GP by GP – I Have a Love Hate Relationship

GP by GP – I Have a Love Hate Relationship

Sitting here staring at my fan doesn’t really relinquish my feeling of vomiting. I have not felt so sick since the first time she showed me her true intentions. With that little display she put on as she fell through my door, those puppy eyes and beige lipstick were enough to draw me in. The thought makes me angry again and I light a cigarette as a symbol. Lets close the case and forget all about it. I throw my cigarette out the nearby window and lean back listening to the cars rustling in the street.

“Oh Mister Burrows, you are so kind Mister Burrows, please help me Mister Burrows…” I feel sick as I recall her sugared words. The Gramophone was humming as she stormed into my office for the first time, looking over her shoulder like she were riding at the derby. She couldn’t have made it clearer that her husband were suspecting her of cheating on him and sent a unspecified amount of people to retrieve her.

She told me her sobbing story of how he was working for some men from the federal office, helping them link crimes with the local ‘Businessmen’ and their work ethics. She even pushed a tear out to drive home her fear for him and her future together.

Usually I would ask her a few questions, but she had already entangling herself in a web on contradictions as the story progressed and I refrained from asking anything that would make her suspect me of seeing through her ironclad of makeup and acting tricks.

As she finally stopped talking to act out her patented sobbing routine, I got up from my chair and used my body language to show her that I were suckered in by the story. it weren’t deliberate although I wish it were. That would mean that I knew she were up to her tricks.

She were poison for a man like me, I would throw myself at her feet and slap her beautiful face just to see her cry at my expense. I wanted her and she used that to get under my skin.

“Very well Misses Longheart, I will take the case and look into this trouble you are putting yourself through.” I said. The words still haunt my thoughts and I feel the blood drain from my face when I see white walls. It were a grey afternoon here in Boston, as I looked out the window, while she rummaged her bag for letters and scraps on notes. She dropped it on the table like a piece of meat.

Her crying stopped after a few attempts and she got up looking around  the room for a minute before excusing herself and left. I had no idea what she were looking for… credentials?

I started my research by looking at the pieces of torn paper in a small envelope marked ‘Prescott’. It was not that hard to put together and a little glue helped me putting the notes onto a blank piece of paper. One letter were from a G.N.B. and were addressing Mr. Longheart about a place and a time down at the docks. It said that the fewer survived the better.

It looked like I needed to go to the local library to get any connection with the date and what had went down. I went through other letters, some scorched to the point of guesswork on the content and others were intact, with acronym and abbreviations galore.

If I should find anything that could shed light I had to go outside. It weren’t really a big feature to step into the open, but being held up by two men in my doorway asking me questions about my client, were rather intimidating. I didn’t deny anything about her contacting me, but I left out the stack of notes she threw at me.

If I had not done this before, I would have been cowering in my boots as these two large African men in trench coats passed me up. Yet even as they did all they could to scare information out of me without telling who they were, I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. I told them she were scared for her husband and they told me to keep my nose out of their work… business as usual for me I guess. Stop snooping around and you won’t get your nose pulled off.

I couldn’t do anything, but assure them that I didn’t want anything pulled off and had to give up my endeavours then. I took leave and got into a cab nearby, heading for the library. I had not expected anything else than them following me and had to argue with them at the library once more, telling them that since I were taken away the one only little case I might have had, I wanted to read instead.

They went back in their car, but didn’t leave. They watched me through the windows and even as I went up to the second floor they kept an eye on the exit. I paid a kid to wear my jacket and sit with his back to the second floor window and read his assignments. I always liked that jacket, but I can’t just cling on to every little detail in my past or I would never had gotten this wonderful phobia I am sporting now.

I went to their third floor, where they were collecting newspapers from the last couple of decades. They only had from this year here and the rest I were told were placed in the basement. I were still overwhelmed by this conclave of gainsay and prosy tidings.

It took hours to rummage the walls stacked with abandoned ink before I found the Daily Gammer with any result. There were a rumour that something had been going on down at the piers. A boat from Africa had been intercepted earlier that week and what sounded like gunshots were heard Saturday night. It had been reported from the local police force that some kids had broken into a contained with Chinese Fireworks and had been apprehended shortly. The newspaper had made it into a conspiracy theory and I too found it hard to believe that the answer were that simple.

There were not anything noticeable at the obituary the following weeks, nor any reports on missing people or anything suspicious about the earlier mentioned boat. Either they stopped caring or someone were silenced at the newspaper.

