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Dead Man Talking. - Literature - Nairaland

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"The DEAD MAN WHO Could Love AGAIN" (1) (2) (3) (4)

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Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 5:22pm On Dec 22, 2012
She’s DEAD! The scream couldn’t leave his mouth.

He awoke fast, erupting from his unnatural slumber like one catapulted from the bowels of Hades itself.

She’s DEAD! The thought ricocheted around his feverish brain cells. His eyes tortured orbs darting around the room for he knew not what. Room!?-No!!Holding Cell, cage, he was a suspect in Police custody that much he remembered. Just a few hours ago, he and…….

HE’S DEAD!
Eyes widening in shock and horror even as his brain began firing the signals along frazzled neural pathways to begin the chemical processes to shut down everything from cognitive thought to motor functions

In the space of the millisecond that he had come to, his vision was tinged with red, the liquid intermingling with his sweat was too dense to be oily excretions of petroleum jelly and oil of Ulay. The taste-that metallic tang on his tongue was a familiar reminder of busted lips, trips to the dentist and Hot femme fatales biting down. Its presence on his tongue coupled with its unmistakable scent muted the scream that begged leave to escape.

For he was covered in blood, the unwitting participant of a bizarre ritualized baptism of sorts, the latest victim in this night of so many victims, beginning with her, her image in his mind were hammer blows that rocked the tectonic plates of his soul, that tore asunder his perceptions of time, of space because although dead, she was yet ALIVE.

The love or what else could it be that the man sprawled on the floor had felt for her, still FEELS for her was like streams of living memory coursing through every synapse, every nerve ending and fibre of his body, the evidence of which was even now caking in his pores, merging with his flesh, living tissue, veritable second skin. It filled him with unimaginable pain, scorching in its intensity, wrenching his guts but even more amazing, imbued him with wondrous presentiments of power.

Energies spiritual and temporal raged through his system fuelled by his blood, the purity of his love and the pain of his loss. The sensory overload manifested in the roaring in his ears, he imagined he saw the lights flickering, on, off, perhaps uncertain if the events unfolding was best suited for the nether realms of darkness or the redemptive ambience of light. Should this moment be hidden from heaven…or hell itself?

His mind tottered on the edge of insanity and finally, thankfully the cousin of death swooped in to embrace him.

His last waking thought was the slight look of surprise as she died. And the remembrance of that was such as God turning away as His Son became the personification of sin itself, Pompeii erupting, Nero fiddling as Rome burned, it was the four men of the Apocalypse heralding a new player in their quartet.

And he screamed… finally.

And that is when the Officer came.
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 2:22am On Dec 25, 2012
For Officer Pete Shaw, this was the beginning of a nightmare that would culminate in a failed marriage, alcoholism, suspension and his unfortunate dispute with a high speed train on the Metropolitan line late one night after another alcohol induced descent into hate and self-recrimination but that was still to come, tonight, he was still to sell his soul and within seconds of peeking through that double paned glass, he signed away his self- respect, some would say his immortal essence without a seconds thought. There were two black men covered in blood. There was no question where his duties lay.

Striding where running might have been more fitting to the he had just beheld, he walked to the operations room at the end of the custody suites and made a beeline for a senior officer behind the Plexiglas window and whispered in his ear.

The Officer turned white as a sheet and grabbed his subordinate by the arms prompting curious looks from the other officers in the room.
“No, No, No” …he implored as if his vain repetition would somehow turn back the hands of time. He didn’t wait for an answer but rushed out of the room towards the holding cells and now they both had the full attention of the whole room, as activities slowed down and a quiet hush fell among the group congregated in that room.

No sooner had the Officer- Corsairs- rushed out that he ran back, apoplectic, and started shouting orders. “Shaw, get Pennyworth! Bates, close the front doors, stand watch outside until you hear from Pennyworth!!”

“Sergeant Corsairs. Sir, what’s the problem?” asked PC Derek Dean. DD to his colleagues and choice goalkeeper for the North East Metropolitan Police service football club

“Problem? ” “The two black guys in 5, the kid and that man whose wife died last night…”

“Yes?”… He prompted uneasily, slowly getting to his feet as did all the remaining officers who by now had abandoned their various tasks and were suffering from varying degrees of fear and disquiet.

“Dead” he announced simply through gritted teeth.

