blood. And there were three more explosions. Bombs. A thick white, acrid smoke filled the air. O’Malley coughed and gasped. The shots subsided and he tried to take another look outside. There was thick smoke everywhere. It looked like Baine was no longer there.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9966;">Then it hit him. This wasn’t an attack at all. It was a prison break.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Shit! Edward.</span> </p><p> </p><p align="right"><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">stay tuned.. only a couple of of more chapters till the shocking and dramatic conclusion to "O'Malley's Descent</span>"</em></p>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1139294961803974932006-02-07T14:45:00.000+08:002006-02-07T14:49:21.806+08:00<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 255);" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Burke & the Wolves<br /></span></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> chapter I</o:p></span><br /></p> <div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Starting with a bang</span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/burke.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/burke.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />They were running late. Not just a little late… very late. But Burke couldn’t say or do anything about it. He was just supposed to be an observer. He had been allowed to come along only because he was Daka’s friend.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>So he just sat there and observed. The streets were empty. As most streets were in <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Poison</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place> this time of the night. Honest, straight living people knew better. He was sitting crouched uncomfortably in the edge of a little alley. With four other men, uncomfortably close. They were all huddled together in a tiny piece of shadow that gave them a degree of invisibility. But at the same time allowed them to look outside – at the streets, and their target. To his right was the young kid. Jimmy, Jammy… what was his name? He could see the nervousness in his face. Sweat running down his bony face in steady little streams. But his lower jaw moved almost constantly. He was shivering. His hands gone completely white. Drained of blood because he had been clutching the gun so hard. He shifted uncomfortably to keep the circulation going and caught Burke looking at him.</p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“What ?”, he spat out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Burke immediately looked away. There were three others somewhere behind him. He didn’t remember the names. But they were all young and fresh faced. Burke didn’t dare turn around to look at them. But the rapid breathing and the sound of constant rustling coming from behind him told Burke that they were nervous too. Probably didn’t look much different from Jimmy or Jammy. Burke didn’t like it. Nervous young men with guns and bombs unsettled him. It was the waiting. That’s what was making them edgy. Daka and Manuel had been gone for over 15 minutes now. This was mismanaged. It was a bad plan. But sometimes even the worst plans worked if you pulled them off quickly and stupidly enough. But they didn’t even have that.</p> <p style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Burke had a bad feeling about this.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>At that moment they saw a solitary man in a jacket walking down the streets. The safeties on the guns went off with a click. The man quickly ducked into the alley.</p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Easy. It’s me”. It was Daka. “We’re all set. As soon as I blow it, Manny’s going to bring in the truck. Now I want everybody to stay down. No unnecessary shots. Save your ammo. We wait until Mr. Baine makes it out. He should be out in a minute. He knows we’re getting him. He’ll be ready. Hopefully the Pigs will still be too confused. But if any Pig comes out while Mr. Baine is making a run for it, fire at will. Johno, Woolly you have the smokers. Use them if you must. Remember, our prime concern is to cover Mr. Baine and get him to safety. Now. Hoods everybody.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br />Everybody nodded. They pulled out gas masks and put them on. <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">Burke didn’t have one.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“Ready?” asked Daka. He pulled out a tiny black box with an antenna on it. He nodded his head and pushed the button.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The explosion almost knocked Burke off his feet. The shockwaves rocked the old stone building to its core. The windows shattered, spitting out glass in every direction.</span></p>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1138896234359316342006-02-02T23:48:00.000+08:002006-02-03T00:03:54.390+08:00<div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff00;"><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/01/omalleys-descentchapter-ivblood-water.html"><em>continued from: Chapter IV: Blood & Water</em></a></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ffff00;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ffff00;">O'Malley's Descent</span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Chapter V</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#33ff33;"><strong><center>A shock</center></strong></span><br />O’Malley read the piece of paper for the 15th time. His hands still trembled. It was almost too good to be true. Almost unreal.<br /><br />The Poole Street Police Headquarters in Downtown Boisen Bay was a heritage building. It had served as the police station for close to a 150 years. Over the years people had changed it and upgraded it. Some with more imagination than others. But it still had an air of foreboding and gothic horror that loomed over the street. The ground floor was where the uniforms hanged out. Where they brought in people, booked them, har<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/omalley.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/omalley.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>assed them. The basement had the holding cells. The dungeons.<br /><br />The first floor was where the detectives and higher officer’s sat. Apart from the computers the place was still the same as 50 years ago. Creaking fans, white-washed walls, wooden desks and a red floor. Rows of old desks and swivel chairs spread all over the massive open floor. The walled-off office with horizontal blinds belonged to Quinn. The whole floor was empty, except for O’Malley. The silence was only broken by the constant and reassuring hum of the computers. Every now and then voices from downstairs would come through. The uniforms cracking jokes, or harassing prostitutes and drunks. It was late. Very late.<br /><br />The last few days had been chaos. They had found solid forensic evidence. The car had prints and DNA from almost every victim. The knife DNA was matched to Eduardo. An orgy of evidence. But then the psych report came out. They knew about Eduardo's mental disablity. Some human rights groups got involved and hired flashy lawyers to defend him. The prosecution wasn’t ready to be beat. So they sent in their best as well. The media was in frenzy. Like jackals at a kill. The city couldn’t get enough of it. The trial was due to start in three days. Poison Bay held its breath.<br /><br />O’Malley put down the piece of paper and sighed. There was only one thing he could do.<br /><br />He walked up to Quinn’s office and threw the door open without knocking. Quinn was slurping some noodle soup out of a plastic container. He seemed surprised at the intrusion. O’Malley tossed the piece of paper at him.<br /><br /><span style="color:#66ffff;">“What’s this?”, Quinn asked, squinting at the piece of paper, trying to read it without bothering to put on his glasses.