Well since it were getting very late I thought it could be a good a time as any to visit my favourite fish-wrapping producer. It were dark early this time of year and the questionable streetlights kept me concealed all the way downtown.

The presses were rolling as I stepped into the thundering halls of daily gossip. I went straight to the editors office and were told off for breaking an entrance on private property. I softened him with a couple of names and points of interest, I could see the greed in his eyes and his complete lack of safety for his reporters as I signed their possible death sentence. People like those I mentioned were to be approached with caution, especially since the cases were delicate.

What led me to give in those information? Were it like everyone else in this forsaken concrete hole, the shear lack of interest in anything but my own endeavour? Probably…

He sent me to a small man with so many rings under his eyes, I were worried that they were hiding immigrants. He shook off my poorly timed joke and showed me into a quieter backroom where we had a small talk about the column he made on the shipment that vanished before their eyes. Truth be told, he were paid to make a interview on an up-scaled event downtown and were dragged around by an outside photographer the entire weekend. The show were well paid for, but his tag-on assistant were relentless as he recalled how he kept wanting stories from the participants.

It could have been an eventful conversation if I weren’t knocked out early in the conversation by two masked men. I found out later that they redecorated the walls and ceiling with the poor reporter after I were unconscious.

Well at least he didn’t go through the beating I received at a abandoned warehouse, somewhere unknown. Four men kept asking me questions about Longheart and I couldn’t answer any of them if I tried. Confused and punched every time a thought formed in my mind.

I am still unaware how long that happened or if I just dreamed it all and my spleen just thought it were funny to go with the joke. I woke up in the hospital after someone had thrown me off at the kerb. The nurses had dragged me inside and pumped me so full of debt  that I have to pay taxes twice each month for a couple of years. To my luck someone from the police had barged their way into the hospital during the night and destroyed my room, clothes and apparently also hurt two nurses who defended me.

It didn’t help my reputation with the staff, but at least my hospital bill is the states problem now. I am not sure how I should take it or I should feel as sick about the officials as I were at seeing Misses Lockheart at my bedside the next morning.

She looked terrified and her red eyes showed that she had been practicing her sobbing routine while I slept. She told me how a local ‘Businessman’ were out to get his husband and they had been dressing like police officers before. If that statement were true, I couldn’t see how I should trust anyone anymore.

I were released later that day after half the town had been to my room. First misses lead-role, then nurses to tell me what had happened, then the police came to decline the possibility that it were them or anyone dressing up like them. Then the nurses came back furious that they didn’t believe the evidence. I even had a nice chat with the two stout women who had thrown their pretty faces in front of me to save me from further harm.

I left the hospital feeling sorry that I had been thrown out unconscious on their doorstep. Going home had its controversy itself since I had no money. Anything of value had been taken from me. It took me hours to get halfway, before a black Chrysler drove up to me and I were pushed inside. “We need to talk!” the delightful man with a gun halfway up my nostril said.

They drove me home, where a portly man sat at my couch drinking my scotch. He were as later discovered, the ‘Questionable Businessman’ which had a few interesting questions about this Lockheart I had been talking too, or Patty Owenheart. He addressed her as Patty and had been told by his… dancing girl…? that she had seen me at his establishment with a couple of African men, looking suspicious and asking questions about a longboat from Morocco.

Even if there were a lot of confusing questions about it, I learned more about this ‘case’ during his long monologue. Finally I got my chance to tell him what I had been told and again left out the mention of paper scraps. There weren’t anything they couldn’t have learned by asking at the library or newspaper warehouse. Everything seemed to add up with their own little investigation. He didn’t kill me at least, but told me that I ought to go have a long vacation somewhere warm and cosy. He handed me a envelope before leaving the office and went away in the black Chrysler parked at the street.

I could read in his calm but firm demeanour that he didn’t want to see me again and the three grand in the envelope would allow me to settle the small debts I had in Boston before leaving with pocket money to spare. Had he known that I were I debt? Were I watched? Could they know or?  …I were set up!

I had barely seen their ass turn a corner when the sounder of hogs came claiming my front door. They found amphetamine in my couch cushions and a large amount of money in my hands. Anything I would say could and would be used against me in a court of law.