An audible gasp ran through the group, Sally Bancroft, the youngest officer in the room let out a little cry and reached for the waste paper basket where the sounds of her retching remnants of her tuna ham sandwich faded into the background of everybody talking animatedly all at once.
Suddenly PC Bancroft stood up and pointed an accusing finger at two officers standing on the fringes of the group huddled near the hallway leading to the holding cells. Detective Constables Fitch and Pritchard, who immediately stared back defiantly and stood, shoulders squared as if bracing for the oncoming onslaught.

“ You ! You sick bastards, you put them in that cell, and you caused this”

“Steady on Bancroft, no need to get your knickers in a twist” sneered Fitch, the resident Naughty Person and one half of the Policing duo with the most prolific arrest record in that station, albeit with the highest amount of complaints to the Independent Police Complaints Commission on infringements ranging from common assault to severe bodily harm, especially to B.E.M’S-Black and ethnic minorities.

“Besides, how long have you been here Bancroft , 10, what 11 months now ?this wouldn’t be the first time we put two niggers in a cell together, even three, you never had any problem with it before now, not a peep from you so if I were you, I’d…”

“Pritchard, Fitch, to my office please” said Detective Superintendent Pennyworth, O.B.E, former SAS now presently very pissed. Tall, the clipped cut glass cadence of the upper classes matched the Scandinavian features of his marauding forebears; they called him His Ghostliness among the ranks because you never heard him coming. No doubt that was what Iraqi Kurds said during the first Gulf War where he had fought combat missions, right before they got their throat slit.

The journey to his office was surreal in its silence,supernatural almost in its speed.

“Ok, feel free to interrupt me if I’m wrong” he said in a tone that said interrupt me at your peril. “You arrested a black African migrant yesterday on the grounds of committing a public order offence at 0800 hours last night; he complained that you caused the death of his wife who suffered an epileptic fit at some time during your arrest. You brought him back here, and at some point during the night decided to put an under aged teenager in the same cell with him against the rules, simply to satisfy some sick sadistic past-times you both have been engaging in for a while now. And now, one or both of them are dead”.

The two officers looked at each other briefly, locked eyes with their superior officer and Fitch said “Yes Sir, that about covers it, except for one thing”.

“Yes”?

“It wasn’t for kicks Sir it was …well, the suspect had been talking crazy in the van ,he seemed to either be praying or reciting some strange heathen curses of sorts, Pritchard thought he had gone crazy, didn’t you bloke”?

“Right I did guvnor”

“The kid was mouthing off at Pritchard we just wanted to make him sweat a little bit”.

“By locking him up with somebody you had reason to suspect was mentally unhinged?” Pennyworth raised an incredulous eye.

“In a manner of speaking”replied Fitch shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

Inspector Pennyworth looked beyond the officers, at some point he had stopped listening, as he so often did, he looked at his trophy wall for inspiration, framed photos, shaking hands with a grateful queen, another with the past and present prime minister, sports and TV personalities, finally the gold framed picture of his wife during their last anniversary to Tangiers complete with her new bosoms and facelift. These two sociopaths would cost him everything. There really was no alternative.

He picked up his cell phone there could be no official record of this call.

“This is D.S Pennyworth”…a pause…then a deep breath. “I need Sarko”.
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 12:57pm On Dec 25, 2012
Standing at an even five feet in his regulation black brogues, PC John Bates stood sentry at the now electronically sealed sliding front doors of the building built during the Victorian area and commissioned by the borough commander at the time, legend has it he was found in his office one day dangling from the ceiling fan. PC Bates could relate to that tortured state of mind as the wintry air gnawed at his frayed nerves, corroding notions of bravery, reducing him to an automaton with no moral compass to guide him through this monumental disaster.

Not for the first time. He swore under his breadth at deputy custody manager Corsairs-“this bleeding cold would be the death of me” then he shuddered and broke out in sweat despite the minus zero degrees temperature that stalked the night.

