Big Update

Ok Big Update time! I've finished off Chapter 2 of Irredeemable, to be posted here, also I feel I might as well post my exegesis that was done for the first chapter here too.

Just another note; while I'm on exegesises (exegesi?) while writing this story I've been listening to the scores for the films Kick-Ass and Requiem for a Dream (totally not for the easily disturbed). Two completely different films, and scores, but both equally effective at really stimulating the story to move. If anyone is actually going to check them out in relation to this story, I'd recommend listening to "Big Daddy Kills" from the Kick-Ass soundtack, it was a massive motivator for Ray's action style (along with the corresponding scene in the movie.)
Also on the note of music, another quirky find was the song Kryptonite by the band Three Doors Down. I never got into the band and this is the only song of theirs that I know but I found the lyrics pretty interesting and the idea that a person that people see as a superhero-type character can be insecure. I use that song when thinking about the relationship between Ray and Rachel as they both judge his actions (past and present) in different ways and how they both sort of see him as an occasional superhero/anti-hero.

Well enough chat, first the exegesis-



Exegesis

Ray Douglas is genre fiction. He is Philip Marlowe from Raymond Chandler's “The Big Sleep”, but more violent. He is Jason Bourne from Robert Ludlum's “Bourne Trilogy,” except he remembers his past. Ray Douglas is a comic book hero, a walking cliché similar to the heroes in Frank Miller's “Sin City.” Initially inspired by Mark Millar's comic book; “Kick-Ass,” and the violent character Big Daddy, Ray Douglas emerged from a need to create a flawed hero. A hero so beat and broken, like Rambo from David Morell's “First Blood,” that he sees himself as irredeemable. Unlike Rambo however, Ray Douglas is today's broken man; living in today's world, fighting today's wars and dying tomorrow.

Choosing to write a genre fiction piece was the easy part. Choosing to make it a modern pulp crime story was also easy. Deciding how to write it was the hard part. Originally the character appeared in a weekly serial form, kicking-ass and getting cornered by the villains at the end of each page. This lasted three weeks before I had to get serious. Ray Douglas evolved from there, his past was inspired by David Simon's television series “The Wire,” with equal parts “Generation Kill” thrown in for good measure. “The Wire” is a show that follows the stories of many characters and each of the five seasons provides a systemic analysis of a specific area of Baltimore. Ray Douglas needed this audience objectivity, we weren't reading Ray's thoughts, we needed to read what happened to Ray. From a third-person perspective Ray's actions could be seen and judged. By the end of the proposed novel, the audience should be able to make up their own minds whether or not he is irredeemable.

Original drafts of irredeemable were punchy and fast paced. The first draft of the chapter here was initially eight hundred words. Even without the flashback sequence, that moves fairly quickly from start to finish. I found myself reading each sentence then immediately filling in the blanks in my head. I needed to slow Ray down, let him take his time in some parts and let him begin to remember his past,which plays an important role in the overall plot. For a thriller, setting up signs early on is a key strategy. The mystery and the thrills have to be planned and methodical, not relying on deus ex machina to save the day. Building the story from the ground up was the biggest challenge in writing Ray Douglas.

Pulp noir and crime has moved from bus station book racks and airport gift shops into the gritty and vivid lairs of comic book stores and video games. Miller's “Sin City” is a prime example along with characters like chain-smoking John Constantine in the “Hellblazer” series and the star of the self-titled video games series “Max Payne.” These are today's heroes, these are the Philip Marlowes and Sam Spades for Generation Y. The same generation who is facing the new century with apathetic stares and awkward, aimless shuffling. Ray Douglas is an escape from drudgery. His gritty corrupt world mirrors our own, but Ray does what he wants as he unravels the mystery.




