Exclusive from the Raxfiles
and here by popular demand...
chapter something
chapter something
A solitary figure walked briskly along the left hand side of the road on the run-down pathway. Potholes littered the path, and screwed up pieces of glad-wrap, cheap soft-drink cans and broken pieces of gib-board that some builders had left there. He glances to the left. An unkempt man is out to it, lying under a couple of damp, squashed card-board boxes. The familiar stench of heroin sickens the man walking past, and he shivers somewhat convulsively. The brick walls of the terraced houses on the other side of the road are almost completely covered in un-tasteful and poorly done graffiti. A couple of dull thuds. The man spins round, just in time to see a couple of very full plastic supermarket bags, full of rubbish, rolling off the pathway, from where they’d obviously been thrown from out of one of those smashed windows.
He was wearing a pair of blend jeans. They were slightly faded from the thighs down to past the knees, but they weren’t like that when he bought them. It was years of wear and tear that had got them to this condition. That pair of jeans, - his third pair since he’d stopped growing, he’d had for a year and a half now. He wore the same pair every day of the year, unless he was somewhere where a more formal mode of dress was required, until they literally started falling apart, and finally disintegrating. Size thirty-two jeans, he wore them so that they almost, but not quite touched the ground at the back of his dark brown leather Clarks shoes. This allowed for a respectably “baggy” look, but not so much as to impede his progress.
On the back of his black tee-shirt that was starting to fade, was an advertisement for the favourite Greek drink, Ouzo. “Ouzo-power” it stated. It hung over his jeans, covering pretty much all of his two back pockets. This was a tee-shirt he’d bought one time at a cozy little restaurant in his hometown of Christchurch, called Santorini.
You wouldn’t see it, unless you had a trained eye, but this particular man was not ordinary. Firstly, the SIG Sauer in his right back pocket, only just hidden from view by the tee-shirt. His chosen weapon, the Swiss-made SIG Sauer P220, widely acclaimed as one of the best hand-guns in production, was always with him. Secondly, the light, regular way he walked, enabling him to get places quickly without standing out, the way he would if he ran. A sheathed knife, with a blade of 8 inches was strapped to the outside of his left thigh. The hole in the bottom of his spacious front left pocket enabled him, in cases of emergency, to reach through and quickly un-strap and pull the knife out...
go to www.aphmoore.bravehost.com/chaptersomething.htm to read the conclusion...
my site's a bit shoddy at the moment, but it's getting there...
He was wearing a pair of blend jeans. They were slightly faded from the thighs down to past the knees, but they weren’t like that when he bought them. It was years of wear and tear that had got them to this condition. That pair of jeans, - his third pair since he’d stopped growing, he’d had for a year and a half now. He wore the same pair every day of the year, unless he was somewhere where a more formal mode of dress was required, until they literally started falling apart, and finally disintegrating. Size thirty-two jeans, he wore them so that they almost, but not quite touched the ground at the back of his dark brown leather Clarks shoes. This allowed for a respectably “baggy” look, but not so much as to impede his progress.
On the back of his black tee-shirt that was starting to fade, was an advertisement for the favourite Greek drink, Ouzo. “Ouzo-power” it stated. It hung over his jeans, covering pretty much all of his two back pockets. This was a tee-shirt he’d bought one time at a cozy little restaurant in his hometown of Christchurch, called Santorini.
You wouldn’t see it, unless you had a trained eye, but this particular man was not ordinary. Firstly, the SIG Sauer in his right back pocket, only just hidden from view by the tee-shirt. His chosen weapon, the Swiss-made SIG Sauer P220, widely acclaimed as one of the best hand-guns in production, was always with him. Secondly, the light, regular way he walked, enabling him to get places quickly without standing out, the way he would if he ran. A sheathed knife, with a blade of 8 inches was strapped to the outside of his left thigh. The hole in the bottom of his spacious front left pocket enabled him, in cases of emergency, to reach through and quickly un-strap and pull the knife out...
go to www.aphmoore.bravehost.com/chaptersomething.htm to read the conclusion...
my site's a bit shoddy at the moment, but it's getting there...
I wrote it Becky. Any good?
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