Jazzrow draft

The draft introductory chapters of a book I plan to write about a Filipino girl who escapes from human traffickers and decides to hunt them down one-by-one armed with a pistol which she can hardly shoot and a letahl dose of insanity.

This is just a draft, though. The final version will bear no resemblance to this. So if anyone wants to borrow it, feel free, but PLEASE change the names of the characters. I'm quite proud of 'Jazzrow' and it would take me a while to come with something that suit

Do that in the city, and you'll be in prison. That was Jazzrow's first thought as she watched a young girl, about half her age, grabbed by her hair and thrown into the street from the darkened doorway of a butcher's shop. From her perch on the wall of the football pitch, elevated above the village by an overgrown cliff-face, she had a clear view of events unfolding beneath her.

No sooner had the girl fell face-first into the cobbles than a crowd of rowdy family members swarmed around her, jostling for position in the race to take a chunk out of the butcher first. He was joined by his own devoted attachment of friends and customers who didn't want their order disturbed by the girl's thieving antics, and before long an all-out altercation was brewing on the streets.

It was Jazzrow's cue to leave. She twirled around, pushed herself off of the graffiti-covered wall, and made her way along the crumbling footpath that led down to the scene. Slipping through the weeds and bushes unnoticed in her dirty camouflage top, she appeared in the abandoned car park at the bottom. Treading lightly across the broken glass and scrap metal that was strewn about, she moved gently over to the rear door of the shop, and pressed her head against the metal.

No sound came from inside. She was in the clear.

She fumbled around for the handle; she couldn't afford to take her eyes off of the corner for a second. If one of the pumped-up men came around, she was gone for. Before she knew it, it had slipped into her grasp. She turned it, and pushed the door with a tap of her foot. The expanding pool of light shone into a room of clutter; the cheap tiled floors and workspaces were covered in utensils. It didn't take much searching for the prize: it was just there, in front of her, a selection of fresh fruits that had arrived from Manila, neatly packaged and labelled. The noise of the fight outside rose just enough to cover the sound of metal clanging as knives fell from the shelves around the box, and the thud as another, older shipment was dislodged from its perch and spilled out across the floor.

Jazzrow grabbed the prize, and had it away on her toes, back up the collapsing path. She flung herself and the shipment over the wall, and on to freedom, another 'raid' pulled off successfully and another addition to her personal stash. She'd eat for a week.

She shouted something celebratory at the water-buffalo that used her lawn to bask in the midday sun, and threw open the door to her home. The shipment was just dropped down in the doorway; no-one else would be home for hours. Her brother would have only just left for the rice paddies. She picked out her favourite carpet from under the mountain of campaign material, and flung herself down on it, letting the dappled sunlight fall on her eyes through the hole above the doorway.

The adrenaline soon began to subside. This was the part she loved the best; the pride and exhiliration that came just after a successful attempt to steal another stash of fresh oranges. She eyed her prize with a distinct maternal glow: success, at last. The young girl would have to be repaid handsomely for her trouble, but there was plenty to go around. She might share them; who with, though? That was the question. Maybe the fat guy from three doors down? No, he'd insulted her in the fields and splashed mud on her. And feeding him probably wasn't a good idea. Or that white girl from two doors up? She was nice. But she'd only spoken to Jazzrow once, and that was on compulsion. Jazzrow pondered the question whimsically, going over everyone within walking distance, and dismissing them, on increasingly spurious grounds, one by one.

There was no point in sharing, she concluded. She had the nerve to go out and get things done. They didn't, and that was their problem.

Slowly, she rolled over, turning to one of the leaflets that had remained on the rug when she threw herself down on it. It was standard election crap: the sort that made the houses on the main street look like they were made out of paper, plastered across every wall of every building. A giant picture of the prospective candidate, clearly gone over with some over-the-counter picture editing software, and little else, other than a few witty slogans splashed across the face, strategically-placed to hide the blemishes that an amateur IT guy couldn't. The usual rooting around for the more attractive bunch had proven unsuccessful, but she decided to give it another go: she had little else to do until her brother or mother came home to help her cook dinner, and to shout abuse at her.

Nothing. Nothing. No. Wouldn't touch with a barge pole. Nothing. Nothing. No. And so it went on, with men with beards and the obviously female being scattered to the four corners of the room. None of them enticed her into a career in politics. Or any sort of career, for that matter.

The shouts from the street slowly dissipated as the crowd calmed down; the girl, she heard from a chattering couple who strolled past, had been rescued with minor injuries, and the butcher had received a bloody nose. No-one believed him when he said that the girl had been stealing; she must've got away with that one, and hidden the food somewhere safe. The sound of footsteps on the path brought Jazzrow back to her senses, and she pulled herself to her feet and washed her hands for dinner.

The End

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