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“I got it from the Maine Street station on the northside”, O’ Malley said. “It says that they arrested one Eduardo Sanchez, <em>the</em> Eduardo Sanchez, for disturbing the peace at 7:13 PM. He was drunk and knocking over garbage cans. They threw him the lockup. Next morning, they realized his…. Err… condition and let him go.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#66ffff;">“So?”</span> Quinn sounded annoyed.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“The date chief. Look at the date. The same day, at 3 AM, the body of Ann Rosenow was found at the docks. The whistler’s third victim.”<br /></span><br />Quinn couldn’t hide the shock on his face. He set aside his instant noodles and reached for his spectacles.<br /><span style="color:#66ffff;">“Okay” he said after reading it, “Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe no. 3 was a copycat.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“Ah!”, this was just what O’Malley had hoped for, “But the knife. We found the knife with Sanchez’s DNA next to no.3. We even found no. 3’s hair in the boot of the Sanchez’s car.”<br /></span><br />The colour started to fade from Quinn’s face. Fast.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“See. This confirms what I have been suggesting all along. He didn’t do it. He’s almost a retard. And this just confirms it."</span></div><br /><span style="color:#33ccff;">"But the shrink said he could be violent. He has a history of violence."</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">"Oh come on! He was in a cell across the town, but the evidence says he did it. The evidence is wrong. He’s being set up.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#66ffff;">“That’s enough!”, Quinn slammed the table, almost knocking over the noodles. “We have worked too hard and too long to let this get away. Now why wasn’t this in the databases?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“Nobody bothered I suppose. It’s just some drunk. They probably pick up dozens of them every night. Somebody just filed in the report, and forgot about it. I pulled it out of archives in their basement.” O’Malley said.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#66ffff;">“So nobody but you have seen it.”, the colour returned to Quinn’s face “Look O’Malley. The evidence is good. It’s clean. It will get him convicted. Get a dangerous man of the streets. However, if the defense get their hands on it, they are going to tear us to shreds. They’ll get him acquitted. Then they’ll sue us just for the heck of it. Damages. After all that, we won’t have a shred credibility left. Every time we submit the results of an investigation, some judge, some lawyer will go ‘You sure?’ We can’t let that happen. We can't.”</span><br /><br />O’Malley stood there. Unmoved. He picked up the paper and read it again.<br /><br />Quinn recognized that look. He had seen O’Malley like this before. Reasoning, arguments, threats – nothing would really work with him now. So he just picked up his cup of noodles and continued eating.<br /><span style="color:#33ffff;">“Listen O’Malley.” Quinn’s tone had changed to steel. “As you can see I am on a break. As much as I have enjoyed this idle banter I must request you to let me enjoy my Udon noodle soup and please leave. I will be back on duty in 15 minutes. At that point you may come back here if you wish to present any new information in regards to a case you have been working. If you don’t come back, or the information has been misplaced, I will not ask you about it again. If you do present me with new evidence, I will be bound submit it as proceedings of our investigation. Which would make it available to everybody, including defense. And I will ensure you get full credit for that. Now go.”<br /></span><br />O’Malley was back at his desk. He held the piece of paper tightly. His head was throbbing. Lack of sleep. He looked at the watch again. 2 minutes to go. What if Quinn was right? What if his judgement was clouded? He didn’t know. He didn’t know. Time’s up. He got up and straightened his tie. Show time.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">The explosion knocked him off his feet. The schockwaves, shook the ancient stone building to its core. The windows shattered and spat out glass in every direction.</span>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1138282723369215232006-01-26T21:32:00.000+08:002006-01-26T21:43:25.166+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Path of Xi</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="color:#ffff00;">Chapter IV: Blind Date</span></em></div><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#6666cc;">continued from: <a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/01/path-of-xi-chapter-iii-pillow-talk.html">chapter III: Pillow Talk</a></span></em><br />It was close to midnight in Chengdu. But that didn’t make much difference to prisoner no.4534. For her there were no days or nights. Just two and a half meals which tasted exactly the same. Suddenly there was a loud buzz and the door to her cell was pulled back and she saw the silhouette of a large man ambling in. The door pulled shut again.<br />Prisoner no. 4534 was seated on the floor, hugging herself, trying to keep the cold out of her bones. The large man plodded across and sat down on her cot. She was looking away. She didn’t want to make eye contact, but she kept stealing quick glances. The man looked like some inept government official. Fat, balding and burly. There was a an aura of sweetness about him. He smiled almost constantly. A large flashy grin which swelled up his pink rosy cheeks and revealed his slightly discoloured teeth. His shirt, two sizes too small was stretched to its limit. A button was missing. There were ketchup stains on the cheap tie which was loosened around his ruffled collar.He was like your uncle, the one that keeps pulling chocolate pennies out of your ears at Christmas.<br /><span style="color:#ffff33;">“Well well well” the man said, “aren't you pretty”</span><br />He reached out and held her chin with his forefinger and thumb and started turning her face towards him. She immediately jerked her head away.<br /><span style="color:#ffff33;">“Ooooh. Fiesty!”, the man laughed. A boisterous, booming laugh. As if he had heard the best dirty joke ever. “I’m Mr. Chong. What’s your name little girl?”<br /></span>She wouldn’t say.<br /><span style="color:#ffff00;">“Fine then”, the man pressed on. He pulled out a brown folder from inside his coat.<br />“Nice to meet you Ms. Juan Lei. Age 19. Mother, died at childbirth. Father fought for the People’s Liberation Army. Marine Corps. Impressive. Honourably discharged after a crippling knee injury during training. Owned a drug store in Yangying county, northwest of Beijing. Coached martial arts part time. Was found beaten to death in his store. Only daughter, Juan Lei, aged 13 was missing.”<br />He licked his fingers and turned the page. Taking a deep breath he continued.<br />“Shen Wong, the son of a wealthy industrialist and his two friends, Hsien and Lok were questioned over the killing. But the investigation ran dry and the boys were released. Instead it was suspected that the missing daughter probably had something to do with it. Maybe an unkown boyfriend.” He looked up “So what was it? They were drunk? Maybe wanted some cough syrup? Paracetamol? Money? Did you see it?”<br /></span>The girl sat unmoved. So the man flipped some pages and continued reading.<br /><span style="color:#ffff00;">“Seven months ago. Shen Wong died under mysterious circumstances. He was working late at his office and Wong Industries on the 46th floor. When he was possibly drugged, tied to a computer chair and wheeled out through the glass window behind his desk. A few weeks later, his buddy Hsien was found. He had been pushed out of his car, while returning home after a few drinks at a friend’s place. His tie had been stuck to the door, as somebody had driven around for several minutes. All that was left was a ball of flesh really. They had to identify him from dental records. Lok, had been under investigation for drug trafficking. He was under constant police surveillance. One night, soon after Hsien, they heard a piercing scream coming from his posh hillside retreat. The detectives had rushed in to find him, electrocuted in his spa, and a tiny figure running into the shrubs. They had cordoned off the area and captured a teenage girl.But not before she critically wounded one of the officers in the process. And that’s it! Now she has been tried. For four murders including her father’s. They are still trying to make up their mind. The death sentence? Or worse.”