H.M Inspectorate of Prisons and H.M Inspectorate of Constabulary had been depressingly clear in that much shitted upon document called the Safer Detention and Handling of Persons in Police Custody 2006(SDHP) guide. There was to be NO detention of Juveniles and adults in the same cell under any circumstances.
‘Leaky Bates’ as cruel toddlers had taunted him through Primary School felt the familiar pinching’s of his bladder as they threatened relief and humiliation simultaneously.
“Poor Bates never did rise to the occasion under pressure” tittered amused teachers from childhood and as his record ninth girlfriend in one calendar year fumed on many a cold night “rarely freaking rose to the occasion at all -the plonker!”. She would be cancelling her subscription to eharmony.com before this night was over.
“Hang on what’s this”? he thought, stepping out of the shadows of the building to track the progress of three black vans slowly advancing in his direction, the Police station was at the end of a cul de sac. Almost on cue his comm link buzzed. It was Pennyworth. “Bates we are expecting company, let them in”
PC Bates felt an exploratory trickle travel down his inside leg and his mouth went dry.

He could feel invisible eyes scrutinizing him from behind tinted windows of the nondescript van that double parked in front of the Police Station, “Bloody hell, this is it!” he thought despairingly moving forward for all the world resembling a prisoner stumbling towards execution.

The engine silenced, eyes riveted on his own terrified image staring back at him from the dark tinted glass, the door opened silently and a man with the coldest eyes he had ever seen stood before him, he felt like a rabbit transfixed in the glare of approaching headlights, hypnotized and seduced by the prospect of his own demise. He tried to speak but he was struck down by a deep, primordial urge to turn tail and run screaming into the night.

Thin lips curled below a hawkish nose and those agate eyes, he could have been forty but those eyes were ancient and his hair, thick and black ,that plus his skin bore the only hints of his gypsy origins. Roma perhaps Tuscany, No matter, tonight he was the hunter whose totem would have been the vulture in ancient times when barbarians roamed this isles.

His voice when it came was so low, he could have sworn he never saw his lips move, but he heard the voice as clear as day, accent-less, barren, bleak-,threats of unspeakable cruelties implicit in every syllable.

“I am Gregory Sarko, take me to your leader”
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 4:49pm On Dec 26, 2012
Inspector Pennyworth had a cuckoo clock, last Christmas gift from Old Aunt Gertrude took its pride of place next to the lavatory, he would have thrown it away but it was a great conversational ice breaker when swarms of snot nosed kids trooped through his office during all those career day excursions where the next generation of sleuths were introduced to modern day crime fighting techniques.

The cuckoo clock announcing the close of the hour startled him, breaking his silent reverie and sending his 18k solid gold pen clattering to the floor, he reached under the desk for a few seconds came up and His Ghostliness met the prince of darkness himself-or an entity pretty damn close.
He never heard the door open or close; the man was simply…there…like he materialized out of thin air.
“What the….he began.

Sarko went for the jugular immediately, no greetings, introductions or small talk.

“Superintendent, you are to all intents and purposes responsible for the perpetration of extra judicial murder, maybe murders.. .No?…no matter, however Her Majesties government in all its wisdom foresaw events such as this occurring and created a department many years ago, not unlike the ‘wet work’ department of MI6 .We do the dirty work, we are the men who make the skeletons in your closets disappear, I am Sarko, I do not exist, do not file any P60’s and yes if an organizational hierarchy existed, I would easily outrank you,…” he held up a hand… “ please do not interrupt me”.

“Since 1988, there have been about...oh… 333 deaths in Police custody in the United Kingdom. No Police officer has ever been convicted by the courts for any of these deaths, this is what I do, and by the way these premises was officially designated a bio hazard when your call logged in, I can level this entire building...literally…if the situation warrants… Nod if you understand me”.

Pennyworth nodded mouth agape.

“My men are working the building now, confiscating records, CCTV images, cell phones”, he said “just think ‘Men in Black’”. He came closer towards the ornate Chippendale desk and leaned close until their noses were almost touching peering at me as a spider would a fly

“You have no idea the forces that have been unleashed here tonight, do you? That dead man, he still screams still, listen… you cannot hear it can you”?

“You are mad, you know that”? Pennyworth cried out.

Sarko smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes.


“Perhaps, but I am not blind, deaf and dumb, the man who died, he was the son of an ‘Awo’ a West African shaman of sorts, the man was Nigerian-yes? the father practiced the white arts. Tonight the son made a pact with the dark side”. He turned around and said without looking around “you want to know how I know this things, details that are not on the Police National Computer”.

