Short and Curly Part II

The blow had been designed to maim, not subdue. Thus, a second followed swiftly across the lower regions of his expansive back, causing him to spit feverishly amidst a flurry of curses and expletives. Feeling his hair wrenched back by a gloved hand, Short’s face contorted upwards, tauntingly defiant and devoid of all emotion.

    “You know who you’re fucking with mate? Any clue where you are sunshine?”

    “More than you think Detective Inspector, but you’ll soon find out you vile waste of swank,” replied a chillingly composed voice.

    “It’s about time you got your just deserts, although by the looks of things you’ve had yours and the rest of the departments for quite some time! Marie Antoinette fan I assume? The only reason you’re conscious is because I’m not fucking carrying you!”

    Clasping handcuffs around the already perspiration soaked wrists of Short; the assailant jerked the DI to his feet and pushed him in the direction of an inauspicious red van.

    “Where are you taking me? You’ll never last a day in my town you son of a hoor!”

    “Calm down son, you’re gonna need to conserve that energy of yours. Why don’t you have a nap?”

   

    Finishing his remark as he slammed Short’s head straight onto the floor of the van, the unidentified violent object heaved the deadweight lump into the van, tapped the side, and made his way to the aforementioned BMW. With a single drive of his elbow glass splattered over the passenger seat, instantly allowing the man access to a most splendid example of Bavarian efficiency. With almost identical ease the car had been hotwired and was soon following the newly plated van holding the slumbering James Short.

    Having been thrown through a set of double doors, Short soon found himself sprawled across the floor of a room that’s stench wreaked of desperation. This in reality was an unapologetic cocktail of rotting meat and perspiration. Using the strength of his one good hand to push his enormous weight upwards, Short felt his very consciousness drifting until the moment he saw the disfigurement that lay slumped across the grey steel of the abattoir’s bench.

    “This is what you made me do you bollocks!”

 “L...L...LARRY! WHAT? NO.NO. WHY? FUCKINGMOTHEROFCHRIST!!”

"Short and Curly Part I"

    “Entirely satisfied Detective, it sounds like we’re in for a good night. ‘Toner set you up with all that gear or did you head down to Belfast?” the rasping voice chuckled.

    “Aye Shorty, ‘Toner’s going away for a while so he gave me a fair whack of his stash. Can we go to your place? Mine’s a tip.”

    Detective Inspector James Short contemplated the request. Would he rather spend his night in a cesspit of debauchery or turn his lovely home into a den of inequity? The decision was difficult but inevitable.

    “Sure we’ll start off at yours. We’ll hardly know where we are come half nine, who gives a shit what your gaff is like!”

    “All right but I’m warning ya, it’s been a state since Lyndsey left ma. Cant be arsed to do anything round here anymore.”

    “Not to worry, you can tidy it up before I get round. I’m leaving the office in 30 minutes so I’ll be with you before eight!”

    “Nice one.”

    Terminating the call, Inspector Short began to punch a new set of digits into his phone. He had just over an hour before he needed to arrive at O’Callaghan’s, “plenty of time”, to do his business and get another smash down well and truly underway.

    “Straight to voicemail again? Fuckin’ gip!”

    Shorty had been trying to phone the number for the best part of and hour with no success. As the latest in a series of failed attempts came to an end he decided that enough was enough and a house call was in order. He had been a patient man and, in his own humble opinion, unquestionably more compassionate than his reputation suggested. Respect was given where due, status earned, and in order to preserve his own he must now act accordingly.

    Locking his office door, and taking five flights of sullen graffiti flecked stairs, with the intention of avoiding hoards plebs and drooling imbeciles, took little to no time. This was undeniably a chore he had endured many times before, always necessary, always vindicated, always exhausting for a man of considerable size. In fairness, who actually knew what anally retentive moron potentially lay in wait, desperately waiting for the opportunity to strike with a budget update or pig swill designed in a similar vein. Created and nurtured it seemed with the sole intention of sucking the life and soul straight from his already saturated body and replacing it with numbers, figures, charts and horseshit.

    The fire escape, disarmed in advance, resisted until a swift boot to the bottom left corner of one door allowed the hinges to unleash their full potential and swing the blue streaked metal into submission. Eyeing vigilantly the most direct route to a delightfully lustrous Z4, James Short reached for his mobile once more. This time, however, he would not so much as grace the plastic with his finger tips. Overwhelmed from the rear, DI Short’s knees could only submit under the demand of skillfully applied pressure from a claret stained baseball bat.