Help!
Look, it was an ordinary day. I’m an ordinary guy, a thirty-year-old nobody. First-line support at a city brokerage. Still single (probably because I resemble a malnourished geek, even in a suit).
What happened?
I’d just nipped out mid-morning to grab a mocha from Coffee Heaven: London’s finest caffeine.
It’s not far from our office. Pinnacle Street.
So, halfway down a narrow shortcut I clock some equally weedy guy being accosted by two hefty geezers. Okay, I’m not exactly Batman but I shout, dash over, attempt a rescue. My heroics fail spectacularly. I’m floored and kidnapped, along with the weedy guy (similar age, black eye, calls himself Priest), and we’re thrown in a van; my wallet and smartphone are chucked. No idea what they want with Priest, or me!
We’re driven to some murky trading estate. In Slough?! Then I’m trussed up in a warehouse, while Priest is dragged off by menacing others. I plead with the smaller hefty bloke how this is all some misunderstanding—he appears to sympathise. And then, police sirens outside, shots fired by both parties; I’m shitting bricks!
My captors scarper. An Inspector Sage collars me, doesn’t buy my story, reckons I’m some mystery underworld hacker everyone’s after. Next thing, I’m cuffed and hauled off while screaming mistaken identity.
I’m shoved into Sage’s squad car. Suddenly Priest appears, maces a copper, hijacks the panda, and we’re speeding away. “A favour for a favour,” he winks.
We race up the M4 back to West London; Priest delivers me by a random tube stop (real dodgy area); he waves cheerio.
Hallelujah! There’s forty quid still in my pocket. As I’m getting a ticket, a vicious gang fight breaks out in the grimy concourse. The Apollos versus The Knights apparently. It’s bloody: I’m nearly gutted by some devilish hoodie. Then police are crawling all over; scared they still think I’m Priest, I leg it.
Ducking fast into some backstreet strip joint, I’m forced to pay entry. Quiet day: I’m welcome prey. I avoid “company” but am nonetheless coerced into buying a number of drinks at diabolical prices. I neck them and leave.
The police haven’t gone; my cash all but has. Desperate, I hide in the back of a stationary truck. But it’s heading out into the country.
FFS! What is this?! I was just going to Coffee Heaven.
Then it hits me. I’m trapped in an adapted, allegorical, action thriller mash-up!
Please...
Just stop reading...
is 51, of mixed heritage, and lives/works in Essex, UK. Some of his poetry has been published by Eye to the Telescope (online fantasy poetry publisher). His flash and short fiction stories have been published by PsychoToxin Press, The Mocking Owl Roost, Red Polka Books, and Altered Reality Magazine, among others.