- 2 -
Part 3 of 4


Taking a heavy drag from his cigarette as he pulled a U-turn, Ray made a right and pulled the Cadillac up in front of a three-storey red-brick warehouse. The grimy brickwork was familiar although the signs had changed since he last saw the place, five years ago. 'Self Storage!' was emblazoned across the doors, 'We sell boxes and packing supplies,' scrawled across the wall. Ray knew they hadn't gone out of business because he kept getting the monthly rent on his storage unit sent to him in Ottawa. Before leaving the car, Ray opened the glove compartment and pulled a grey, dusty wallet out from beneath empty cigarette packets and unopened packets of chewing gum. He pulled the brown leather wallet from his back pocket and made the switch.
Ray took a moment to inspect the street around him as he finished his cigarette, standing outside the glass double doors that led into the warehouse. As he squashed the cigarette butt under his shoe he got a sudden jolt and rushed back to the caddy. Reaching back into the glove compartment, from the passenger side, Ray pulled a dusty pair of reading glasses out, blew on them and wiped them on his shirt.
Putting the glasses on as he entered the Self Storage office and approached the counter, where a young teenage boy with a lip piercing and blonde hair swept over his eyes sat fidgeting with his cell phone, his white trainers resting on the counter.
“Hey, I'd like to go get some stuff from my storage unit,” Ray smiled at the boy who looked vaguely aware anyone was standing there.
The boy looked up at Ray and blinked. “Sure,” he mumbled and went right on playing with his phone.
Ray looked around and cleared his throat. “Don't I need to sign something... or show some I.D?”
“Nope,” the boy said without looking up, “self-storage...” He shrugged and continued to fiddle with the phone.
Ray stood silently watching the boy, holding his gaze. “Hah, alright.” Ray sighed, taking the glasses off and heading over to the elevator.
In the elevator, Ray pulled the grey wallet from his pocket and flipped open the I.D compartment. He looked at the photo on the New York driver's licence. It was himself, only five years thinner and decidedly more alert than he felt right now. The glasses he was wearing in the photo were now old and dusty. The name on the licence read Anthony Thompson. Ray put the wallet away and held his hand to his forehead where beads of sweat had began to form. His eyes darted to the warning signs on the elevator control panel; 'No Smoking!' and 'In case of fire do not use!' His fingers twirling his lighter and a loose cigarette in his pocket.
When the elevator door slid open on the third floor, Ray stepped out into the hallway, lined with red roller doors, numbered in white. He scanned the ceiling for smoke detectors before lighting up. Ray noticed the security camera in the corner of the hall but gave it the finger and preceded down to Anthony Thompson's storage unit. Pulling the key out from a pocket in the grey wallet, Ray unlocked the padlock on Unit 3-12's roller door.
The rush of dust hit Ray square in the lungs as he yanked the red roller skywards. The tiny storage space contained some old furniture and two piles of cardboard packing boxes. The units were supposed to be climate controlled and dust-proof, but Ray knew they weren't meant to be left untouched for five years as he staggered into the space, wheezing. He flipped the light switch on and crumpled onto the stained and battered armchair wedged near the door. Coughing and choking Ray felt the mangled hand clawing at his throat, just as he had earlier today standing over the police officer. He leaned over and grabbed the strap dangling from the roller door and dragged it down, sealing himself in the unit with the dust.


Part 4 of 4


The dry air was the first thing he felt as he stepped through the door of the Boeing and onto the rickety steel stairs that had been pushed up to the side of the plane. The second thing was the heat, so tangible, so real... So fucking hot.
Before he had even finished descending the stairs, (the stairs to hell, he thought), he had already polished off the remaining bourbon from his hip-flask.
“Fuck me,” Ray exclaimed, looking around the military airfield in disgust. While soldiers were running around into formation, Ray watched as a black Mercedes sedan pulled up in front of him.
The door swung open and a chill of air-conditioned luxury wafted over him and evaporated into his white surroundings.
“Hop in, Ray.” Ash Idris said as he slid over to the other side of the car, offering Ray the seat he had just occupied. Picking up on the split-second moment of hesitation on Ray's part, Idris patted the seat gently with his hand.
Ray slid into the Mercedes, his duffel bag resting on his lap.
“There's a good boy,” Ash Idris said. “Let's go,” he added, to the driver, his eyes fixed on Ray, his grin set permanently on his face.
“So glad you could join us Ray,” Ash said, crossing one leg over the other and resting his arm along the back of the car seat, his body angled unnaturally towards Ray, who sat still facing forwards.
“How was the flight, Ray? Turbulent?” Idris inquired.
“Would'a preferred Business Class, but hey,” Ray shrugged and turned to Idris, who was gazing at him intently.
“Oh, I know what you mean! I know exactly what you mean. But we got a pretty good deal getting you on a military flight... I pulled a few strings.” Idris giggled and he angled his head downwards as if he'd done something naughty.
“But still, we're sooo much closer to HQ here. Ready to get to work, Ray? I doubt you'll have trouble fitting in with the other boys.” Idris raised his eyebrows and added; “we've got a few drinkers like you, Ray.” Turning his head forward, Ash Idris squinted is eyes to see where they were through the windshield. “You should get along just fine,” he mumbled almost to himself as he searched for any signs of life.