<br /></span>The fat man held the top of the girl’s head in his hand and slowly but determinedly turned her face towards him.<br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“There we go. Such a pretty face. Now. I need you . I need people like you. That’s my job. Finding people like you. You’ll work for me. You’ll do whatever I say.”</span><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">The girl spat on his face.</span><br />The fat man moved with a speed that she couldn’t have imagined. He struck her somewhere in her neck. She felt like she had swallowed a rock. She couldn’t breathe. She flailed her arms around clasped at her neck. Wheezing and heaving. Trying to breathe.<br />The man slowly wiped the spit off his face. The girl was turning quite blue.<br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“Don’t ever do that again”, he said, “now stop sighing like a whore. Relax. Let it go. Close your mouth, count to three and breathe in slowly through your nose.”</span><br />The girl listened. She fought with her instincts and breathed in the way he said. Her lungs filled with air. Her head started to clear.<br /><span style="color:#ff9900;">“Now. Let me finish. In return for you coming into my employment, your criminal will be expunged. Complete and unconditional. But you must keep up your end of the bargain. Don’t worry. I’m not going to rape you. You’ll be my soldier. Your country’s soldier. Is that clear?”<br />The girl kept silent. He stood up.<br />“I’ll take that as a yes. Not like you have a choice anyway. Either way you’re dead. I’ll come get you tomorrow.”<br /></span><span style="color:#ff9900;"><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/xi5.1.jpg" border="0" /></span><br /><span style="color:#33ffff;">The next morning the warden released a statement. Prisoner 4534, Juan Lei, had died overnight, possibly of cholera. To contain the disease, her body and cell contents had been incinerated immediately.</span><br />For the next 4 years she had trained vigorously. Martial arts. Killing with swords, guns or bare hands. Trained in manners and etiquette. The arts, languages, geography and history. She was part of an ultra secret strike team for the Chinese Secret Service. But a more true description would have been – assassin, saboteur and spy. Her first mission had been a debacle. A double cross. Two senior fellow agents were killed. But she had come back alive. All objectives complete. Ever since then she was identified as someone a little special. Over the years she went on over a hundred missions in the farthest corners of the world, doing things most of us only see in our nightmares. Becoming famous without even being known.<br /><span style="color:#66ffff;">And then one day she had broken.</span><br />Something had changed. Something was lost. Or maybe found. She wanted out.<br />But there was no way out. There never would be. Mr. Chong had promised her that a long time ago. So she made her own arrangements. For almost a year.<br />Then one day, while in a mission in Spain, she was gone. Vanished.<br />Somewhere along the line, she had found <span style="color:#33cc00;">Poison Bay</span>. She had found a mild mannered stock broker called Jeremy Pritchard. And she had found her home. The perfect cover. For the rest of her life.<br />But she had never stopped looking behind her. The faintest sound in the night would wake her. Cars backfiring would startle her. In the Boisen Bay busport, in deposit box no. 4534 she kept a gym bag stuffed with notes in a dozen currencies, six passports and an address book with the details of some people worth knowing.</p><p><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Because she knew it would happen one day. Mr. Chong would find her. The man who had given her the name that was nothing more than a curse.</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">Xi.</span></strong></p>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1137841506812500452006-01-21T18:56:00.000+08:002006-01-21T19:07:44.516+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#ffff00;">O'Malley's Descent</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Chapter IV</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#33ff33;">Blood & Water</span></strong></div><br /><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/01/omalleys-descentchapter-iiia-dark-room.html"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/brothers.jpg" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">continued from: Chapter III: A dark room</span></em></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#33ccff;">It was his second day at junior high when the Brad Kelly and his gang grabbed him by his collar and shoved him into the boy’s room. They were going to take his lunch money. Then his dignity. But before they could do anything somebody came in.<br />“You touch him, you die.”<br />The Kelly gang burst out laughing. It wasn’t the threat, but who it came from. A skinny, short chump. They knew him. Twisted Ed, who sat at the last chair and tried to keep his head down. They didn’t know he could speak.<br />Which left them completely unprepared for what happened next.<br />It was as though the little man exploded into a ball of fists and kicks. He attacked Brad like an enraged wildcat. He punched and grabbed and scratched at what he could.<br />But Brad was about 3 times his size. And there were three of them.<br />The boys fought back but they could not stop Ed. He was being beaten simultaneously by all three of the Kelly’s but it was as though he didn’t feel a thing. It was suicidal. It was almost comical to watch.<br />Suddenly, the youngest of the Kelly gang ran in.<br />“The Princi’s on his way.”<br />That broke them up. The boys immediately withdrew, rushing out their footsteps echoing in the corridor.<br />Ed was bleeding quite badly. There were deep bruises in his eyebrow and lips. The left eye had swollen to a bright purple.<br />But he still managed a smile.<br /></span><em><span style="color:#ff6600;">“That’ll be the last of ‘em. Don’t let ‘em ever bother you. If they ever try to get you again, you let me know. Okay? I’m always here. Just remember. I always got your back kiddo. You’re my baby brother. Remember that?”</span></em><br /><br />That was probably the last good memory O’Malley had of his older brother Edward. Soon after things started to change. As Bernard excelled in both the classroom and the playing field, Edward slumped to an all time low. He could not cope with studies. He wasn’t fit enough sports. Almost nothing sustained his interest. He would have wild bouts of anger, with prolonged periods of depression. They took him to the doctor. Things were not right. His IQ was marginally below “normal” levels. He had borderline autism. Traces of manic depression. And a dash of psychosis. Twisted Ed. Bernard had never really liked his brother. He always thought of Ed as an embarrassment, a burden. So he would distance himself. Always had.<br />Ed came home with tears in his eyes and he confronted their father. The long guarded awful secret was finally out.<br />Francis O’Malley had been a giant of a man, both in character and build. But there had been a dark night in his life as well. When even he had a made a mistake.<br />Her name was Gloria Sanchez. He hadn’t seen her after that night. And he had tried to forget about her. But one morning, almost 5 years later, they had received a letter. Gloria had died. <span style="color:#33ccff;">But she had a son. Eduardo.</span><br /><span style="color:#33ff33;">Francis’ son.</span><br />The little boy was to be put up for adoption. But she had said in her will that Francis should be informed. Francis’ hands had trembled when he had read the letter as tears ran down his face. He could not turn his back on his family. Eduardo was family.