The Consultants: Prologue
I: Reggie "Sackers" Carter
Reggie pulled out his knife. Sneakily he forced it into the back of an enemy wielding an AK47 who was crouched in a small corner of the woodland. He’d timed it perfectly, sneaking up on his victim – silently – knife at ready for a close combat kill. The blind squirm could’ve turned and let loose his trigger finger at any point, but he didn’t. Reggie came out on top again. It was his first kill since he was air-dropped into the woodland and it felt good, as well as relieving, to get it out of the way. The only thing to do now was to make sure he continued his stealthy ways. No getting shot, he told himself repeatedly, no getting shot. Turning and jumping through the woodland, Reggie continued in search of his next victim.
Reggie grimly smiled as another of his nemesis’ had spotted him but emptied his whole magazine with dud misses. Taking his chance, Reggie sprinted across a small plain in the woodland and drew his pistol, bunny hopping into position for his beautifully crafted second kill until a bloody voice interrupted him.
“Reggieee!” it screamed with soul-destroying angst. “You’re thirty-bloody-five! Thirty-bloody-five and what’ve you done with your life? Nothin’!”
The voice grew louder as it came closer. Reggie huffed in aggravation, but didn’t speak up in protest. The voice simply continued to screech, “Nothin’ you ol’ douche! You just sit ‘ere with yer computer games. Ever’time you get’a damn job and make me smile you go get yerself fired! Pfft. No wonder they nicknamed yer sorry ass ‘Sackers’!”
The voice came into the room, carried by a grey haired, rounded old lady with thin rimmed spectacles perched on her nose and a mid-stitched jumper hanging over her left arm. She strode up to the electrics plug behind the TV and yanked it out. The TV blacked out instantly and with it so did Reggie’s priceless second kill.
“Aw, Mum,” he protested, “Do you have to give me the same speech ever’night? Always come down ‘ere and turn off m’game just when it gets interestin’ too.”
“You listen to me smart ass,” she snapped back, continuing to knit regardless of whatever situation surrounded her. “I’ve been alive ‘ow long now? Forty? Fifty years?”
“Sixty-two, Mum,” Reggie shot as if to get one up on her, though secretly doubting it would do anything but encourage her.
“Exactly! Sixty-two years! I was workin’ for ‘least half o’ that. You’re already half way to seventy and you done shit all yer life! Always getting sacked, you worry me sick less! Christ, you need a job.” She paused and looked Reggie up and down before finishing, “Yer look like shit too.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Reggie replied innocently and got up from the floor, placed the controller on the side and grabbed his coat from the back of the door to the lounge. “I’ll do some job huntin’.”
“Job huntin’ at this time of the blimmin’ night? You’ll get mugged by chimps or teenagers, you daft date! Don’t you leave yer poor mother alone at this time’a the night! Don’t you dare! Always out this time’a night – you do yer Mother no good!”
Her voice slowly trailed off as Reggie walked down the hall to the front door. He carefully patted himself down at his coat pockets to make sure his keys, mobile phone and wallet were all present and then reached to open the door. “It’s only 7.30, Mum. Grow up.”
The cold air hit his face as soon as he’d stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He pulled his coat up tighter around his neck and began to walk in the direction of the bus stop. So what if he was unemployed? Life would get better, he told himself, could be worse; could be dead… or living in Hull. The reassurance made him laugh a little. It wasn’t madness to laugh at his own gag, brewed and told in his own head, it was just self-confidence, ‘least that’s what he told himself anyway.
It took him roughly five minutes to reach the bus stop, and five or so more to thumb his way down the timetable as a reminder of the running times. He cursed. The next bus wouldn’t show for at least fifteen minutes, and even that depended solely on the bus being on time. As he huffed and took a seat under the heavily graffiti-covered shelter, a warm trail of air floated in a snake trail upward to the sky. He could tell why his Mum had thrown a fit as it was fairly dark for 7.30 in the evening, fairly cold too. She never did take to such conditions, poor soul, Reggie grinned.
The wait for the bus got more boring by the minute and the lack of entertainment from watching his warm breath repeatedly wander upward in snake trails was even beginning to dull his small-minded self. Therefore, he took to humming and further thinking about his life plan. Strangely though, his chosen humming tune seemed to be Mozart, a legend who he didn’t particularly favour nor listen to. Doesn’t matter how much bullshit hits you, it’s how hard you let it hit you that matters son, he told himself, quoting from one of his Grandpa’s sayings. He couldn’t particularly hold a meaning to it but it was one of those lines you don’t tend to forget… probably because it used profanity and Reggie’s immature mind found that somewhat amusing.
Unemployment ain’t so bad, Sackers. You could be in law school. You live real bad in law school, trust me babes, his cousin had always told him, always reminding him on every low down visit he had with her. No-one gets anything but pasta here in law school. I’m sick of pasta babes, sick to the damn core. He grunted as he thought of his Mum’s cooking, always the same, generally lacking variety. Somehow, his cousin’s reminders of being less fortunate in law school had always made him envy her more so than think of himself as being more fortunate. Regardless, he hadn’t even seen his cousin in two or three months and she’d probably graduated by now and picked up a posh lawyer’s job in the city centre.
His heart sank in self-pity and he felt sick. Sick of being unemployed, sick of being fired by people fatter than him and worst of all sick of living at home with his mother at the age of thirty-five. He wanted to do something with his life, push the boat out there and say to his grand kiddies – if he ever got any – that he did that. He’d been there, got the t-shirt; but no. All he’d managed so far was the nickname ‘Sackers’ thanks to all the stupid corporate men who kept kicking him out of every job he ever got. Screw ‘em, he told himself and before he could think anymore rudely, the bus arrived with its engine humming and the same weedy blonde guy at the wheel like every other evening on this damn bus route. Bus was two minutes late too! Reggie clambered on board the bus and pushed a clamp of his greased jet-black hair upward to form a quiff and smiled awkwardly at the driver.
“Where to?” the weedy lad said, although he knew the answer. It was the same answer every evening.
“Just ‘ere for the ride, Weedy, like ever’night,” Reggie grinned and tossed him a fiver. That covered two all-round routes back to his house. It suited him and it suited Weedy the driver. Reggie walked to the mid-back of the bus and took his usual seat above the wheel. Just another night in glum old Bristol he told himself.
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Next "Prologue" Chapters:
II: Louise "Pinkie-Lips" Taylor: Not Submitted Yet, URL soon
III: Nick "Gramps" Rushford: Not Submitted yet, URL soon
IV: Howie "The DCI" Costner: Not Submitted yet, URL soon
...then it'll go to Chapter 1.
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