In these I play the role of myself as a headstrong, and slightly psychotic, reporter out to expose the evils in the world today and bring justice to the unjust. That's the idea anyway.
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Kyle Spence, mild mannered investigative journalist for the other NSA, I stood outside a dark and seedy hive of villainy in the very heart of this sleepy community.
I knew that inside, right at this very moment, a crime was being committed, a rape against the community. A lawless metaphorical penis forcing itself into the soft pink vagina of this virgin land. A giant throbbing member having it's way with the people of here. A dark manhood having it's wicked way with the citizens of this place.
I had fallen asleep to Skinemax again.
Casually I made my way into the heart of this foul place.
Inside a painted Jezebel flaunted her assets like the brazen hussy she was, I knew that if I were to ever uncover the cancer that was the drugs baron I would have to start with the whores.
"Hi, welcome to Tesco."
"I'd like to buy some of the good stuff," I spoke to her as one knowledgeable of all things crack related.
"I'm sorry, sir, which good stuff would you be referring to?" asked the crack whore coyly.
So that was to be her game, she would show caution in case I was a cop, play the innocent but that's ok, I'm a professional.
"You know, that stuff that gets you a buzz."
"Do you have a facial tick, sir?"
"Not at all," I said, continuing to wink to reassure her that I am in the know, "I was just thinking about something... harder."
"What??" She exclaimed in an obvious ploy to test my authenticity.
"Something to just stick in there, that will make me gasp with the release."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir."
Shit, I'd been rumbled. Thinking fast I scissor kicked her in the knee and legged it for the fruit and veg, where upon spotting a handy display of potted plants on special offer I took advantage of nature's bounty.
From my vantage point I studied the whore as she summoned her pimp, he took off in the direction I had last been seen running and from the walkie talkie in his hand I could see that he was obviously lower down the food chain.
With no thought for my own personal safety (we journalists thrive on danger and adrenaline) I stepped from my haven and continued on my quest to expose the filth on our streets.
Creeping through aisles stacked high with chemicals with such innocuous names as Surf, Lenor, and Caustic Soda I came to realize the true spread of the poison eating away the heart of our community.
"Disgusting filth," I mumbled to myself, then seeing a woman with a young child lift a box of something marked Dreft, my good temper finally gave way and I screamed.
"YOUR CHILD SHOULD BE TAKEN FROM YOU, YOU FILTHY CRACK WHORE! YOU ROTTEN SKANK!"
I ran, leaving the woman to think about the consequences of her actions as she tended to the crying child, probably the most attention that the critter had seen since birth.
Dreft, Persil, Tide, Daz, Bold. All these new names to confuse those of us who would seek to root out the wicked stuff and expose it's purveyors. Flingers, poppers, tabs, whack, smack, crack, dope, smoke, X, Y, and Z. Whatever happened to the good old days when it was Cocaine, Opium, and when spoiling oneself... Heroin?
Running smack into a guy a suit I realized that the game was over, it was the big enchilada, the hairy cojones, the mother of pearl.
He called himself 'The Manager'.
"Sir, might I ask what all the commotion is?"
Flanking him on either side were two heavies in blue shirts and black pants, they wore batons on their belts and carried walkie talkies.
"I'm just looking to buy something to get my mind off what a rough day I've been having," I said casually from my vantage point on the floor.
"Sir, I've had complaints about you from several members of staff, not to mention the customer you just yelled at. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store."
"YOU CAN TAKE MY LIFE, BUT YOU CAN NEVER TAKE MY FREEEEEEDOM!" I yelled at the top of my lungs as I was hefted off the floor and escorted toward the front door.
Violently I was nudged outside and brutally told not to set foot across the door again or they would call the cops.
In best journalistic manner I straightened my jacket, lit a cigarette and promptly gave the 'security guard' the middle finger.
It was hard to believe that I could have been exposed so easily and as I type this I wonder if it is at all possible that someone could have tipped them off to my presence.
My journey into the inner circles of the local drugs racket was eye-opening. It was truly surprising how close I got to the top, and it is now that I understand how powerful the ring has become that they can be so cavalier about peddling their wares in open defiance of society's laws.
This reporter for one hopes never again to cross their path.
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