I were brought downtown where I were put in a large white room with a elongated mirror and four chairs. A long and painful interrogation went down with a department of the law enforcement I only understood, had no apparent connection to the local force. They refused to tell me what were the issue and kept asking me questions about a Debbie Blueheart which had been working as a contact between me and someone in the local police. She had waylaid crucial information about cases that I should not know about and said she had been paid handsomely for her work. They could see where I got the money for such a expensive and dangerous line of work.

I tried to explain myself, but they didn’t care at all. They wanted me off the street and their hole closed. It were barely 2am when they threw me in a holding cell. I have not been that confused for a long time and couldn’t see the connection between these factions. My head hurt, my sides were split from the beating.

It took me a couple of days before I were moved to Charlestown State Prison where I were put on the licence-plate production. During my coming weeks in the prison I were contacted by an inmate that talked on behalf of a Misses Owenheart, who had the interesting notion that her clients were afraid what I had told the police.

A few days later I were sent a book smelling of gasoline and setting it on fire as instructed by the inmate, I were dragged from my cell into the medical facilities, where I were swept off by two porters in a laundry van. It were nearly as nerve wrecking as the interrogations, but at least I were done eating their gruel four times a day.

I were taken to a private practice surgeon, somewhere in Mid Dorchester I guess. I were unceremoniously dragged inside and thrown into another white room with Spartan furnishing. Strapped down I were interrogated yet again by three men with clubs and a scalpel. I shudder when I think of the things they told me they would do, but after repeating myself for hours that I were approached by a Misses Lockheart, about a federal officer being her husband, they left me alone in the cold room. The beating went cold down my body as I lay shackled to the table. It felt obvious that it were the same woman we talked about. She left the heart in all her surnames. Either she were doing it on purpose or she were dumber than I felt at that point.

The place were empty for a long time when she came inside. Prancing like a price horse she went over to me with her doe eyes. She didn’t speak at first, but looked at my beaten body. That well shaped face made my fractured heart melt. She genuinely looked concerned for my health and I felt her trembling as she tried to free me from the leather straps. “Oh Mister Burrows!” she uttered, her eyes shining again. She were about to tell me something when the sirens were noticeable. She turned around like a deer on the highway and quickly pulled my right hand free. Before I could unshackle myself she had run to the door. Looking back into my eyes I were reminded why my stupidity. She vanished outside and as I got free myself I didn’t linger to look for her. I knew why they were coming and I weren’t going to stamp out more licence plates in my lifetime.

I scurried along the back alleys for a while, leaning against the walls. My legs were busted and limping were making my body bounce, hurting like hell.

I needed answers and the gangster or businessman as he preferred to be called weren’t going to give me any. I found a phone booth and ran thorough the names as I ought to have done in the first place. No one by any of the three surnames and especially this Prescott were worrying me. There were too many Prescott in the city area and who knew if she had given me the right information. The only thing that I had at that point were the paper scraps she provided. I had to get home.

Going through gardens towards my home, I nicked a grey jacket and a fedora separate places to conceal my identity. The police ran the streets for hours and I met them on several occasions, but they didn’t stop at any point. My home were watched by several cars. It were easy to see from the news stand down the block that too many cars were placed strategically. They were waiting for me.

I couldn’t trick them. They knew I limped and they were looking at anyone approaching the office, if they didn’t already have someone inside waiting for me. I convinced the local paperboy to take my newspaper up to the office and report back. I had worked with him in the past, he knew my line of work and always knew when something were brewing in the neighbourhood.

Sure enough the boy were stopped on his way out and questioned by men in suits. He told me he lied to them and went down the street, so not to compromise my immediate position. I went to a local diner, where we had agreed to meet and bought him lunch on my tap.

Lucky for me there were a few allies left in this world and the boy told me that he had unlocked the alley way window to the basement. It were only accessible from the business around the block and possibly not under surveillance.

He noticed that my office were torn apart when he placed the newspaper on my desk. Several people looked out their doors as he went by and quickly shut them again when he looked back at them. Apparently it had been a messy crew working on my new decor.

When we parted the kid told me he left me a present at the office, I looked like I could use it. Nice kid… I need to help him with his sick mother when I get over this case.

I took the long route around the block and acting like I had business to do with the local courier, I went into their yard and crossed to the small open window. I didn’t care if the people saw me, I weren’t going to be in there for long.