Still walking towards the door “I could tell you but then I would have to kill you”.

Somehow Pennyworth didn’t think he was joking , a horrific realization dawned.

“Wait, what are you going to do with the young lad, the one in a coma,”?

“Kill him” he said simply.

Reaching for the door .Even as the door burst open and one of his men Ahmad tech support stood there breathing hard.

“Sir, the boy”……..he began.

Pennyworth tensed. Sarko froze. “What about him”?

“He’s disappeared Sir, VANISHED”!
Re: Dead Man Talking. by annfad247: 12:24pm On Dec 27, 2012
[color=#000099][/color]Bros kul dwn na dnt u wana knw wat i tink? Its 9c dough,gud wrk kip it rolin coolBros kul dwn na dnt u wana knw wat i tink? Its 9c dough,gud wrk kip it rolin
Re: Dead Man Talking. by Oluwafunmilayo95(f): 12:49pm On Dec 27, 2012
My Christmas is so not going to be boring.. cool
Nice one cool
Re: Dead Man Talking. by Ollyfad(f): 9:31pm On Dec 27, 2012
[color=#000099][/color]am so lovin dis,more updates pulleeezzzz winkam so lovin dis,more updates pulleeezzzz
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 3:34am On Dec 28, 2012
Philosophy 101-The finite mind cannot comprehend Ultimate reality.

Maybe he was dead.

A 17 year old nameless ghost on a leisurely stroll through this picturesque savannah in the underworld where giant acacias dwarfed their 10ft(3m)counterparts in the real world and in case he forgot to mention, ordinary people don’t freaking walk on fire. Tufts of grass doubled as wicks of flames that glowed golden and waved in the breeze beneath this cloudless azure sky where no birds stirred, and as far as the eye can see just this fiery grassy vista that seemed to travel forever disappearing over the blue horizons.

He wasn’t dead.

Barefoot and dressed in a simple white robe like he was about to audition for an heavenly choir, he strode onward and forward towards the solitary figure in resplendent white standing afar, whose white robes made his look like a filthy dishrag. Curious, he picked up pace while his mind made deductions with inhuman speed.

He remembered nothing prior to his meeting with that mysterious man in the cell, he had amnesia, and try as he might he couldn’t tear the veil of memory that blocked his probes beyond that night. Secondly, he was not dead but he was not in the United Kingdom or indeed any country that subscribed to the laws of physics or the mass appeal of Justin Bieber. Grass does not breathe fire, trees do not look like miniature skyscrapers, he was John Doe in Wonderland and what are the odds that man over yonder is not called Alice. Third his mind was a total stranger to him, it whizzed like Pentium microchips on steroids, words and definitions came unbidden as his eyes took in his eerie surroundings.

Miombo-he was absolutely sure that most savannah plants are adapted to fire and even more bizarrely several species even need it to germinate their seeds at least until the next rains, Miombo-that’s what they are called. Now how did he freaking know that?!

In no time at all, he stood before the regal figure that stood 7ft tall staring down at him with curiosity and even a bit of wonder. His limbs obeying a strange instinctive impulse, one he suspected would always occur in the presence of this imposing man-if :he was a man-paid obeisance to the earth and prostrated fully before him, composed himself and waited…

When he spoke, he did so in total silence, his face was a kaleidoscope of changing features, at once young then old and patrician, his was the face of the beloved Uncle that took you to your first ball game or the grandfather that regaled you with tales of heroism from wars fought in exotic lands in ancient times, wisdom was etched into every craggy line on his wrinkled brown skin and that in itself indicated his immortality for wisdom, true wisdom lives through the ages and cannot die.

Telepathy to the uninitiated is like realizing that you have surround sound installed in your mind by Dre Beats,only without the hardware. All he knows is he heard him, as pilots say: LOUD AND CLEAR.

<Welcome>

“Uh Thank You…Uh …Um…Sir”.

<Extraordinary, you must realize that a human mind faced with even a hint of the realities that you have embraced so fully would shatter into a thousand pieces, the inevitable result is always either insanity or suicide, save for a handful of remarkable human beings scattered through the millennia.>

“In other words, I’m a freak”.

<What you are is in stasis, your physical body still lies within your dimension while your body and your mind continue the reconfigurations necessary for you to begin your new life, emerge from your chrysalis as it were a, being more godlike than human>.