<br />Glenda O’Malley had been let down by her health all her life. She had always been frail, weak and seriously ill. The doctors had written off any chances of her bearing a child. Her heart wasn’t strong enough. When Francis broke the news to Glenda she had cried. Deeply hurt and disappointed by the an she had worshipped. <span style="color:#cc66cc;">But even though her heart was weak, it was large</span>. Next week, they had adopted Eduardo and had christened him Edward.<br />But 2 years later, a miracle happened. They named it Bernard.<br />But now one of Gloria’s brothers had tracked Eduardo down and contacted him. The secret was out. Eduardo finally had the answer to why he had dark skin and hair when his parents did not.<br />The last time Bernard had seen Edward, he was sitting on his bed. His cheeks wet from crying. Weeks after his 16th birthday.<br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;">The next day he was gone.</span><br />Francis had torn apart Boisen Bay looking for Edward. He had found him too. But the son he had brought with love and care was gone. His name was Eduardo Sanchez and he spent time with Gloria’s drug dealing gangster brothers. He had become one of them. A dope pusher and user. A criminal. Menace to society. And there was nothing Francis could do about it. You can repossess your valuables, but you can’t repossess the most valuable thing of all. Your children.<br />Francis and Glenda O’Malley had died barely 8 years later. Two months between them.<br />Bernard had met Eduardo some years before. Sitting in a police station. Arrested for DUI. They had seen each other but neither would allow that to show. But things had changed somewhat. Eduardo was no longer a criminal. He was no saint either but he was trying. He had left his gang and taken up a job. Good honest work. And he was working at it. From time to time he would go back to his old ways, but something would again put him back on the straight path. O’Malley secretly kept tabs on him. He would walk by Ed’s apartment late at night, trying to catch a glimpse of him eating dinner. But he never met him. <span style="color:#33ff33;">He was still too ashamed of his brother.</span><br />But suddenly now he didn’t think of all that. He didn’t think of all those embarrassing moments his retarded, violent brother had caused him. All he could think of was his second day at Junior High. And Brad Kelly. And the promise.<br /><em><span style="color:#ff0000;">“I always got your back kiddo. You’re my baby brother.”</span><br /></em><span style="color:#3366ff;">Ed had been there when he needed him. Now it was Bernard’s turn.</span><br /><span style="color:#3366ff;"></span><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#3366ff;"><em>continued chapter V</em></span></div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1137340993903832632006-01-15T23:57:00.000+08:002006-01-26T21:40:12.093+08:00<div align="center"><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,0,0)"><strong>The Path of Xi</strong></span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,0)">Chapter III: Pillow Talk</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,0)"></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,0);font-size:78%;" ><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/01/path-of-xichapter-ii-bondage-games.html">continued from: Chapter II: Bondage Games</a></span></em></div><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/xi2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/xi2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />One balmy Poison Bay night, the 20 year-old home of the Pritchard family had been burnt down to embers. A gas leak of some sort. The enormous explosion had killed everybody. Jeremy Pritchard, his wife Michelle, the seven year old twins Jamie and Jane, and even baby Faye, three months old that day.<br />By strange coincidence, the family minivan had been stolen at the same time.<br />But the police got the facts a little wrong. The woman’s body they had recovered was not Michelle Pritchard. It was Lillian Choo - an illegal Asian immigrant who had started work as Baby Faye’s nanny that very day. Michelle had stepped out in a hurry to buy some tomato paste, for the Spaghetti Bolognaise she had planned for dinner. But she had returned in time to see a strange van marked “<span style="COLOR: rgb(51,255,51)">Handyman Clay</span>” driving off in a hurry from her doorstep. It had struck her as odd but not odd enough. While she was trying to gather the stubborn cans into the weak plastic bags, it had happened. She had seen it. The entire left side of the house it exploded into one giant ball of fire.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,102,255)">She knew it was no gas leak. She had been expecting it all these years. But when it finally happened, it was unexpected. She had just stood there. Part of her had wanted to jump into the flames. Try to save someone. But all those months of conditioning had held her back. It wasn’t her time.</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,204,0)">Michelle Pritchard was dead. Xi was reborn.</span><br />Clay, part time handyman, part time hitman and explosives expert, was paid a visit by Xi the week after while he was in his workshop. She had started with his fingers, crushing them in a vice, tearing them off with wire strippers. Unhappy with the results she had moved on to the mallet smashing in both his shins. After she had pulverized Clay's left knee he had become willing to talk. Once she knew all about Big Eddie, she had tied him to a chair in the kitchen. A gas leak. She would show him a gas leak. From Clay's stash, she had found a small charge of C4. She had then rigged it to 15 minute timer, taped it to his face and left.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,0,0)">The last room Handyman Clay ever painted, was a bright red.</span><br />Eddie knew most of that story. The crucial bits he didn’t know, Xi explained.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,51)">“Clay held out pretty long you know. He’s a tough guy. Was. Now you could try and beat him. But I wouldn’t recommend it”,</span> Xi said and smiled.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,0)">“Now I just have two questions. Easy ones”,</span> she reached behind Eddie’s head and undid something. Eddie felt the piece of rubber pop out of his mouth.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,0)">“Who and why?”</span> said Xi.<br />Eddie tried to scream at first. But he couldn’t. The noose was too tight. The only thing that came out was whisper. He had had enough of this.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,102,0)">“Rot in hell bitch”</span> he spat out.<br />Xi shook her head in dismay. Then with one swift motion she pulled out the needles holding her hair together. Her beautiful black locks cascaded down her shoulders. Eddie saw that the needles weren’t needles at all. <span style="COLOR: rgb(51,255,255)">They were tiny curly daggers</span>.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,0,0)">The next moment Xi plunged them deep into his bowels.</span><br />Big Eddie gasped in pain and shock. But his windpipe was closed shut by the rope and he almost choked.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Xi just stood there smiling.</span><br />At the moment it hit him. He was going to die. One way or another. The only question was how soon and how painfully.<br />So he talked.<br />“I’ll tell you. I don’t know why”<br />The daggers twisted just a little. Big Eddie gasped again.<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,102,0)">“I don’t. I really don’t. I just got Clay coz I don’t do kids. But I know who hired. It was Brother Morris.”<br /></span>The grip on the daggers loosened.<br />“Who’s that?” Xi asked.<br />“<span style="COLOR: rgb(255,102,0)">Brother Morris. He’s a Habit. Up at Blackwood Abbey</span>.” Big Eddie wheezed.<br />He saw it in her eyes. That look. Even in his pain he could recognize that look. It was fear. The Habits scared her, despite the monster she was. Big Eddie found that hilarious somehow. And he started laughing. A dry hyena laugh.