I went to my office to see that my sign outside had been removed and the door lifted off. I weren’t stupid, just unlucky, so I stayed away from windows and went on all four along the panels. Snatching the newspaper I felt the weight of it and blessed the kid in my silent mind for the piece he had lend to me. The room were stripped except as I noticed, my wooden office chair. With its small space between the seat and the rest of the rotating chair I had discovered in my earlier days, a small room. It were there because of the sliding seat, a ideal place to hide paper and letters. No one tries to open a chair without padding and as I could see on my couch and table, they were thorough.

At that point there were nothing else than getting out of there and I am unsure if the movement of objects in the apartment or me squinting over the edge were the undoing of my stealthy plan, but I saw men on the rooftop with binoculars running along the edge when I looked up.

I had no time to spare and pelted back downstairs and into the basement, slamming the door behind me so loud I gave away my position. The locked door couldn’t keep out three men and as I pulled my aching legs out of the small window they were inside. I halted a courier on his way out and got a lift out to East Boston where I were fairly sure I weren’t followed.

Hiding in a Chinese Teashop I ran over the papers and destroyed scraps handed to me. I did not see any handwritten letters in those paper scraps that resembled the Prescott on the envelope and I got me thinking why I were looking for a man she obviously could have made up herself.

Her story were poorly executed when I thought back, I could barely remember any details about the threatened federal husband and his so-called dangerous line of work. He was looking for links in the crimes during the rise of the questionable businessmen.

I sat most afternoon arguing with a tea seller who didn’t earn anything from me not ordering, while thinking my plan through. I got an idea from a earlier case. It was not going to be nice, but I had to get some scraps of information from the right people and the only number I knew was the local law enforcements.

Pretending I gave up arguing with the store owner, I went out into the street and headed towards suburbia. I needed a vacant house and some quiet. It was getting late when I reached the picturesque streets of the common man. White houses with small fences and children playing ball in the street. The idyllic feel made me warm inside, but only for a few minutes. It took me a couple of trips around the various streets before I saw a family throwing suitcases on the roof of their truck and harnessing their youngest in the car. I went by and sat down on a fence down the street watching the kids chase each other, while the family finished up their work and went on their vacation.

Somehow the sun had found this little spot of heaven on a autumn afternoon and they were milking it for all it was worth. I got up and went back to their place. The backdoor was easily forced open and I went inside without getting noticed. Everyone was usually eating dinner at this point, so it was the burglars break as we called it in the gumshoe business.

I closed the curtains in their living room and kitchen while I could do it unnoticed and picked up the phone. It sat with it in my hand when fatigue overwhelmed me. It could wait. Everything could wait right now. No one knew I were there and it had been so long since I had slept without being knocked unconscious.

I slept through until next morning and rummaging through their canned goods, got myself some breakfast. I am not proud of it, but at least I didn’t steal anything of major value nor break anything beside the small window in their backdoor.

Phoning up the police I asked for a Prescott and was assured that prank calls were a offense. I assured the angry lady on the line that I was calling on behalf of Blueheart and wanted to speak to a Mister Prescott. She didn’t sound convinced, but passed me on to the federal bureau of investigation. Here I got in contact with a man who knew of a Misses Blueheart and stalled me with pointless conversation for nearly fifteen minutes before I had my suspicion that they were trying to locate the conversation by backtracking my call through the centrals.

I tried to remember if I had said too much to the phone ladies I talked too to get through to him and in my doubt had to hang up and leave as soon as possible. It was morning and everyone and their dog were on the pavement, showing off their wealth in the shape of clothes and horsey laughter. Apparently gossip was currency in that little slice of the world… and they say I have not learned anything from this case!?

Grabbing my coat and hat I went out the front door like everyone else and started prancing down the street like I owned half the block. Amazingly I blend in with most of the men and are still unsure if I was noticed by anyone. I greeted everyone I saw with a overly passionate smile which made me die a little inside every time and finally jumped on the back of the tram when I reached the commercial area.

It was apparently big. Notes were apparently from some correspondence between a Carlyle and a person or group signed with GNB. They wrote about import of sugar and spices through African contacts and of what I could guess it was important to hide it from the police.

Later years it would have been obvious, but I couldn’t really see the connection yet as it had barely started and no one had prevented me in buying any on the street. Dealers had not complained in my vicinity and I had so much else to worry about.