Re-configurations ? Sounds like software patches for bad programming, upgrades? That’s the Matrix movie right there, forgive me, I’m not trying to be flippant”

<On the contrary, I recognize humour as a human time tested way of coping with fear. I summoned you here to try to explain some of what has happened to you>,

“I know what happened to me, that guy in the cell jinxed me, laid a voodoo hex on me; he…” and suddenly, he found himself, losing consciousness as images of her flooded through his mind again. That was, until the being caught him by the arm and steadied him; his touch evaporated his vertigo like nausea immediately.

“Ok what on earth was that?”

<Mankind has learnt how to harness the power of the atom but is yet to understand the powers of the most powerful force in the universe-Love. Conversely the life force of all living things is blood, the blood is sacred, recognizable in all the realms of the living and beyond as what could be called spiritual currency, traded by demons, feted by principalities, mankind would be conducting research into nanotechnology for a few millennia yet before they even begin to understand the inner workings of one single drop of blood>

“Jesus…”he began

<…Understood its works perfectly, however in your case, the man you met has conducted metaphysical surgery on you that should be theoretically impossible, already possessing considerable powers which had laid dormant for ages, he has superimposed his psychic energies unto yours creating a hybrid of forces which threatens the natural order of life as we know it.>

<To put things in terms you will understand, every minute that passes in your dimension, hitherto unused parts of your brain cells are being activated, billions and billions of dollars are being spent on drugs to make mankind faster, stronger, smarter but soon after you were spirited away from your confinement, you were given an elixir which in itself is priceless. Once reposed in the most secret of vaults in what was once the most advanced and famous library in the world, the great library of Alexandria in Egypt…>.

“…Founded by the Ptolemy dynasty around 290BC, in the Palace district of Brucheion, home of the papyrus industry, Euclid, Archimedes and the astronomer Eratosthanes…”

<…were a few of the famous scholars that studied there yes, before it was burned down by the Romans who understood even then that knowledge is power indeed, suffice to say a potion was developed which boosted the powers of the brain so exponentially that even beings such as I had to take notice>.

<That formula and that potion was never seen after the fires that laid waste to the library when Julius Ceaser and his armies raided Egypt, that potion was given to you while unconscious ,has been digested by you and neurotransmitters are following the standard protocols of signal transduction, Einsteins famed intellectual prowess would pale next to yours>.

“But there’s a catch right? ”

<There is, the events that have been set in motion cannot be stopped, in his love, in his fury and his vengeance, he cried out to the heavens and beyond, he made covenants, his blood was the seal, you would be his instrument of vengeance so he turned you into…>

“…a weapon … angel of death”?

<A man! Albeit with powers beyond that of the normal human >.

“Great, can I fly? Superman style ” ?

<No, but any living thing that takes flight is yours to command. The last human being that had the ability to do that was a certain King called Solomon>.

“You do know that most of what you say borders on witchcraft, magic”.

“Most of man kinds inventions today would have seemed like sorcery to your ancestors, and a thousand years from now your descendants would ponder why you could not travel faster than the speed of light while they travel to galaxies beyond to get a cup of coffee, if mathematics is the language of the universe and you are yet to understand all the dialects, nuances and inflections of its speech, any hint or demonstration of its essence would invariably look like”…

“…magic”! and then he bowed in the presence of such assured wisdom.

<Mankind called such as we gods but theoretically, we could be extra- terrestrial beings who sojourned on this planet shortly after time began, after the proverbial big bang, humanoid life forms from another galaxy who exist outside of time and space having harnessed the ultimate potentials of higher mathematics, human history, art, dreams and nature are in us and part of us, we cannot be explained to the finite mind…do not travel down that path for that is not your purpose>

“What is my purpose then” he said bitterly for the first time “I do not even know who I am, what my name is…”he trailed off despondently for whatever else he was he was still a teenager, on the cusp of manhood.

He looked at the man resolutely and asked “who are you anyway? What is YOUR name?’’.

Then the man spoke for the first time,verbally, and his voice was rich, stentorian, and deep.

<I go by many names, some call me Orixala, and I come bearing gifts>

He reached into his robes and gave him what appeared to be a wooden rod about 12 inches in length.