Ray's eyes shot open for the second time that day. Again, his first visible image was that of a loaded gun clasped firmly in his hands. He quickly checked his watch and was relieved again to find he had only been out for a few minutes. The cigarette still smoking between his lips should have given it away, but that was pretty standard for Ray Douglas.
He stood up and rested the gun on the armchair, surveying his unit. Stepping over to a large bookcase, he smiled as he realised that he didn't remember how he got it into the tiny area. It was a mahogany bookcase with a cupboard making up the bottom third. Ray opened the cupboard doors in what limited space he had available and felt around inside. Popping a false bottom out of the cupboard Ray pulled a small crumpled brown paper bag from the enclave.
The bag contained about eighty thousand dollars in cash, bundled into piles of ten thousand dollars each. Ray counted out five bundles and pocketed them, then drew a few hundred dollar notes out of another pile and pocketed them as well.
After replacing the rest of the money and closing the cupboard Ray set the alarm on his watch for six o'clock that night and curled up on the tiny armchair.
Within a minute Ray Douglas was asleep, for the first time in over two days.

More Words

Howdy, a few quick words, before the update. I'm totally getting into researching this story, using Google Maps, Wikipedia, etc. Baltimore reminds me of Adelaide, if Port Adelaide was much more prominent and wrapped itself around the city. A big image used in the following passage, which is Chapter 2 Part 2, is the USS Constellation, a civil war ship docked at Baltimore and used as a museum. Here's a great photo I found on Flickr by a guy called Steve, so full credit for that. Without spoiling too much, this is a great image and for the first time writing Irredeemable I totally stole a childhood memory for the story. Also this update is longer than the last, I was on a roll and hopefully all future updates can be about this length.