As we reached downtown I jumped off to make sure we didn’t pass too many people in the hobnob and jumble of shoppers and café loungers. I went to the harbour to get some fresh air and some privacy. On the bench I had an idea that could get me further into trouble, but this dame knew how to find me when I was in the middle of trouble, so she must have connections to this questionable businessman, which I already guessed at that point was Carlyle. Not only that, she was mentioned as a dancing girl at one of his establishments, making it easier to find her than knocking on each door in Boston, but ultimately far more dangerous.

Setting out, I grabbed a phonebook from the pier and pulled out all clubs still working in Boston. I was pretty sure it was a classy establishment from the way they dressed and had to work my way from up and down to the sleaziest joints imaginable.

It was six days of washing myself in a sink in a restaurant, sneaking off food and arguing with bouncers before I hit jackpot, or blackjack to be more precise. One evening I noticed a large black Chrysler leave a club in South Boston and a oversized bouncer stood staring down the people going inside. A couple of young men was thrown to the kerb as I approached and keeping my head cold and swooping my arm through a woman’s arm just before we entered, I managed to get by without getting noticed, too much.

I could feel his stare in my back as I stood apologizing at the coat check. She didn’t immediately push me away and I imagine we looked like a arguing couple for a moment.

Inside the place they were dancing on a long stage running halfway down the room. I couldn’t see her at first, but knew that it had been the most promising option all week. Finally she came on the stage with eight other girls dressed in feathers. Their routine was enchanting and I only woke up from my stupor when her panicked eyes met mine. She had not believed that I found her and stormed off the stage like she had been struck with a bottle.

I played it casual at first and got up to leave when I saw three men stand at the exit. Turning around I was  about to search for another way out when someone hit me with a blackjack and I passed out. For the second time I woke up in the hospital. My hand was cuffed to the bed and I could see two officers stand at the entrance.

For a couple of hours only nurses accompanied by police entered the room and gave me my medicine. I was fed well and kept pain free most of the day until she slipped in. Wearing a nurse outfit she looked at me with a deviant smile that only made it so clear that she had tricked the officer to believe she was a real nurse. She stood over me in silence for a minute before preheating my thermometer with a what smelled like a cigarette she had placed on the small tray on the bed. He didn’t really watch what she did and when she showed him the fever according to the thermometer she convinced him to get a doctor for me.

He went away and left her and the two at the door facing outwards. They looked in at us for a moment, but she stood passively looking back at them, waiting for a doctor. When they looked away, she injected me with sedatives and everything seemed to fade away.

“Fifth white room is the charm” I thought when I woke up back at the terribly familiar surgeon practice. I had been brought back to the place for some unknown reason and the first ten minutes of the conversation I apparently had with Carlyle was incoherent, since I had not regained full consciousness.

“You are so kind Mister Burrows!” Misses Lockheart whispered in my ear as she pulled out another syringe from my arm and left the room. It only took a few minutes and I was alert and painfully reminded of the past weeks beatings, with the dire fear of more to come.

Mister Carlyle had stood patiently waiting for me to look at him in a sign of mental comprehension and nodding he made his goons leave the room when he was ready to continue his speech. He told me that it was not the plan that the police should find me after I had been knocked out at his private club. I told him how I found it and he seemed either content that it was hard or impressed that it was done, he never told me which.

Giving me a small speech about how I was making unnecessary attention at his business, he assured me that there was no Prescott in the Federal bureau nor that any of the notes found on my body had ever had anything to do with illegal business. He was very curious about where I had received the scraps from and promised me immunity from his associates if I corporate.

I was just about to tell him about Lockheart when shots were fired in the room outside and the woman came tumbling into the room. There was blood on her shoulder and down her left arm as she screamed her head off about the police. Carlyle barricaded the door and ran to a opposite window and crawled outside, dragging her along. A car sped off and everything went silent. I struggled with my restraints for a while before I forced my hand back out of the strap and got free. It had been ten minutes at least and nothing happened. I was halfway at the window myself when something felt wrong. Going back outside the hallway I found the small surgeon bludgeoned to death in his office and three large men shot in the back point blank.

She was silencing people and I feared that I would be next in line. Somehow she was connected to Carlyle and something else. I went back to the window, wanting a more private escape when I noticed the letter. A small bloodstained letter lay at the floor, almost telegraphing its presence to me. I needed to get out before it got too hot for my shoes and took the letter before I ran.

When I came to the tram I jumped on and it was there I noticed that not only the papers were missing, but my borrowed gun too. This was annoying as it was a piece of comfort if I should get mugged again, although I have been down so many times without seeing my assailants that it would be needless the next time it happens.