Once he held it in his hands, two blades sprung out from either side of the rod,” retractable blades” he thought “Neat”! The rod itself lengthened on cue and took on a dark silvery sheen; the object throbbed in its hand: resonating a power that was unimaginable. “What is this” he asked wondrously.

<Shangos axe>

“Holy Sh...!FRACK ME!! ”
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 1:06pm On Dec 28, 2012
@Ollyfad:Thank you,will try my best.
@Olufunmilayo95:Thank you,Its all good lol
@annfad247@Thank you,if I 'cooled it down'you wouldnt be here,dontchathink?lol

@all:Interesting fact of the day:More than 333 people have actually died in Police custody in England,mostly black,not ONE single conviction against any serving member of the Police has ever been recorded.Instead outlandish suggestions like 'oh he stabbed himself to death...IN THE CHEST? ...or we thought he fired a weapon and shot to kill.The latter sparked off the London riots in 2011.So one thinks :/one wonders,one reaches for a pen sometimes and one ends up here writing up a storm.

Its Carter-Peace!
Re: Dead Man Talking. by Oluwafunmilayo95(f): 1:28pm On Dec 28, 2012
Luvly smiley
Are you based in London?
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 11:45pm On Dec 28, 2012
You had to have stolen more than a few cookies to debut on Americas most wanted, the British version was a BBC One feature called ‘Crimewatch’ where they made copious use of CCTV footage and innovative dramatic reconstructions of criminal incidents to persuade members of the public to provide actionable intelligence regarding the whereabouts of fleeing felons or suspected criminals.
Sarko did not use Crimewatch. There could be no dramatic reconstruction of that night, it would have been incongruous to bring to light deeds best suited to the secrecy night and shadows afford. However Interpol, the FBI and other intelligence agencies received signals and identikit sketches of the missing youth designating him as a ‘person of interest’ ‘do not approach’, had he been sighted ,a dedicated number at Scotland yard would have re- routed calls to Sarko and his team spurring a manhunt with a view to a kill.

He co-opted elements within the criminal underworld from triads in Hong Kong to the Yakuza in Japan and called in favours with the Russian mafia, Somali pirates working the horn of Africa, nobody had seen him or even heard of him, it was like he had vanished off the face of the earth.

Sarko knew better

He knew this city, he was wired to the subterranean rhythms that made the great city of London run, that’s how he knew something was coming that would make the last riots look like a prep school tea party, he was privy to the intelligence chatter the GCHQ and Scotland Yard provided with those with the ‘need to know’ and security clearance, right in the upper stratosphere of civil service officialdom.

He didn’t know who the boy was, there was an opposing intelligence thwarting his every attempt to uncover his identity, Fitch and his partner had simply chucked him in the cell without requisitioning his DNA and fingerprints as protocol demanded, they remembered the street corner where they picked him up but it was like any other in London, tourists are often reminded how the charm of Great Britain is its architectural uniformity –everywhere you looked-similar to where you just came from or could be going to.

He sat in pitch darkness going over the case again in his mind, Sarko was a soulless fiend therefore love was a weakness as far as he was concerned and that was why he didn’t see the connection at first. First the facts-both suspects were arrested at random and the circumstances that threw them together was equally unplanned, logically the boy-he would be a twenty year old man now had no reason to contact the family of either of the deceased pair. They were recent migrants to the UK.

“But…what if…quite illogically he was prepared to admit, he could be drawn out of whatever hole he was hiding if any of the family members of the woman-the one who had the fit and died before the ambulance crew arrived”-

And that was the essence of the man known as Gregory Sarko, a man who thought nothing of descending on a hapless unsuspecting victim like a pack of wolves, his lack of human empathy had led him to the same conclusions his parents had before they mysteriously died in a freak accident when little Gregory was just 9-their son was a stone cold sociopath.

Mind made up, he picked up the phone, if it worked, it worked, if not it’s somebody else’s funeral and he smiled at his own macabre humour.
“Ahmad, bring me the file on the Pennyworth case and rouse the boys, we are going fishing for bait”!
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 11:47pm On Dec 28, 2012
@olufunmilayo85:N.Y
Re: Dead Man Talking. by Ollyfad(f): 10:24am On Dec 29, 2012
Wtf!!!shango axe ke?wat is d story turnin 2?update pulleeezzzz
Re: Dead Man Talking. by CarterN4: 3:04pm On Dec 30, 2012
An exhilarated Sarko sat in the front seat of the black tinted customized Ford van with government plates, with two similar vans in his entourage heading towards North London, their data mining efforts had proved successful-the deceased Kayode Adejumo had been married to a Elizabeth Adejumo nee Vera Cruz and she had a sister Juliet Vera Cruz who was presently in the UK as part of her annual pilgrimage to her sisters grave in a private plot in East London where she laid wreaths and wept quietly while she reminisced on good times gone past.

