Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 17, 2013 15:08:21 GMT 1
It's been two years. Two whole sodding years since the youngest Holmes lived to see another day and the eldest one threw my person in this here little cell. Of course it was the Ice Man. It's always the bloody Ice Man. Don't try and convince me it was the Yard, those piss-poor excuses for coppers couldn't catch a criminal without Holmes if their salary depended on it, which, sadly, it does. Makes it even more pathetic, don't it? Nevertheless, I know it was the Ice Man because the coppers wouldn't have interrogated yours truly by giving him a good going over. At one point I was convinced the hatred I had for these two wretched siblings had reached its limits. Bloody wrong I was, wasn't I?
Regardless, it's been two years. I'm in the good ol' Ville and occupy a shared cell, because a criminal salary is worth very little in a hotel of this calibre. My charming cellmate goes by the name of Jones, which doesn't mean a whole bloody lot considering everyone's circle of acquaintances is inhabited by at least two Joneses. But he's quiet, and not in the dangerous sense of the word. Him being an inmate of a high security prison, that's quite the talent. I should know what circles he’s from, but I don’t. The boss was a good judge of character. I, however, care very little these days so long as the rehabilitating little shits stay out of my way and let me go about doing my business - which is nowt. If not, they walk away with a very generous reconstruction of their face, and I more often than not have the luxury of walking taken from me and get dragged to solitary.
So it’s been two years since I've picked up a pen, and I'm already regretting the decision. What your Basher is good at, my dear readers of an imaginary nature, is writing about events - no matter what the statistics of the book sales may say. It's easy to capture a reader's attention when you're going on about Kali's Kitten and her little jungle friends whose most important goal is to tear your throat out. In other words, when life is eventful, and danger is ever present. Alas, this isn't the Shawshank Redemption, this is the Ville, where the scum of the earth - myself excluded, thank you very much - gets free health care, pottery classes, a wide range of sports (do not so much as think of mentioning badminton to me) and, for a meagre 50p a day, the telly.
You’ll have to excuse my shoddy writing. It would be a lie to say I’m not used to strict regimes, but my previous life contained action, and the lack thereof in this one has gotten to me.
Regardless, it's been two years. I'm in the good ol' Ville and occupy a shared cell, because a criminal salary is worth very little in a hotel of this calibre. My charming cellmate goes by the name of Jones, which doesn't mean a whole bloody lot considering everyone's circle of acquaintances is inhabited by at least two Joneses. But he's quiet, and not in the dangerous sense of the word. Him being an inmate of a high security prison, that's quite the talent. I should know what circles he’s from, but I don’t. The boss was a good judge of character. I, however, care very little these days so long as the rehabilitating little shits stay out of my way and let me go about doing my business - which is nowt. If not, they walk away with a very generous reconstruction of their face, and I more often than not have the luxury of walking taken from me and get dragged to solitary.
So it’s been two years since I've picked up a pen, and I'm already regretting the decision. What your Basher is good at, my dear readers of an imaginary nature, is writing about events - no matter what the statistics of the book sales may say. It's easy to capture a reader's attention when you're going on about Kali's Kitten and her little jungle friends whose most important goal is to tear your throat out. In other words, when life is eventful, and danger is ever present. Alas, this isn't the Shawshank Redemption, this is the Ville, where the scum of the earth - myself excluded, thank you very much - gets free health care, pottery classes, a wide range of sports (do not so much as think of mentioning badminton to me) and, for a meagre 50p a day, the telly.
You’ll have to excuse my shoddy writing. It would be a lie to say I’m not used to strict regimes, but my previous life contained action, and the lack thereof in this one has gotten to me.
Col. Sebastian Moran