I sat myself down in the back and read the carefully written letter. “Dear mister Burrows, you are in the middle of a war on alcohol. The government as you know has put out a prohibition that will limit the income of local businessmen. This governmental act is illegal and carried out by a bureau agent under the alias Prescott. He has used his connections in the senate’s to rouse the Protestants and Progressives in the political parties. He created problems where there were none, so alcohol would be the larger problem than it is! He owns the five companies in Africa who dare send shipments our way and charges a fortune in transport and for making the bureau look the other way. He attacks everyone who makes their own to make sure his interests grow while sending the police forces on false runs to either punish business owners for minor issues or plant fake evidence to stall time while his ships are unloaded. Beyond that he puts extra ‘taxes’ on anyone he feels earn too much money and uses the police as his own army. Please as a man of honour and justice, see it fit in your heart to help us get rid of this man! If any of this information would get out we would be thrown into another civil war and anarchy would leave a door open for the Mexicans and Russians to overwhelm us. Please keep this a secret and use the following note to track down ‘Prescott’ and help our drowning country.”

I was shocked at the notion that the Volstead Act was created on lies and crowd pleasing. He had pushed the right people down a dangerous path and the flame was running through America. I did not know what to do and thought that there ought to be a more diplomatic solution.

Going back to my place I found it strangely deserted. No one of the rooftops, no police or bureau hiding in the shadows. Everything was back to normal.

I met up with my little friend at the news stall and showed him the letter for a second pair of eyes and had to read it for him, reminding myself he wasn’t that well educated, that poor bloke.

He didn’t believe it as I myself found it hard to swallow. We sat down at the diner together watching who came and went from the building I usually occupied.

His way of looking at it was refreshing and we thought that sending a copy of the letter to the federal bureau would put it out of our hands and into theirs, making it their responsibility to keep the case under their roof.

As I reread the letter while I copied it at my office, I noticed something off as the letterhead was from a Stanford ltd. office in South Boston. Was the woman Carlyle’s secretary? If she was a mere dancer she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble using his official notes… would she? Was it a ‘stamp’ of authentication?

Why was she acting on his behalf? He didn’t seem to know about her contact with me. Something was wrong and I needed some reactions now. How could I get her to make her next move. I would be punished hard if I came back to the club and she has sent me my next assignment.

I went with buddy to the daily Gammer and asked them politely for a morning special on two newspapers. The amounts of ways I was told to go away would have made a nun melt, but it was nothing compared to the fight that broke out between me and the Editor. Finally I got my way with a reporter who at that point was able to work due to his face not swollen like his boss’s. We made out two newspapers with the headline that a Federal Bureau agent was killed and Local gangsters were rounded up, set two days ahead. After that we went to South Boston to spy on how news were distributed and to our luck we saw it hand delivered.

Waiting the last evening before our big move we knew that this would finally get the reaction we were waiting for. I made a additional letter for Carlyle and placed it all in the original envelope before handing it to buddy.

Next morning I jumped the local newspaper boy in South Boston and threw him in the trunk of a car driving north. It would be a while before he was heard over the noisy engine I hoped and quickly went back home to await the reaction.

It came just past noon where my beloved Lockheart came strolling into the office with a radiant look on her face. “You have done splendid Mister Burrows, everything has run smoothly and you are such a delightful little puppet.” she laughed.

She told me how she had used Carlyle, me and half the police force in her little charming game. “I have no shield or goons, yet no bullets ever come my way.” she said with a little grin as it had finally dawned on me that this was entirely set up from her part. She was using her dazzling exterior to trick us into thinking we were in a war against each other.

Even though I had done this mostly for the thrill of it and the blinding rage of repeatedly getting knocked out without getting even, I must admit she had me drawn in by her astounding beauty. She were telling me how puppets were used and discarded when the play was done. She had acted in her own eyes as the perfect innocent victim and were going to tell the police that a mindless little dame couldn’t have pulled off anything like that, while crying crocodile tears in their jackets. The officer was killed while she had a perfect alibi, Carlyle was choking on his food as we spoke and I would get blamed for his death.

When she got up I followed her down stairs since she didn’t sound like she was done talking and as we stood at the sidewalk she yet again pointed out that puppies were always so blindly loyal.