<br />Xi smiled back and walked away. Big Eddie heard clicking sounds and then that whir of the winch motor. And he started rising above the ground. The noose tightened the nylon cutting his flesh drawing blood. He could see the little woman in red looking up at him. Like a toddler. And then she sprung up, unnaturally high and with one swift motion plucked the little daggers out of Eddie’s guts. Blood gushed out in a thick stream. The whirring stopped. There were more clicks and thuds. And then the sound of a car engine fading in the night.<br />She was gone. Leaving Big Eddie hanging 4 feet above the ground from a lamp post in the alley behind Philli’s Bar. <span style="COLOR: rgb(255,0,0)">The enormous man swung gently in the night as the blood and urine dripping down his trouser legs painted abstract stars on the asphalt.</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,0,0)"></span><br /><div align="right"><span style="COLOR: rgb(102,51,255);font-size:85%;" ><em>continued: Chapter IV: blind date</em></span></div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1136346368391093532006-01-04T11:10:00.000+08:002006-01-04T11:56:22.686+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ffff00;">O'Malley's Descent</span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Chapter III</div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#33ff33;">A Dark Room</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#33ff33;"></span></strong> </div><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/eyes.jpg" border="0" /><br /><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2005/12/omalleys-descentchapter-ii-whistler.html"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>continued from chapter II: <span style="color:#ff0000;">The Whistler</span></em></span> </a><br />O’Malley deliberately slammed the door.as he entered interrogation room 3. As if on que all the lights went out, except for the flickering table lamp.<br />O’Malley spoke.<br />“<span style="color:#33ff33;"><span style="color:#3366ff;">This is a dark room. The recorders, the microphones, the cameras are all switched off. Even the lights are turned off so that they can’t lip-read. It’s just you and me. What you say to me in the next three minutes, stays here. Nobody has to know. This is the only chance you are getting. The first and the last. Talk to me. Talk to me now. What are you doing Edward</span></span><span style="color:#3366ff;">?”<br /></span>The skinny man didn’t move. He sat with his head drooped, his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. O’Malley started breathing heavy. His nostrils flaring and the muscles in his jaw flexing with every wheezing breath. But still the man didn’t move.<br />“<span style="color:#3366ff;">Talk to me Edward.</span>” O’Malley shouted.<br />“<span style="color:#ff6600;">The name’s Eduardo</span>”, the man replied. Still not moving.<br />O’Malley thought for a moment that he was going to say something. But no. He just went back to being perfectly still.<br />“<span style="color:#3366ff;">You know what’s happening, Eduardo?”, O’Malley said, deliberately drawing out his name.<br />“They are going to try you for murder. Not one. Nine murders. They have your car. Tomorrow morning the forensic geeks are going to tear it apart. They are going to look at every bit of that car under the microscope. And they are going to find exactly how many and which girls you’ve had in there. Strands of hair, eyelashes, fibres even friggin’ dandruff. They are going to find it.”</span><br />The man didn’t move. So O’Malley just continued.<br />“<span style="color:#3366ff;">You know the only piece of evidence we found? It was a fruit knife. Victim number three. The killer had used it to slice up the nylon cord. No fingerprints. But there was DNA. Not the victim’s. But somebody had cut themselves once with that knife while eating an apple or whatever. And we have his DNA. Tomorrow morning they are going to stick a bud in your mouth and take your DNA. And they are going to compare it. And they are going to nail you. You understand me? You know what DNA is don’t you? You can’t be that stupid</span>.”<br />O’Malley leaning over the table. His enormous bulk bearing down on the scrawny looking man.<br />The man finally looked up to find O’Malley’s smoldering eyes burning into his soul.<br />O’Malley knew he had him now. He pushed on.<br />“<span style="color:#3366ff;">The minute this is over, all hell’s going to break loose. There’ll be lawyers and scientists and cops crawling all over you. They are going to drag up river and down, in and out of courts. And don’t forget the newspapers. They are going to rip you to shreds. Every little thing you’ve done is going to be picked apart. Like a Christmas turkey. Then they are going to lock you up in a dark lonely cell for a few months. After that they are going to strap you to a chair and pass a thousand volts through your body until your brain turns into mush and your heart explodes inside you. What are you going to do Eduardo? What do you have to say?”</span><br />O’Malley face was inches away from the man. His mouth foaming. His breath coming in heavy gasps. But the man sat unmoved by this over the top exhibition of O’Malley’s powers of intimidation. He looked into O’Malley’s eyes and held its gaze. Something not many people could do.<br />After a long pause the man finally spoke.<br />“<span style="color:#ff6600;">Don’t worry Bernie. I’ll never tell. I’ve taken care of it. They’ll never find out you’re my baby brother.”<br /></span>The lights went on before O’Malley could reply.<br /><br /><div align="right"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">continued.. chapter IV: <span style="color:#ff0000;">Blood and Water</span></span></em></div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1136174510212455302006-01-02T11:51:00.000+08:002006-01-02T12:01:50.220+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Path of Xi</span></strong></div><div align="center">Chapter II</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ffff00;"><strong><em>Bondage Games</em></strong></span></div><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2005/12/path-of-xi-chapter-i-screamer-or.html">continued from chapter I: <span style="color:#ff0000;">Screamer or moaner?</span></a></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br />Big Eddie’s scream had died in his throat. Something soft and rubbery had been shoved into his mouth. He couldn’t spit it out. Then his world went dark and his ears started ringing as his body slumped to the floor. For the next few minutes he just sat there in darkness as his mind fought the pain.<br />He came to suddenly at the sound of an engine starting. He looked up. The bitch was gone. His first instinct was to try and stand up. But that just brought him more excruciating pain. He didn’t have control over his hands. She <span style="color:#ff0000;">hadn’t just broken them; she had just plain ripped them out of their sockets.</span> Now they uselessly dangled along his sides, mocking him. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/426013_71616288.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/426013_71616288.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Somewhere in the far end of the alley the engine revved up. And a pair of headlights went on and started to grow larger. Big Eddie panicked. Oh my god! <span style="color:#ff0000;">She was going to run him over</span>. He didn’t have the use of his hands but he tried to scramble away with his feet. Only to find that they were shackled to the dumpster. The headlights grew larger. Like the eyes of some giant cat bearing down on a rodent in the night. Big Eddie knew he had only moments to live.<br />But the car stopped. Screeched to a halt about two metres from him. The tiny figure is red jumped out from behind the wheel. She was up to something. Big Eddie couldn’t see clearly because of the headlights. She was moving around with quick certain actions. He got a better look at the car. It was a minivan. You saw these things in the suburbs. Soccer-moms drive them around, picking up kids from school, dropping them off at sports, shopping at the supermarket. This one even had a “<span style="color:#ff0000;">baby on board</span>” sticker!