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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6. Petanqué

Here I come. La ti da. Walking merrily down the street, not a care in the world.

I'm actually rather enjoying the freedom.

Here we go. Eeny, meeny, miney... her.

I can almost hear the riddles playing through my head as I approach her. They feel like they circle me, and when I told someone, they said I was crazy. Not crazy, Doctor Harrison. Oh no. I'm just a little bit curvy. Like a game of boules, I suppose. If I just go straight, there's a bloody great wooden block in my way. But there's a lovely alternative to that. I weight my ball, and take it round the side.

Instead of having to endure the trials and tribulations of course calculations to get to my goal, I just freestyle, you know, hope for the best. Oh joy. Besides, trigonometry was never a strong point of mine. I hated the teacher. It might have been to do with his annoying lisp.

I found him the other day, actually. Just saw him in the street, annoying lisp and all.

Killed him on the spot, au naturale, if it were. Cut out his tongue, too. I don't even think the police have found him yet. I got my pen stuck a little bit on the third time through his ribcage. The bloodstains didn't come out too well after. Always was a stubborn bastard, I suppose.

Bet the mayor's loving this. Writhing at home, in his comfortable armchair, scared I might overpower his guards. Hah. He think his guards could spot me. I'm invisible. And he won't see me coming.

Actually, I rather like the french. Perhps I'm not playing boules. I'm playing Petanqué. The thought crosses my mind as I withdraw the pen from her spine, and as a pleasant afterthought, I carve it into her forehead. Flick and all. Actually, that flick might not be there... Oh well.

La ti da,

 

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