Life is one long hustle.
Eventually, the hustle claims us all.
Eventually, the hustle claims us all.
Sleeper by GJ Hart
Located on the corner
of Haskers Street, couched in the shadow cast by the monolith housing Crest and
Crescent Global Financial Services, Eastminster Bank was, as usual, as good as
empty.
This scene—the bank
staffed by a temporary teller and six gleaming
ATMs— was a concise summation of what London had become. Nothing but
acres of steel and glass poised above lonely walkways lined by deserted cafes
and automated sales points.
***
London
How Den hated it now. Hated the endless days patrolling abandoned streets and the nights of abuse administered by snide fund managers ramped on coke and flaming amaretto.
Sitting alone in his patrol car, in the grotty darkness of a half-built car park, Den dreamed things differently.
If it weren't for the fucking debts....
Den was stuck fast between angry and not angry enough. He needed to excel, but how could he when the only crimes ever committed were perpetrated around glass tables in offices high above him and all of them?
Den locked his patrol car and headed out toward the high street to Derick's, his favorite café; a rare independent run by real people selling real food to real people.
As he passed Eastminster Bank, a woman stepped from a Ranger Rover Sport and entered without urgency. Once inside, she pulled out a debit card and pretended to slot it into one of the dispensers. When sure there were no other customers, she whipped a Kimber from her handbag and aimed it between the teller’s eyes. “Fill it,” she said, throwing him a hold-all.
How Den hated it now. Hated the endless days patrolling abandoned streets and the nights of abuse administered by snide fund managers ramped on coke and flaming amaretto.
Sitting alone in his patrol car, in the grotty darkness of a half-built car park, Den dreamed things differently.
If it weren't for the fucking debts....
Den was stuck fast between angry and not angry enough. He needed to excel, but how could he when the only crimes ever committed were perpetrated around glass tables in offices high above him and all of them?
Den locked his patrol car and headed out toward the high street to Derick's, his favorite café; a rare independent run by real people selling real food to real people.
As he passed Eastminster Bank, a woman stepped from a Ranger Rover Sport and entered without urgency. Once inside, she pulled out a debit card and pretended to slot it into one of the dispensers. When sure there were no other customers, she whipped a Kimber from her handbag and aimed it between the teller’s eyes. “Fill it,” she said, throwing him a hold-all.
When done, she
motioned for him to lie down. “If you move,” she drawled in an accent redolent
with bygone garden parties and spite. “I'll shoot your fucking nuts off.”
Exiting as casually as she’d entered, she climbed into the Ranger Rover and
eased away.
Den was about to take his table when he saw the teller in tears, staggering through the bank's doors. Standing, he clicked on his radio. “Suspected bank robbery... am in pursuit…. will update.”
He ran into the road
and flagged down the first car that passed, flinging open its door. “I’m PC Den
Allan,” he said, “and I need you to follow that car.”
The old man gulped for air.
The old man gulped for air.
It was Den’s first follow that car and it felt damn good. “What’s
your name?” he said, squeezing into the tiny, egg shaped car.
“Malcom,” the driver said.
“Malcom,” the driver said.
“Well, Malcom, I need
you to concentrate. Stay focused.”
“Okay, okay.”
“What kind of car is
this?” Den said, trying to force his legs into the narrow foot well.
“Impressive.”
“Guess its name,”
Malcom said, his initial fear now superseded by his enthusiasm and adoration
for his car.
“What?”
“Its name - guess.”
“No idea - Thor, The Impaler, Terminator,” Den said, smirking.
Den noticed an odd expression cross Malcom’s face.
“Wrong, my friend,” said Malcom, poking play on an eight-track dangling beneath the choke.
Den moaned as Hawkwind’s Silver Machine dribbled from the car’s only speaker.
“Jenifer.”
“Its name - guess.”
“No idea - Thor, The Impaler, Terminator,” Den said, smirking.
Den noticed an odd expression cross Malcom’s face.
“Wrong, my friend,” said Malcom, poking play on an eight-track dangling beneath the choke.
Den moaned as Hawkwind’s Silver Machine dribbled from the car’s only speaker.
“Jenifer.”
“Jenifer?”
“Yes. Jenifer.”
With that, Malcom hit the accelerator and somewhere something exploded.
“What the fuck?” Den said.
The speed was abrupt and terrifying, the little car's engine roared and snarled like an escaped beast atop its tormentor. Outside, the world swirled, diced, and blended.
With that, Malcom hit the accelerator and somewhere something exploded.
“What the fuck?” Den said.
The speed was abrupt and terrifying, the little car's engine roared and snarled like an escaped beast atop its tormentor. Outside, the world swirled, diced, and blended.
Den wasn't in London
any more. “What is this thing?” he screamed as his head jack-hammered the
sunroof.
“Like I said,” shouted Malcom, “She's a nineteen sixty-seven Fiat five-hundred. But with one difference. I replaced the four seventy-nine C.C. two-cylinder engine with a five-point-five liter, twin-turbo V-twelve. It produces four twenty-four horsepower. Zero to sixty in less than five fucking seconds.”
“Like I said,” shouted Malcom, “She's a nineteen sixty-seven Fiat five-hundred. But with one difference. I replaced the four seventy-nine C.C. two-cylinder engine with a five-point-five liter, twin-turbo V-twelve. It produces four twenty-four horsepower. Zero to sixty in less than five fucking seconds.”
Den winced as the
seat springs pierced his back.
Seeing the tiny car
in her mirror, the woman laughed and switched on the radio. Checking again, she
was confused to see it gaining ground. A few moments later, its relentless,
incongruous trajectory had brought it inches from her bumper. Panicking, she
stamped on the gas and the Range Rover’s mighty engine heaved as if struck by a
wave.
“How am I doing?”
Malcom said, bouncing in his seat.
“I'm sorry,” said Den.
“Sorry?”
“Yes, sorry.” Den pulled a snubnose knife from his breast pocket and jabbed it into Malcom’s side.
“I'm sorry,” said Den.
“Sorry?”
“Yes, sorry.” Den pulled a snubnose knife from his breast pocket and jabbed it into Malcom’s side.
As Malcom slumped forward, Den grabbed the wheel and guided the car to the
kerb.
Ahead, the Range
Rover pulled over.
Den nodded.
After dragging
Malcom’s limp body into the passenger seat, Den climbed behind the wheel and
drove Jenifer down into the grotty darkness of a half-built car park.