- 2 -
Part 2 of 4


By nine o'clock, Ray had exhausted the Expressway and crossed onto South President Street, well and truly in the heart of Baltimore. A few blocks to his right Ray knew the USS Constellation was moored in the docks. He remembered his father taking him and Rachel there when they were only little, he was about five or six and Rachel was still in the stroller. It was a magnificent old civil war sloop, probably about two hundred feet long and immediately Ray thought it looked like a pirate ship.
“No, not pirates, Ray. The Constellation sailed around the Mediterranean and Africa stopping slave ships and setting the slaves free, during the Civil War.” His father's voice echoed around his head and he took a deep drag of his cigarette.
“It was the good guys sailing this ship, son.” His father beamed proudly up at the rigging, his infant daughter nestled in his arms and his son by his side as they stood on the deck, waiting for the tour guide to usher them along.
“But Daddy, aren't pirates good guys?” Ray looked up at his father, blocking the sun from his eyes with his hand.
Ray's father looked down at his son, a brief wave of confusion sweeping his face, then he let out a big chuckle. “No Ray, the pirates are the bad guys. Don't you remember Peter Pan?”
Ray scratched his head, deep in thought. “Oh yeah...”
His father got down onto one knee, his head level with his son's, so he wasn't looking into the sun. “Pirates steal, and kill, and... and drink rum, Arrr!” He let out a mighty pirate roar that made Ray giggle. “They're definitely the bad guys,” his father said as Rachel began to squirm, horrified by the noise her father had made. “See, kiddo, even Rach doesn't like pirates.” His father smiled and stood up again, rocking Rachel gently until she calmed.
Ray took a deep drag of his cigarette as he turned a corner in the rain. After driving for a few more minutes, the rain cleared slightly and Ray caught a glimpse of Baltimore, a sight he hadn't seen in five years. The rows of brickwork buildings that lined Boston Street looked different, but to Ray they felt the same. He got a pang of nostalgia, like a punch to the gut, the unmistakable feeling of working-class, East-coast America swallowed him in waves, like an anaconda. The docks were only a block over, the ghosts of steel and rail-road men haunted his senses. The Stars and Stripes hanging from a tidy business-front held his gaze through the storm. This is what had been missing in Ottawa, stupidly, he hadn't realized it. America was missing from Canada, in Ray's eyes. Sure, not for everyone else there, but for Ray, who woke up every day, an expatriate, an ex-patriot. The urge to pull-up at a pub and order a shot and a brew, flew through his mind. The urge to eat hot dogs at an Orioles game at Camden Yards, even thought the Orioles weren't the team they once were, when he was a boy. Ray even had a sudden urge to do a U-turn and head back to the Constellation.
His memories of the Constellation however threw him into the future of those two kids, on the deck with their father. In his mind the image of baby Rachel shifted to an image of grown-up Rachel being showered in glass, screaming at him.
“Get out!” She screamed, pointing at the door of the apartment. His eyes fixed on hers, his gaze endless and never shifting, but she didn't flinch and she didn't back down.
“Ray, seriously get the fuck out! Now!” She lowered her voice but remained in her position, arm outstretched towards the door.
“Sure,” Ray nodded, getting up off the couch. While he couldn't scare her with his eyes alone, she began to visibly shrink as he stumbled towards her. He stopped only a foot from where she was standing and she cupped her elbows in her hands, across her chest as she looked to the floor. Her thin frame engulfed by his solid build, heavier then ever because of the booze, she stood a foot shorter than him.
“I'm fresh outta bourbon, anyway.” Ray growled into her ear and she shuddered. He held his gaze, inches from her face, his head swaying with the drink. It made him appear to her like and animal sniffing its next meal.
Suddenly, after what seemed too long to be anything but a nightmare, Ray stumbled back from his sister, tripping on his own feet, laughing at himself.
“Bitch,” he mumbled as he fell out of the door and disappeared into the street.
He didn't know it at the time, but she had cried as she swept up the broken bourbon bottle that had hit the wall inches from her face. He didn't know that she had waited the entire night for him to come home, sitting in her bed with a kitchen knife shaking between her hands. She told him this later, in an email to Iraq, although he barely remembered the details as this was when he was still drinking.

Ray's eyes shot open and he saw the police-issue Glock in his hand, a pile of ashes resting on his thigh. He jerked his head up, he was sitting in the Cadillac, parked awkwardly out the front of a Tavern on O'Donnell Street that he knew well. He quickly hid the pistol and scanned the side-walk for anyone who might have seen him, but was relieved when he saw the rain had kicked up again and the streets were deserted. Checking his watch provided more relief when he saw that it was only nine-thirty in the morning, he couldn't have been asleep for longer than fifteen minutes. Wiping his eyes, Ray lit a cigarette and forced the caddy to life, he was close to where he needed to be.

It begins...

Ok, it's on! More Ray Douglas coming up. Hopefully I'm over a recent slump in motivation, probably due to finishing uni recently.

Just a few quick notes on the first chapter of Irredeemable posted already. I'm not sure if it's the formatting of the Blogger site or what, but the paragraphs and dialogue etc are supposed to be indented but I'm not sure how I can do that, hopefully I'll figure it out, if not, oh well.
Also after extensive research (Wikipedia) I found out that the Pennsylvania State Police, which is what the character Officer James is, actually don't carry "service revolvers." Maybe it's just the nostalgic noir image of a revolver that I was drawn to, but in actuality they carry a .45 Glock 37 pistol. This has been changed in the draft saved on my PC and all future references to that pistol in the story will have it as a .45 Glock.
I probably should take this opportunity to mention it was probably fairly reckless of me to set the story in Baltimore as I've never been there. So far I'm using every scrap of knowledge I learned from HBO's The Wire and whatever I need from Google Maps to make it work but for a Baltimore native it may be pretty unrealistic.

