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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1. Prologue: Screwed

Yeah, he's screwed. Like the other guy. And the other guy. And the other. Hm. They're all screwed. I should call myself "The Screwdriver". OK,on revision not a perfect name, but sod it, I'm a killer. A bloodthrirsty, murderous killer. I don't. do it for revenge, though. Or money, or anything.

To be honest, I guess it's why I can pull it off like this. It's not personal. It's fun There, I said it. Fun. I enjoy muder. It sounds so twisted, but hell I enjoy it. I'd go into detail about the murder, and what particular details I enjoy myself, and oh, you could never stop me.

 I have, over time, perfected murder, turned it from just a brash act to a fine art and made it that much more professional. Yes, that's it. Professional. I'm a professional murderer. But that's not why I'm after this bloke. My God, I didn't really have anything to do with this man. I had one million pounds, and was three seconds away from retiring. And what does this idiot do but pick up my case and try to work out who I am. Idiot. I am nobody. And to ensure I am nobody, the man standing in front of me, the detective who is even now searching for me, is now going to be injected with concentrated heroin. That was my genius. Fifty times the recommended dose, so powerful and concentrated three drops of it are now on the point of my pen.

My pen. Laughable. It's an Arabic dagger, very ornate, with a red jewel on its hilt. And a razor sharp point, with a miniscule hole in it. The hole currently has three drops of concentrated heroin. This man has no idea what I have under my sleeve. And he's slowing down. I am going to make it his fault. Shouldn't have taken Heroin at half past ten on a Friday night on a deserted tube train. This should be fun.

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