<br />The woman was now standing next to Eddie and she threw something up in there.<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Next she slid the noose around his neck.</span><br />Big Eddie struggled. Trying to shake it off. But the pain in his back didn’t let him. But what was she going to do? <span style="color:#ff0000;">Big Eddie outweighed her by 80 kilos at least.</span><br />There was a low whirring sound. A small motor going off. And Big Eddie felt himself being raised above the ground. <span style="color:#ff0000;">She was using the winch!</span> The car winch on the minivan. The noose around his neck tightened cutting off his breathing. His head and eyes started to throb. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe!<br />The whirring sound stopped. Big Eddie was hanging from the lamp-post above him, his life slowly fading away. Suddenly he felt his leg come free of the shackles. He kicked around desperately and found the ground. But just barely. Standing almost on tiptoes. But that was enough. By stretching his body as far as humanely possible he could just keep himself from being hanged.<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">He could breathe. His vision cleared.<br /></span>He saw that exquisite face in front of him again. Those long unending eyelashes. Those chiseled lips. That delicate fragrance filled his nostrils. He could breathe.<br /><span style="color:#ffff00;">“My name’s Xi”, she said “and we need to talk.”</span><br /><br /><div align="right"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">to be continued... chapter III:<span style="color:#ff0000;">Pillow Talk</span></span></em></div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1135930673858174152005-12-30T16:13:00.000+08:002006-01-04T23:52:56.660+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">O'Malley's Descent</span></strong></div><div align="center">Chapter II </div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">The Whistler</span></strong><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);"></span></div><strong></strong><br /><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2005/12/o-malleys-descentchapter-ithe-wake-up.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">continued from chapter I: <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Wake Up Call</span></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/rjohn_doe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/rjohn_doe.jpg" border="0" /></a> This was the ninth one O’Malley had seen. And it still shook him to the core.<br />Pretty. Young. Female. Just like the rest. This one had been strangled with what looked like a dish towel. And those eyes. That expression of utter horror and desperation.<br />There was no doubt. It was The Whistler.<br />The killings had started about 4 months back. After the fourth one they started calling it “serial”. Some wise guy came with a name. <strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Whistler.<br /></span></strong>The modus operandi was always the same. Pretty young girls. Picked up and murdered. Strangled, by a variety of common household items like clothesline, fishing reel, and electric cords. But what set this guy apart from the other 100 freaks that lurked in the shadows of Poison Bay at night, was that this guy was clean. Clean as a whistle. Hence the name. There was no logic in choosing the victims. There was never left anything left behind at the crime scene. No hair, no semen, no blood and no DNA. No fingerprints. Nothing traceable at all. It was a mystery why he did it really. It wasn’t sexual. He didn’t rape or assault the girls. He didn’t rob them. But O’Malley thought he knew. It was those eyes. Like they had stared into the Devil himself. Wide open, the face contorted in shock. As if all their nightmares had come true at once. That’s what got him off.<br />“<span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">How many have you had O’Malley?”</span> said Jane. That woman looked perfect even at this hour. Cold and unfazed.<br />“<span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">Just need some coffee.”</span> O’Malley muttered, <span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 153);">“You said we had a lead.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">“Yes we do. Couple of kids were lurking around trying to find a car to strip when they saw Miss Prom Queen here getting abducted. It was from across the road so didn’t see much. Just a struggle as some guy pulled her into a car and sped off. But they got the license plates. Our boys ran the registration and came up with some guy with a pretty solid criminal record. Couple of assault charges as well. They are moving in on his house right now.”</span> Jane looked at his watch.<br />Moments later the radio crackled.<br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">“We got him.”</span> said Jane after ending the call “<span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">Eduardo Sanchez. Sleeping like a baby. And they found some pretty decent evidence as well. And Coke.</span>”<br />O’Malley stiffened. But just for a moment <span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">“Call them back. Ask them to put him in interrogation. But nobody touched him or even talks to him before I get there.”</span><br /><p align="left">*************************************************************************<br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">“I need 5 minutes in a dark room”</span> O’Malley said as he charged in to the ante-room.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);"><strong>Chief Quinn</strong></span> was leaning against the edge table, staring through the two way mirror at the solitary figure in the next room. The solitary figure, was a dark skinned man who sat perfectly still oblivious to O’Malley and Quinn. Or maybe not.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">“Not likely.” </span>Replied Quinn. Quinn was a bald middle aged man of generous proportions. He looked like your favourite uncle. But there was steel in his voice which few people dared to argue with.<br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">“4 then.”</span> O’Malley persisted.<br />Quinn was having none of it. “<span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">I am not cleaning up the blood from the walls again. You crossed the line last time O’Malley. I’m not going there again.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">“Firstly. I cleaned the blood. Secondly. You’re forgetting that it worked. I had a confession in 6 minutes flat. This is probably the biggest case we have ever handled. And you can't give me 4 minutes?”</span><br />There was a long pause as the two men glared at each other.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">“3 minutes”</span> Quinn conceded.</p><p align="right"><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2006/01/omalleys-descentchapter-iiia-dark-room.html"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">continued.... "Chapter III: <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">A Dark Room</span>"</span></em></a></p>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1135691078438154002005-12-27T21:39:00.000+08:002005-12-29T10:31:23.583+08:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">The Habits</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">&<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">The Church of the Infinite Night</span><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/blackwoodabbey.jpg" border="0" /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Blackwood Abbey perched on the edge of <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Blackwood Hill</span>, watching over the city of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Poison</st1:place></st1:city> Bay like a vulture watching over a dying calf.