wait guys why are are you still following this blog
i went inactive like a year ago go away
Basnny at its finest.
why am i just seeing this now im crying
I don’t smoke Djarums any more, luv.
Only Camels, so I can remember what you tasted like.
And you taste like home.
Saturday, March 24th, 2013.
HM Prison, Thameside.
Detention Center 60062.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday for ‘self-reflection’ for whatever you consider our crime. And what we did was a crime. But we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay on who we think we are. First of all, what is this, high school? And anyway, what do you care?
You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions. You see us as a genius, a soldier, a prostitute, a businessman, and a killer, all headed to pay our sentences after this for what we did. Correct?
That’s the way we saw each other at 7 o clock that morning. We were brainwashed….
The man ran his fingers over his neat hair, staring out the window at the cream buildings and their concrete slabs as roofs. Policemen patrolled the perimeter, bordered with a double high wall, and there were certainly more within. And there - murderers. Rapists. Serial killers. Thieves and arsonists - in short - criminals.
“And you’re sure there’s no other option than this?” he asked in light cultured tones that spoke of high breeding, turning slightly and glancing at his lawyer in the back, who had chosen to come. Him and the police-officer beside him looked equally uncomfortable. “It was on special request of the government official himself,” his lawyer supplied. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Trevor. I’ll find a way to compensate for the entire ordeal, and we’ll start right away on getting your charges cleared. Your patronage is very-”
Victor smiled thinly at the stammering lawyer and nodded to the officer, who stepped out and opened the car door for him with absurd politeness, then contritely motioned for Victor to keep his hand behind his back, and the businessman gazed ahead as cold metal rested on his wrists. Just a day.
A block ahead, a curly-haired head picked up from where it had been hanging and Martin glanced into the rear-view mirror, grimacing when he met the cold eyes of the white-coated man and woman in the front. They turned in tandem, gunned him down with their fixed gaze. “It’s this,” rumbled the man, “or we pick at your brain.”
Martin fumbled for his jacket quickly enough, jamming his hat over his curly hair. “You’re useless to us here,” snapped the woman. “Get in there, serve your sentence, and get back to the institute.”
Feeling like he was being treated like some sort of naughty puppy and not like the overnight-world-class-criminal he was, the scientist stumbled out of the car, fiddling with the ends of his coat as he stared up at the building and an officer growled at him to turn around to snap the iron on his arms. Well…he’d had worse…
Behind this sleek, unmarked vehicle, sat a more rickety police car, marked with a county jail number. The inspector in the car gazed at the once-great soldier beside him, who avoided his gaze, staring in front of him emptily. “Sir,” the inspector began, and John glanced up sharply, and the man fell silent. “…listen, we don’t like seeing a man who bloody defended our country end up like this, right? We all make our bleedin’ mistakes. But. When y’….do what y’did, cause a scene like that, well, we’ve got no choice, have we? It’s for Queen and Country. Y’know.”
Disgusted already John kept himself from letting his eyes flicker over to the officer again, wanting to slam his fist into his face, over and over and over, until all was left was a bloody pulp. Instead he held back, tightened his grip on the fabric of his trousers. “Right,” he gritted out, and when the door besides him clicked unlocked he twisted in his seat and shoved his hands behind him. There was a hesitant pause, and then the cuffs clicked shut.
John kicked the door open and slid out onto his feet, shutting the door behind him with his foot as he went, never glancing back even once as he faced the large building and waited for his ‘escort’.
Sebastian ‘Basher’ Moran needed no escort. He got no escort. He wasn’t driven here, wasn’t scolded lightly before being sent in. He was transported from Belham in the back of a high-security van with a gun pointed at his head the entire time as he lit up a cigarette and smoked boredly, and then his arms were bound tightly behind him, his person frisked for any weapons, and only then was he led off the van, shoved and prodded, amusing himself by glaring at the personnel to make them squirm.
“I don’t know,” snarled the Chief Inspector who’d been in the van with him, circling to face him and jabbing his finger against Moran’s chest, “what Holmes wants with you, and frankly, I don’t care. Slip up once and I’ll fuckin’ destroy you. You’ve already got a life sentence. We’ll see if we can’t make it death.”
Sebastian spit in his face, rolled his eyes, and winked at his four-man armed entourage that led him into the door, scanned their IDs, guns on him all the while.
The last car to arrive practically shoved its occupant out and zoomed off. Snorting Jarvis dusted off the sleeves of his leather jacket, adjusted the collar with a sly grin at the police officers who stared at him, and licked his lips for their entertainment, nice and slow. It was rather entertaining, watching them all fumble over themselves, muttering to each other, trying to decide which of them had to touch him. Finally they sent over a stern-looking Asian man who shoved Jarvis against the concrete wall, cheek to slab, and tugged his arms behind him.
“Ooh, like it rough,” Jarvis purred, and the man practically sprang away, and let him walk in himself.
They took the positions expected of them. Captain Watson beside the businessman, both upstanding members of society - or supposed to be, at least - and they both exchanged glances and little curls of the lips, the look of men who didn’t think they should be here. The scientist was thrown out of his first seat by a nasty look and growl from the killer, who was slammed down into his seat by his not-so-friendly officers, and kicked his legs up on the chair. And then there was the prostitute, striding in at his own pace to the back, where he sat with his spine facing them all, and John and Victor exchanged looks again.
Five different men, they thought. Five completely different men. They thought what they were expected to. What they had to.
They were brainwashed.