Letting her insult me over and over lit a burning fury I had never felt before and was frozen to the spot when three large men came up to us in the black Chrysler. As they stepped out she started her waterworks like a tap and they stood looking at us for a moment.

“I must hand it to you miss Heart, you have played your act well… but before we part, have a look at the newspaper. There might have been something you missed.

As I handed her the newspaper it dawned on her that I had played a trick on her to reveal herself too soon. She had been so sure of it since it was on black and white in the newspaper. Looking from the paper to me and then at the three men, she quivered “please help me Mister Burrows…”

With a crack they knocked her out from behind and dragged her to the trunk of the car. “Our new boss says that since you have suffered so much at this woman’s hand you are allowed to decide what we do to her. Go upstairs and wait for a few minuets for the scene to calm down. If you throw your newspaper out the window we hand her over to the police. Do you throw a lit cigarette, she disappears for good.”

GP by GP – Unrequited Love

GP by GP – Unrequited Love

With this new theme based system I am going to write the group themed stories under this wonderful new semi acronym.

So where would a man be if he had not loved and lost and loved again? Here mostly, but he could be in Greece too. I have never been there and care only for their food and spirits.

Let me see… this is a tough subject for such an amateur lover as myself. I have of course had women in my life and age range that I desired. They were clearly out of my reach and me being so self-conscious of my faults. I might never have shown passion to anyone or really flirted to be honest, I always end quickly in the friend zone, because I know they need someone to talk too when they are heartbroken over the “jerk” boyfriend or at one time, cheating girlfriend. Never saw her as a lesbian, but I didn’t really know her from other than high school.

Now I think more than you probably do, that there is no real story to tell here. That is where everyone is wrong about everything ever known… you jerks! I hate everything now because you made everything look cool and now it is hip to have everything. I don’t want everything anymore… you can have it… except my things. They are mine! So nuts to you and the mount you’re riding on!

I could tell a story; how a celebrity would never love me as much as I potentially could masturbate to her pictures. Or tell a heart tearing story about my fears of publicly opening up and telling who I really am. Instead… and as usual for me it is an instead where none should be, I will become abstract and push the interpretation of the theme to suit my mood at this very moment best.

Okay, here we go.

Conditions: Warm, Tired, Fed, Recently been on toilet, Long day at work, Still has cola in the fridge and a noodle cup for be’fed. If brunch is before lunch, be’fed is before bed… the ‘ is to make it sound better… I failed in that though.

Sigh…

Now let us step into the world of bacon. A simple mans request and the nectar of gods. Bacon has been a love in my life that has not benefitted me. This tasty treat has manipulated my mind and made me believe that I am happy when I consume it. It will turn its ugly back on me and poison my body and dull my senses. Like chocolate this gastronomical treason has me to believe that adding it to various meals will improve my likeness for new and inspiring food with that slight smoky taste of something that has burned just enough. Like real smoke it slows the mind and in plain sight it is acting like it is invisible.

The years of camouflaging itself in plain sight, I have become content with its presence and it has shown me love that I seldom find in other food sorts. It has exchanged passionate words with my tongue and slid sensually down my throat like… [Insert naughty pun here]. There has been no restrains between us. I have given this cruel mistress my heart and it is holding it hostage like a dominatrix. Never truly letting me go, my yearning for this guilty pleasure surpasses my common sense. I want more… I want it both in private and in plain sight. It has become a small obsession with me and a table without guilty pleasures seems naked and wasted potential for me.

I can’t say that I truly weep if there is none. Like a drug I can see that it is hurting me more than I care to admit and yet it never truly loves me. Dead and disdainful this taunting tenderized trifle has taken me whole. I can only throw myself at its mercy and never receive the approving smile or nod I so desperately need in this fake relationship. It never loved me… it couldn’t love me… not a person who fought so little before giving in… so vague an adversary… so deep a trance.

There is not a single person who could tell you that bacon isn’t food for thought. It is good for your head and not the body. Yet it is my body that needs all the help it can get. If it was strong enough to one day win over my head, I would maybe be another man… another being… a happier being?

I have listed various things throughout this page and yet I must insist on telling you that I am not a large man. I am definitely not skinny… but fat… no. Crafty is even a term that is over my level. That might be why people don’t recognize me as anything but a friendly soul to talk too. By losing a visual definition I lose a reference point in the grey meat market, bland… average… but with bacon I am someone… A slave… A willful slave of gastronomical punishment. A Pork Slab Demon!