The Job

Mason Parker is screwed. He's broke, living in a slum-city on the edge of revolutionary mega-metropolis Valhalla, and out of work. Just when he's completely hit the edge, he recieves a phone call asking for his detective skills to work on a case valued at £30,000,000. It's a miracle. But as the details of this job become more and more sinister, Parker realises that his life is in more danger than he thinks. The killer he seeks to catch is now trying to murder him. But then a name crops up. A whispered phrase. "The Worker". A serial killer who effortlesly assainated high-ranking police officers. Is this the killer? Or is this something darker, sacrier, worse than Mason's greatest nightmares?

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4. A Puddle of Life

"That bloody police force. They are despicable. No, sure, don't waste top officers on a case doomed to kill them, but sending in a detective living in a slum is a bit low, even for them."

Amy, my cat, was staring at me blankly, eyes wide open and head cocked to one side. I don't honestly know why I actually bother talking to her, I never get a reply. In a perfect world she would understand, and not just be the slightly stupid, pleasantly innocent cat she is. Oh well.

I pushed off from the desk, the spindly wheels on the swivel chair gliding me backwards across the cold, tiled floor. The whole place was like that, which was a bit of a low point, but at the end of the day it was a cheap room in the basement of a neglected hotel, on the outskirts of Valhalla. It was one of those places the Mayor didn't want everyone seeing. All the crap in the city was pushed to the East End, and the high-end skyscrapers, the Airports, restaurants, and Jamaican Shoe stores crammed into the five-mile gap between the mayor's office and the sea.

The mayor knows what he is doing. He is cordoning off the edges of a puddle of life, if you will. Send all the rubbish over to the right, where nobody wants to go and all the factories and landfills are, stick a huge border about halfway to the middle, and don't let any slumdogs get into your nice, clean end of the puddle. All of the winds blow to the right, so nothing unsightly will be seen or smelt by the Mayor's perfect citizens, all milling around in his puddle. I hate the word perfect. It is such a boring word. What is life without excitement? The answer is easy to see. Ever wondered what a section of tarmac does in a day? Exactly what he is supposed to do. He is, in essence, perfect. But he has no life. He is doomed to live out his days as a pathetic little slab, trampled upon thousands of times a day. I got told as a child that it was weird to try and give inanimate objects human qualities, but it is nice. And it helps. Like taling to my cat. And murder.

Yes, oh yes, I had to get back to that. Sooner or later. I am ready to execute my art, pardon the pun, and commit another act of beauty. According to the webiste I am on, this man deserves it. A missionary. He gives everything he has to other people. Cute, but pointless. The people need to live on the edge to toughen them up, not spend their days at soup kitchens, recieving money from someone else. So, one way or another, he is in no way helping anyone.  He is hindering them. So, by default, he must die.

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