First ImpressionsMature

So, I’m on this case right now. A man goes over a cliff, breaks his neck on the rocks. He’s killed pretty much instantly. I’ve just got to go through the motions, question a few people, you know the stuff. No one really believes it was anything other than a drunk. I mean, we’ve all been there - so hammered you don’t know what you’re doing, and, quite frankly, don’t give a damn. It’s dark, you can’t walk straight, you think you’re going home but you came out the pub and turned left instead of right, whatever, but you slip, fall, die.

Easy as lemon pie.

I get in the car. The village where this happened is about ten miles away, so why the heck it’s my job to go out there and not some more local copper’s, I don’t know.


While I’m driving at fifty miles-per-hour down small country roads (And have you even SEEN a pothole? They’re okay if you go over them at about half a mile-per-hour, but I’m not. Not even close.), I’ve got plenty of time to contemplate my career.

‘What career?’ you ask.

‘Shut up,’ I say.

Ha. Anyway, I’m talking about this career. The one I’m currently careering. (Is that even a word? Probably not, but my spellchecker seems to think it’s okay, so I’m cool with it.) I left school at the earliest possible moment ten years ago, when I was fifteen. I mucked around on my mate’s farm for a bit, got a job as a car mechanic at seventeen, joined the Army and went out to Afghanistan in my early twenties, got a hole blown in my leg after being in Afghan for about a year, and came back a week before my twenty-third birthday. And then I joined the police force because, well, I had no money, I was strong and physically adept, and I couldn’t see myself working on the checkouts at Tesco, somehow. At least this way I’ve got a gun.

Oh, Jesus, is this the place? It’s only goddamn miniscule! Now I see why there isn’t a local bobby. This place is so small it could disappear off the face of the earth and no-one would notice for about a week, and only then because a dog in the neighbouring village had gone missing and Mrs Whatever wanted to stick a ‘LOST’ poster in the window of the pub.


All the buildings are small, thatched cottages, with little flowery gardens and those disgusting garden gnomes that are so cheesy you just want to rub their stupid little goddamn noses in the dirt and then steamroller them.

My first impressions of this place are certainly not great.

I pull up outside the biggest building that I deduce must be the Town Hall. From the clock, if you must know. That and the sign outside saying ‘Town Hall’. Yeah, alright. You win. I’m no goddamn Sherlock. Who cares? I bet he couldn’t even shoot straight. And he definitely didn’t fight in the Afghan war. So there.

‘Mr Broker?’

Right, who do I murder?

The End

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