The following is Part 1 of 4 for Chapter 2, I find that this format makes the word count quite manageable for weekly updates.




- 2 -
Part 1 of 4


Violent raindrops pounded directly onto Ray Douglas' windshield as he drove along the Jones Falls Expressway into Baltimore. The large swooping gusts of wind outside the vehicle propelled the rain intermittently at Ray, while rocking his car around in the black storm. Ray could barely make out the dilapidated brickwork of the Baltimore skyline through his furiously swaying windshield wipers which did nothing to clear the rain. Occasionally a bright blue pulse of lightning would illuminate the road ahead, otherwise Ray relied on the busted headlights of the caddy to see his way. Checking his watch, Ray felt a pang of confusion as he realised it was only eight-thirty in the morning. Ray blinked, rubbing his eyes, trying to remember where he was. The lack of sleep was getting to him, affecting his concentration. That, and the lack of sunlight today was making Ray's mind scramble to make sense of what was happening. Ray lit a fresh cigarette with the one dangling from his lips and flicked the old butt out of the tiny gap in the window. Despite the occasional raindrop shooting in, Ray left the window wound down a crack as an exhaust for his smoke.
Digging around in his pocket Ray felt the crumpled letter he had received two days earlier. 'Douglas, little sis needs fifty grand before midnight. Friday. You know the deal. You know who this is. You know what happens if you don't.' Rachel was in trouble. While the letter was deliberately vague, it was accurate, Ray knew exactly what it meant.
He remembered how happy Rachel looked as she saw him off at the airport, when he went to Iraq. The image surprised Ray, not because Rachel never appeared happy, but because of how drunk he was at the time. Iraq changed both Ray and Rachel; while he swore of booze over there, she lost her job at an inner-city accounting firm due to the downturn in the economy. She soon found herself with another job though, working to books for a local businessman named Bryan O'Reilly. Ray knew the name from his time as a cop and through their back-and-forth e-mail exchanges, pleaded Rachel to quit. The guy was dangerous and allegedly linked to several drug-related murders in the Baltimore Projects. Ray's new-found sobriety gave him a sense of duty to his family and he knew he had to put a stop to this before Rachel wound up in trouble. Rachel saw it differently however, Ray wasn't sure what her issue was, but he remembered getting the vibe that Rachel hated the idea of taking advice from a brother which she had taken care of for so long. A brother who never listened to her and threw empty bottles of bourbon across the room when she yelled at him for living on the couch. Eventually Rachel stopped contacting him and when he finally got home the first thing he did was confront Bryan O'Reilly.
Ray lit another cigarette with the one in his mouth and again threw the butt out of the crack in the window. He rubbed his eyes, which burned and itched from waking life. Catching a glance of himself in the rear-view, Ray noticed that his swollen and bloodshot eyes looked as if they would drop out of his skull with the next bump in the road.
Outside of the car, Ray noticed a bird flying into the wind. The bird appeared suspended in the air, not making any progress, it's life put on-hold as it repeated the mistakes of the past. Ray shook his head and slapped his cheek, repeating the mistakes of the past. Ray Douglas lost his train of thought as he blinked wildly, focussing on the road ahead.

A First Post

The following text is the first chapter in a novel-in-progress, hopefully to be updated weekly, along with whatever else gets posted. Also Check the tags etc to find stuff on this blog. I'm still working out the kinks.