They had gotten her address of the landing card she filled in when she landed at Heathrow, and a discreet call had confirmed her current place of abode, orders were given and the troops were called in, the target had been located.

Sarko intended to hold her for a week and see if something-anything-comes rattling out of the woodwork, if nothing happened, well part of his job description entailed leaving no witnesses. She would be reunited with her sister shortly, regardless of whatever happened.

Collateral damage .It happens.

Sarko considered he to be a ‘Special One’ and when another self- confessed special one appeared on the horizons of a place called Stamford Bridge, he briefly considered whether it was time to test the efficacy of his cache of untraceable poisons once again as he had assassinated people who had been unfortunate enough to pique his interest or ire by their tomfoolery or simply blind irritation on a bad day.

Luckily the Portuguese maestro known as Jose Mourhino backed up his pontificating with ground breaking results so Sarko became an admirer from afar, even employing one of his training methods before they embarked on new missions, Mourhino had confessed to a fondness for using Usher’s music as a motivational tool to boost endorphins, to get his players in the zone, hyped and ready to play on broken legs if need be.

So Sarko turned on the radio to Choice FM, the station of choice for black music. Whatever else could be said about black people, their ability to create grooves that altered mind states was unparalleled and a billion dollar industry was testimony to this innate skill.

Sarko thought he had pretty much lost his ability to be shocked.

He was wrong.

“...this is DJ Abrasi, you know who it is and how we do, big up all man dem running tings today, we have a new number 3 track today yeah, this track is banging, watch out for this bwoy and his crew Phantoms of the oesophagus in this banging ,wicked ,hold-on-to-your-seats new track, coming in at Number 3 DEAD… MAN… TALKING …!’’

The opening strings were eerie, sounded Celtic, African drums thumped defiantly in the background and the bass line was reminiscent of Andre Young’s best sonic creations but the voice, that voice when it came-was magnetic, utterly compelling possessing an otherworld quality that mirrored that of Gotye, it was Gotye on acid.Magic. And the lyrics went thus.

//Her beauty was part of her fame//
//That night darkened by pain//
//The cops started the games//
//So cold hearted and vain//
//Their car parked in the rain//
//Muddy shoes Carpet was stained
And they swore, farted and claimed

Her death was stark entertainment//
//When her man started blaming
Them it was hard to blame him//
//When she started gasping for breath//
//They were laughing and prepped//
For whatever/ already masking their steps
//Plain to see they were asking for death//
//As her man broke out in passionate sweat //
//Their reaction was effed//
//You couldn’t imagine the depth//
//Of cruelty/ tongue lashing the bereft//
//Couldn’t catch the man for theft//
//Couldn’t bash him while he slept //

……and the singer/rapper went on and on, telling a tale of loss, grief, pain. A night etched unto song and performed with such gusto that the voice haunted its listeners. To hear it was to be introduced to a pain so deep, so personal that one felt almost ashamed to be part of this public display of self-flagellation.

Sarko sat frozen to his seat, aware that every eye in that that vehicle was glued to his person, that voice, that song told in the unmistakable genre of rap music was even now describing a night that had been scrubbed from any official government database, as far as precedents go this was right up there with aliens descending on Trafalgar square in the middle of rush hour. Never fracking happened before!

So be it, Sarko threw down the gauntlet to whatever agency, whatever force, whatever person or persons was thwarting the clockwork efficiency of his clandestine off-the-books department. He would obliterate them all. On Her Majesties Secret Service

He was enraged .He always felt better when somebody died, somebody HAD to die.And a certain female was in his sights so..

“Drive……FASTER”!

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Stolen Kisses; Guilty Pleasures (A Short Story) / Prophetic / Do Writers Realize That It's A Duty That Comeswith Their Title To Banish Cliches

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