Above, is my newest “self-designed” ebook cover for my novelette on Amazon.
This is a break from myself — a novelette preview of mine.
I originally had this story on Hubpages. I’ve previewed it here minus most of the pictures.
For some odd reason I had a regular readership on this one.
Now onto the preview. I’m sure you just can’t wait for the bloody parts…
Has anyone ever told you that you are sick if you like this stuff?
The Horror is in our own heads.
— Jack Shorebird, July 2017 — as told to him by Slade East
Preview…the basic rough idea…
It wasn’t mass murder. Really, it wasn’t.
But I need to unload this anyway. Let you know where I am coming from. Then you can judge me. You can decide if I did the right thing or not.
Let me tell it the best way I can, while I burn one. My last one.
It all started sometime last year. I’m a little fuzzy about when exactly. I remember I was smoking my first of the day then. Letting the morning cancer clouds help me think. Sipping my Jesus Christ java. You know, just like any other day. A little “wake me up” and “chill-me-out.”
I was sitting there at my concrete pulpit — my table. The one with the cheesy red and white sun-bleached aluminum umbrella. Delaying the inevitable. Another day on the streets of sin. My beat. My chosen profession. A love-hate relationship at best.
Trying not to think about the cranks I would be dealing with in short order was tough. Not to mention my coworkers, the real cranks. The streets were lame by comparison, actually. I mean we brought he worst of the streets right into our offices. And it changed us. Made us better as cops, but worse humans. Suspicious. On edge. Screwed up hearts. Soft dicks. The works.
The real refuse was skulking around the police station in handcuffs, being escorted to the interrogation rooms. And yes, we had our share of bad cops. Sitting in their unmarked police units, in secluded places, with the windows rolled up, the air conditioning cranked all the way up and their gear sticks in their hand. We tried to weed those out fast. Too much of a liability. If we couldn’t weed them out we’d promote them and then ignore them.
I thought of a few choice adjectives for the few puds I worked with. A selection of egotistical cop hacks. Hawaiian shirt has-beens. Fake name-brand watches. Concealed weapons and knock-off “flea-market” sunglasses. Football fanatic, hunting crazed macho puds. We knew their types.
None of this really matters now.
How I’d like to tell them off now, grab them by their short hairs — but how that wouldn’t work either. Since they’re all probably dead.
I held my tongue back then. Back last year on that last good morning. Bided my time. Let my blood pressure build up its morning head of steam, so I could focus. Same as any other pisser morning in Miami, before work.
I puffed away on that first cigarette. Curls of blue death snaking between my knuckles. Pictured those chalk white knuckles and my fingers wrapped around the throat of this one coworker. I got problems. What can tell you? And it made me feel good. Better now, as I remember it.
I guess I had the cop gene like all the other puds or maybe something else. Some slow acting disease that ate you up from the gut, until you were a cynical dried-up, alcoholic, chain smoker. A divorced piece if crap just waiting for the melancholy years. The retirement home where they did the cooking, ass wiping and laundry, in that order.
If you’ve enjoyed this so far, please follow this link for the rest of the story…
Revelation Nation, by Slade East. At Amazon, Kindle ebook Edition.