- 1 -

Ray Douglas finally opened the letter that had been sitting in his pocket for two days now, the letter in the blood-spattered envelope. Sitting in a booth at the rear of a small roadhouse somewhere near the state-line between Pennsylvania and Maryland, Ray Douglas lit a cigarette before unfolding the sheet of paper in front of him. The cigarette smouldering between his stained fingers trembled in unison with his hand as he unfolded the note. Typed on paper covered in specks of dried blood, the letter read;
'Douglas, little sis needs fifty grand before midnight. Friday. You know the deal. You know who this is. You know what happens if you don't.'
“Dammit Rachel,” Ray muttered as he took a drag from the dwindling cigarette. The adrenaline of driving non-stop overnight had finally worn off. He had known the envelope meant trouble without even having to open it, he knew it had something to do with Rachel, his little sister. Since they were kids Rachel had always been the rational one, the smart one. Ray was always getting in trouble; when he was relieved of duty for “conduct unbecoming” it was Rachel who stood by him, his parents had already cut off all contact with their wayward son. But when Ray went overseas for two years the roles seemed to reverse. Now Rachel was in trouble and it was Ray's turn to finally be the big brother she never had. He gently let the note rest on the red and white checkered table-cloth before resting his head in his hands. Ray heard the rain kicking up outside, it was seven in the morning but the storm growing overhead turned dawn into dusk.
A waitress noticed Ray's smoke cloud from across the dining area, grabbed the coffee pot from behind the counter and made her way over to him. “You'll have to put that out, mister,” she said, then added with a grin and a look of embarrassment, “I know there's nobody here, but it's still against the rules.”
Ray peeked out from behind his hands, the waitress was in her mid-twenties, pale with short black hair, dyed. He realised he must look like shit, his black suit and tie were crumpled from sitting in the car all night, and his thick woollen overcoat probably stank of smoke. But Ray hadn't had time to change, shower or shave since yesterday. After clocking off from his shitty job driving VIPs around Ottawa, Ray was looking forward to some much needed sleep. But when that letter fell through the mail-slot in the door of his apartment, Ray picked it up, grabbed his keys and his smokes and left for Baltimore. He had stopped only once since crossing the border back into the States, to refuel the car and pick up some more cigarettes.
“How far am I from Maryland?” Ray asked the waitress abruptly, dismissing her suggestion about the cigarette and her coy smile.
“Not far, ten or fifteen minutes I guess,” she offered another slight grin but looked nervous about the cigarette, she didn't want to get into any trouble here. Ray's eyes widened as he realised where he was. He checked his watch and began to mumble as he shot a glance at the rain-soaked road through the timber Venetians.
Noticing this strange behaviour, the waitress spoke without thinking; “Are you in some kind of trouble, mister?”
Ray's eyes darted back to her, blood-shot and droopy. “No, but Rach...” He trailed off.
“What?” She leaned closer, not quite catching that.
Knowing he was wasting time, Ray placed his cigarette between his lips, grabbed a fistful of notes and coins from his coat pocket and put them on the table. “Look, I gotta go lady,” he said as he got up and rushed for the door, cigarette still hanging from his mouth.
“Hey!” The waitress called after him, but he didn't turn to answer her. He was already gone.

In the parking-lot of the roadhouse, Ray Douglas covered his head with his coat so that his cigarette wouldn't go out in the rain. He had more, but recently he had never butted a cigarette if he could get away with it. He made his way towards his car through flooded puddles in the cracked asphalt, his black shoes collecting more mud with each step. Once the car was started, Ray jammed the column-shift of his battered Cadillac into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. He drew another cigarette from the crumpled packet in his coat pocket and lit it with the one still dangling from his mouth. Ray knew that once he reached Maryland, it would only take him an hour or so to get to Baltimore, and to his sister. Reaching over to grab the letter he had tossed on the passenger seat, Ray was thrown back by an unexpected and violent jolt from behind. He looked into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch the dazed look of the police officer, sitting in the cruiser that he had just rammed.
Ray jammed the gear-stick into first, whipping the steering wheel around, and then back again as he kicked the accelerator pedal to the floor. He inhaled deeply from the cigarette and fish-tailed his over-sized '87 out of the lot and onto the road. After the moment of shock had passed, the squad car roared into life; its sirens shrieking as it peeled out onto the road behind Ray. Glancing from the rear-view, to the road ahead, to the letter in his hand, Ray realised that today was Friday and he didn't have time for this.
“Great,” he groaned, reluctantly butting the cigarette out in the ashtray and grinding the Caddy up a gear.