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It used to be a place of worship once. But things have changed a lot since the mysterious death of the last head abbot, and the ascension of <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Father McGuire</span>. The abbey was closed for so called repairs, and remained that way for almost 4 years. Things were finally exposed when the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">National</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place> suddenly sent out an edict de-recognizing the abbey. Father McGuire, was officially defrocked and several charges of corruption, heresy and embezzlement were raised against him. An official investigation was launched. But not the charges seemed to disappear one after another. Almost a year later, Father McGuire resurrected himself. He formed a new Order called the <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Church of the Infinite Night</span> and proclaimed himself to be its head priest. Their vows were simple. <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Complete secrecy and confidence.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">This was a well planned move on Father McGuire’s behalf. The Church established itself as one of the powers of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Poison</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>. People called them, “The Habits”. If anybody wanted anything done, which they didn’t want to do themselves, they came to the Habits. The Habits had at their disposal an almost endless number of assassins, hitmen, lawyers, bureaucrats, dirty cops, and every other form of human filth conceivable. For the right price, they could hire any of them to get your job done. Any job. If by some chance, the operator was tracked, it would only lead back to the Habits, the high walls of the Abbey and the impenetrable vow silence. All investigations, by the authorities or otherwise would not proceed beyond the Church. That was the guarantee they offered.</p><p class="MsoNormal">This line of work made the Habits extremely wealthy in an extremely short time, and Father McGuire’s thoughts turned to security. He had strange engineers brought in from overseas. They worked day and night for 4 months to convert the abbey into a fortress – with motion trackers, gun turrets, sniper towers and a few hundred cameras. Underneath the abbey, the old catacombs were converted into an enormous vault. Half of it was reserved for the use if the Habits themselves and the other half had a number of ultra-secure deposit boxes, to be rented out at exorbitant rates. The entire vault was encased in titanium-lead alloy, with door several feet thick. It could only be opened by a 10 digit code, retina scan and a spoken password, known by only a few of the monks.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Mayor Crum’s attention had fallen on the abbey once. He had sent a task force, led by none other than <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2005/12/o-malleys-descentchapter-ithe-wake-up.html">O’Malley</a></span>, to raid the place. They were to open the vault, and seize all its contents. O’Malley and his crew had worked on the door, with every conceivable piece of equipment, for almost 5 hours before the monks finally lawyered up. But to no avail. Atleast <a href="http://poisonbay.blogspot.com/2005/12/o-malleys-descentchapter-ithe-wake-up.html">O'Malley</a> had the satisfaction of thrwoing one of the monks through a stained glass window on the first floor.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Father McGuire had shown him the warranty agreement. It stated that the vault would withstand any direct attack by a <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">moderate thermo-nuclear missile</span>.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">The next day, Mayor Crum joined the list of The Church’s illustrious clients, renting out 3 deposit boxes at once.</p>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1135416652059607262005-12-24T17:19:00.000+08:002005-12-25T00:31:41.400+08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/xi.0.jpg"></a><br /><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><strong>The Path of Xi</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></center><center><span style="font-size:85%;">Chapter I</span> </center><center><br /><em><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);"><strong>Screamer or Moaner?</strong></span></em></center><em></em><div align="left"><em><br /></em></div><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/xi.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/xi.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/xi.jpg"></a></p><div align="left">Big Eddie cursed himself for not having seen her sooner. A girl that in Philli’s had to stand out. But still he hadn’t seen her. But now that he had, he was taking it all in. Slowly.<br />At first, he could only see her back. She was sitting up at the bar, on a stool. Wearing this gorgeous backless red dress. Her thick black hair was tied up tied on her head, with needles holding it together. And then a small graceful neck and the gorgeous pale white expanse of her back. Framed in red, tapering down, forming an arrow tip pointing to the earth. Her back mesmerized Big Eddie. He just sat there watching the well formed muscles flexing ever so delicately as she made small movements of swirling her drinking and taking tiny sips. It was like watching ripples on the river on a moonlit night.<br />She was tiny. Almost like a child. But that’s how Eddie liked them. A girl like that, at a joint like Philli’s. Could only mean two things. Either she was waiting for her boyfriend. Or….<br />Eddie had to try his luck. He abandoned his pool game, and moved his enormous 6 foot 4, 130 kilo fat, ugly frame to the stool next to hers.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">“Hey sweetheart”</span><br />She turned her head, just slightly. He could see her now. She was Asian. But unlike most Asians Eddie knew, she had this enormous eyes. What eyes. Black as the night. Long eyelashes stretching away into nothingness.<br />She wasn’t just beautiful. She was beauty herself.<br />“Can I buy you a drink, Miss. Or is someone looking after you already?”<br />The girl pushed away the clear liquid she had been toying with.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Champagne,”</span> she told the bartender <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“A good one.”</span><br />The bartender was shocked. It was not everyday that someone ordered champagne at Philli’s. Fast Eddie winked at him, and slid a 50 across the counter.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">“You have expensive tastes Missy.”<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“I do”,</span> she replied. Not really looking at him anymore. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Do you?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">“I do too.”</span> Eddie knew where this was going. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">“But exactly how expensive are we talking?”<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Pretty expensive. Depends on what you want to taste.”<br /></span><br />***********************************************************<br /><br />Five minutes they were in the alley behind Philli’s. Shielded from the main road by an empty dumpster. Under a dim street lamp that tried in vain to illuminate the place.<br />Eddie had his back on the wall. The tiny Asian beauty was all over him. God! What was she doing? She was like a python coiling up around her prey. Trying to suck the very life out of him with her mouth. Her legs were wrapped tight around Eddie’s waist. That was the only way she could reach her face to his. Her hands moved incessantly across his back, and around his neck, and under his arms. Like poison ivy wrapping an enormous column, her fingers like roots digging in, letting go. All the while her mouth moving quickly and surely. Kissing, rubbing, pressing. Her tongue flicking inside his mouth every now and then giving him a taste of that expensive champagne.