Ray floored the hulking mass of steel through the whipping winds and torrential rain and straight through an intersection with the cop still on his ass. He would have to deal with this cop before he said too much over the police radio, and he knew he would have to make it fast. Flicking the indicator on, Ray jerked his Cadillac over to the side of the road and let the cop catch his breath.
Ray could tell that the stunt with the intersection had worked exactly as he had intended when he saw the cop exit his squad car, hand already on his pistol. He just has to make one mistake, Ray thought as he eyed the officer. He just has to make the same mistake I made, Ray thought to himself, all those years ago. Like a gorilla, the cop rocked his powerfully built barrel of a body through the pouring rain towards where Ray was parked, waiting patiently. When he reached the car, the cop rapped his hairy knuckle violently on the closed window, giving Ray just enough time to register his wedding ring and name-badge; 'John James'. Perfect, Ray thought as he wound the window down.
“Alright smart-ass, I'm gonna assume you know why I've pulled you over.” Officer John James said, eyes fixed on Ray, hand still resting on his pistol.
“Aww shit,” Ray groaned, his hands shaking on the steering wheel.
“That's right, 'aww shit!'” Officer James mimicked.
“I knew you'd find me, Jesus! I knew this would happen,” Ray mumbled, half to the cop, half to himself.
“You thought I wouldn't find you? What are you? Some kind of idiot!” Officer James barked into the window through the roar of the storm.
“Goddamnit! She told me her husband was a cop. Why didn't I believe her? Stupid! Stupid!” Ray mumbled to himself, not looking at Officer James who was now soaked.
James paused, this last remark had caught him off-guard, “wait, what are you talking about?”
“You're John James, right? Officer John James! I'm sorry, Jesus I'm sorry!” Ray groaned. He had tears in his eyes, although this wasn't necessary as the rain was coming in through the window and streaking his face.
“What are you babbling about? I'm John James- How do you know me?” Officer James clearly didn't know what to make of this situation, or this lunatic in the black Cadillac.
Ray went in for the kill; “I slept with your wife man! It was a mistake, I'm sorry. She told me you would come looking for me. Oh God, please don't hurt me!” He cried into the steering wheel.
Officer John James stood speechless for a moment, it was a lot to take in all at once, the life he had known was slowly crumbling away in his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray noticed Officer James' fingers tightening around the handle of his service revolver. It should be enough to throw him off his game, Ray hoped.
In a quiet yet commanding tone, Officer James told Ray to, “get outta the car.”
“Oh God! Don't hurt me,” Ray pleaded again, cowering in the driver's seat deliberately holding his ground.
“Get the fuck out! Now!” Officer James raised his voice and his pistol simultaneously and Ray shakily complied, exiting the vehicle. The ruse had worked, Officer John James had forgotten a crucial part of his training, don't draw your weapon within reaching distance of an assailant, especially in such an emotional frame of mind. This was a mistake that took Ray years to get over, hopefully Officer James wouldn't get that worked up over it.
Officer James' hand shook as he violently jammed the barrel of his pistol into Ray's chest, “I knew that bitch was sleeping around, I knew it! You fucked up big-time mister!”
“Sure,” Ray said calmly before grabbing Officer James' pistol and redirecting it away from himself, twisting the cop's arm into his side in the process. Officer James stood frozen in shock, his simian mouth agape in awe and fright. With his left hand firmly controlling the cop's gun-arm, Ray used his right to punch Officer James in the groin, before twisting the gun backwards out of his hand, snapping his index finger against the trigger guard. Grabbing his mangled hand and doubling over to protect his crushed balls, Officer James tried to shake off the nausea that bubbled over in the pit of his stomach.
“Jesus Christ-!” Officer James could barely finish the curse before Ray stepped behind him, wrapped his arm around Officer James' neck and squeezed.
“Easy now, easy,” Ray whispered as he gently lowered Officer James to the ground. In his head Ray was counting down from thirty, just enough time to block the oxygen travelling to his brain, causing Officer James to pass out. Ray picked up this technique from a colleague in Iraq, where he worked for two years. He had learnt plenty of neat tricks over there; like the moves that he had just used to disable Officer James, for instance. He was actually surprised that he could still remember how to do that sort of thing. Remembering those days had its drawbacks though, as Ray would soon discover, he had his reasons for blocking that shit-hole from his mind.
He stood over the unconscious body, his adrenal gland only now starting to kick in, after the threat had already been neutralised. Pocketing the pistol, Ray felt a pain in his chest like a hand wrapped in barbed-wire trying to climb out through his throat. He doubled over in the rain and began to cough, trying to dislodge the creeping hand, dragging its jagged fingernails across the inside of his neck. Hacking up phlegm flecked with blood, Ray's hand shook violently as he reached for his cigarettes.

“KeresCorp is taking the jobs those Blackwater pussies won't touch.” Ash Idris leaned in to Ray Douglas, boasting his company's superiority over the competition. Ray felt uncomfortable with the thin and disturbingly handsome man whispering in his ear.
“Yeah? What sort of jobs are we talking here?” Ray inquired. He didn't really want to be here talking with this Euro-trash prick in his khaki suit and panama hat, but the curiosity was overwhelming.
Ash Idris sat back with the most juvenile grin on his face, using his hand to suppress a slight giggle.
“Well, I could tell you Ray. I could tell you, but then. But then, I'd have to kill you.” Idris let out a hideously high-pitched squeal and Ray shifted in his seat, thoroughly unnerved by the man's attitude. He smirked and waited for Idris to continue.
Shifting gears suddenly, Idris stopped giggling and looked thoughtfully off the deck of the yacht they were sitting on, out into the Mediterranean, “Well I can tell you of course, if you agree to sign up.”
Ray had heard of these private security contractors, let loose all over the middle-east, wreaking havoc while Uncle Sam turned a blind eye. He didn't want to be a part of it, but he was drinking himself into an early grave back in Baltimore. He'd been drinking since he got handed his marching papers from the Baltimore Police Department.
No, wait. He was handed his marching papers because of the drinking. It was becoming harder and harder to see things in the right order these days, maybe he did need time away.
He looked at Idris, who was nodding slowly, watching him carefully. The pay was good too, great even. If he'd managed to hold onto his job as a cop this wouldn't have happened.
The world had been going to shit these last few years, happy new century asshole, welcome to hell. It started with his job, later that year Bin Laden blew up the twin towers. America went to war against a ghost and Ray drank steadily, watching it all on TV through the bottom of a bourbon bottle. Rachel showed him an advertisement for a security job; 'seeking people with law enforcement experience for work overseas.' She wanted him off the couch and out of her apartment, but he couldn't blame her.
Idris suppressed another giggle watching Ray stare blankly out into the ocean. “What's it going to be Ray. We need good men like you. You're a good man Ray.”
Ray eyed him coldly, “I'm in.” He looked away but could feel Ash Idris' grin through the back of his head.

The little smoke he could inhale through the pain and the rain subdued the cough, causing the barbed-wire encased hand to slide painlessly back down his gullet, where it would wait. Ray stood shaking, his head spinning. Unsure of how long he had been standing there, over the unconscious body of a cop, Ray hurriedly went about moving the limp mass.
Quickly dragging the hulking Officer back to his squad car, Ray looked around for witnesses but could sense that they were alone. He opened the back door of the car and heaved Officer James' into the rear seat.
After shoving the cop's legs into the car and closing the door, Ray opened the front door and grabbed the radio; “cancel that, dispatch. This isn't the guy, I'm all good out here. Over.” Without waiting for a response he walked back to the Cadillac, sat inside and lit a fresh cigarette.
Inhaling deeply Ray Douglas started the car and disappeared into the storm.