<br />Her perfume. There was something about her perfume. It wasn’t overpowering. It was delicate and fragile. Just like her. Too subtle for a hooker’s perfume. Something about her was bothering Eddie. Something was not quite right. Maybe she was a thief. Maybe she would go for his wallet. All the better. Then he would have an excuse to do with her what he really wanted.<br />Suddenly she stopped. She took a breath.</div><div align="left"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">And then she asked “Are you a screamer or a moaner?”</span><br />What a strange question. Especially for a chick to ask. Big Eddie was surprised. “I don’t know.”<br />She smiled at him. A huge red smile like a bloody crescent moon. First time he had seen her smile actually. And she said;<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Let’s find out then.”</span><br />And then it started. The tiny girl pressed her feet against the wall and raised her body in a strange orgasmic arch. Eddie couldn’t guess what was happening but he felt this enormous pressure building in his armpits, where the girl still held him in a strange grip.<br />But it was only momentary.<br />The next thing Eddie heard was sickening cracking noise. Two noises actually at almost the same time. And his body convulsed from pain. It felt like a lightning bolt had run up his spine and exploded inside his head, snapping his torso into two.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">Big Eddie found out that he was a screamer after all.<br /><br /></span> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">to be continued....</span></span></span><br /></div> </div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1135343913482645332005-12-23T21:13:00.000+08:002005-12-25T00:32:56.833+08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">O' Malley's descent</span></strong></div><div align="center">Chapter I</div><div align="center"><em><strong><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">The Wake Up Call</span></strong></em></div><div align="center"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/John002b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/John002b.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Where had he woken up this time?<br /><br />His head felt like it was being horsewhipped from the inside. He couldn’t see anything. His extremities were just not there. He was blind, senseless an paralysed.<br />But then things started to clear. He could see… He could see a four finned fan slowly spinning in front of him, dispersing the flashes of neon from the pharmacy next door. The pain in his head slowed down. He could feel his fingers again.<br />He was in his room. That was a good start. He was lying on his back, in his living room. It was still night.<br />The phone had been ringing. That’s what had woken him. But it suddenly stopped. Too late.<br />Almost immediately, his cell phone started ringing. He instinctively reached for his pockets, only to realize he didn’t have his trousers on. Not his shirt either. That’s when he also realized that he was soaking wet. With water. As if he had just come back from a swim. What had happened this time?<br />He didn’t have time to worry about that. The phone… it was on the coffee table. The ID said it was Jane, her partner.<br />At this time it could only mean one thing.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Who has she?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">“Some girl, waiting for her cab to arrive after a party. O’Malley… she was only fifteen.”<br /></span>O’ Malley stiffened. Suddenly his head cleared, all the pain was gone. He didn’t say a word for a good 30 seconds.<br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">“O’ Malley. You there?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“Here.”</span> Bernard said. He realized that his left hand was clenched into a fist so tight that his nails were cutting into his flesh “It’s him…isn’t it?”<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">“Pretty sure it is. But I’ve got good news for you. We have a solid lead this time.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">“I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”</span><br /><br />Bernard O’ Malley was cop. And he was Irish. That was it really. That’s what everybody knew about him. That’s all they cared to know about him. That’s all they needed to know about him. His reputation said the rest.<br />Bernard O’ Malley was a large ugly brute of a man. He stood taller than anybody around him. No matter what he wore, it seemed to be stretched tight over his broad back. His face was old, and scarred, and aged far more than his years. At first glance it seemed dead and hollow. Like and enormous oak tree. He never cracked any jokes, never laughed at any. But his eyes, set in their deep hollows, glowed, like the core of some dormant volcano. Which could explode any moment.<br /><br />Bernard O’Malley wasn’t a good cop. He wasn’t even an honest cop. He was no different from any other cop in Poison Bay. Except for one thing. He wasn’t on anybodies payroll. In Poison Bay, you had to be on somebody’s payroll. Or you had to be dead. O’ Malley didn’t choose the former, and he was still holding out on the latter.<br />Everybody had a price in Poison Bay. Maybe Bernard didn’t. Or maybe they just hadn’t reached it. Not that they hadn’t tried to guess it. They had. Most of them had left with broken fingers or jaws. Their briefcase full of cash thrown out after them.<br /><br />Bernard liked this arrangement. If you were not on anybody’s payroll, you were not responsible for anybody either. Except maybe the people of the city, but for who cared about them anyway. But this also meant that when the shit hit the fan, nobody would be responsible for you. And that was a bad a place to be in Poison Bay, because the shit hit the fane here on a regular basis. O’Malley knew his number would come up one day. When he would become too much of a bother for somebody or the other. And with no one watching his back he would be easy to take out. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);">Snuff out.<br /></span>He knew that day would come. Soon.<br />But he didn’t care.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">As long as it wasn’t today.<br /><br /></span></span> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">to be comtinued...</span></span></span><br /></div> </div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20089563.post-1135238626279189022005-12-22T16:00:00.000+08:002005-12-25T00:30:48.110+08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/1600/poison%20bay.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7563/1743/320/poison%20bay.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Welcome to the City of Boisen Bay. Founded by a Mr. J. A. Boisen of judiciary fame. A city built to shine to the rest of the free world as a beacon of peace and fraternity and justice.But that was a long time ago.<br />The train has long since gone off the tracks. Off the bridge. Into the ravine.<br />The air has been fouled by the smoke of industry. The waters are polluted with blood and grime. The soul and life of the city died a long time ago. Leaving behind the corpse of existence.A few years ago some hoodlums decided to rename the city. Poison Bay. They painted the letters, broad and red over the city sign. And it stuck. The paint wasn't permanent but the idea was. It was so fitting, that nobody since has thought of fixing that sign. Or maybe they just didn't have the time.<br />But people live here. And die here. And fall in love here. But they can never leave here. Those who could.. have already gone... or don't want to.<br />These are the stories of some of these people. And their polluted lives. In Poison Bay.<br /><br />Don't mind the smell. You'll get used to it. It's just the stench of refuse and desperation.<br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>So welcome to <span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Poison Bay<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"></span><br /></span></strong></div>erebushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02336808029900381412noreply@blogger.com3