Thought Vomit #75: ft. Pulp Fiction 6

Chapter Six

Her Majesty’s NYPD Police Headquarters is situated on Sunset Boulevard. It’s a huge imposing Gothic building, designed by Nelson Rockerfeller as a gift to the crime stricken city. Massive, ugly and intimidating gargoyles belched their evil tongues out at the criminals, and within its innards the finest boys in blue did their level best to scupper them.

But there level best was not good enough tonight.

Only Vic Malone was.

A crack of thunder lit up the sky, as the heavens opened and poured scorn on the failing city. Somehow Vic seemed to weave in between the heavy rain drops, as his overcoat swept behind him and he strode purposefully up the steep steps, fingering the weapon tucked into his pants.

One single cop guarded the entrance, a plastic overcoat protecting him from the rain. The plastic couldn’t and didn’t protect him from the single vicious blow from Vic’s fist, and he slumped into a heap behind a statue, well out of sight from the street.

Vic stepped in to the place that, up until an hour ago, he called his home.

It was empty. Just as he suspected.

The entire department had been dispatched to catch Vic; and it still wasn’t enough.

His footsteps echoed through the giant entrance hall, bouncing off of the marble, calling back at him with each stride, as if to say, “Welcome home Vic, we’ve missed you.”

A note on the massive mahogany reception desk displayed a hurriedly scrawled message to anyone who happened inside. “Out Hunting Malone,” it said, then underneath, “Normal service will resume shortly.”

Vic snorted, and the reassuring echo came back at him from the walls – this place knew the truth, and it was as scornful as he was. Which was very scornful indeed.

Gliding up the stairwell now, sweeping around in an arc and upwards to the third floor. The lights were out, and only one failing and intermittent emergency exit sign buzzed in the distance down the hallway. Anyone but Vic Malone would harbour trepidation, but Vic Malone didn’t.

He knew this place like a hand. His hand. His manly hand that was still poised on the butt of the giant beast, ready to spring at any moment like a coiled spring.
He didn’t need to see where he was going, he KNEW where he was. Home. Like the prodigal son. Only this son had a blood lust for revenge that wouldn’t be satiated by anything but blood.

His feet guided him into the computer suite, a carpeted sterile place, with lots of soft furnishing. A single monitor lit the room, and Vic strode towards it, not bothering to sit down. He was an expert at computers, and this wouldn’t take long.

The machine dared to ask him to log in, but Vic didn’t fall for the trick. He knew logging in with his own name would alert the department to his whereabouts and they’d descend upon him like a nasty rash. He tapped in Harry’s username instead. It asked for a password.

Most cops would have given up there and then. Passwords are notoriously difficult to crack, and the ones in the NYPD were double locked, which was almost as secure as NASA. But Vic had hacked NASA once, this would be a breeze.

Harry was sure to use a word he knew. That much was certain. And Vic knew that Harry didn’t know too many words. So there was only one that would be on the tip of his tongue. Literally. His ex wife. He spat the name onto the keyboard, and the machine whirred a moment before letting him in to the system.

Maybe that bitch was useful for something after all.

The NYPD system told him that there were 15 million criminals currently active in New York, and insisted that Vic narrow his search. One man from fifteen million mugshots. Vic liked those odds.

A box asked him for a distinguishing feature, and that’s when Vic remembered the distinctly shaped mole on the Bay Area Bow and Arrow Beast’s face. It was shaped like a bow and arrow, and was on his left cheek. So he typed “bow and arrow mole”, immediately narrowing his search down to several thousand. Even better odds.

Next up, a pure hunch. The bastard liked to use arrowheads from medieval London, so maybe he’d been there. Vic typed “Medieval London” into a box, and now had three choices. That was more than enough. He bought up their mugshots and examined them with the honed eye of a trained detective.

First, a woman, so she was out of the equation. A woman wouldn’t have the strength to pull back the bow the killer used. Was that sexist? Sue him. Vic was right. Second, a blonde haired man in his sixties. Too old. Too frail. Might just as well be a woman. Finally, the final picture, and Vic smiled. Looking back at him from the screen was a man in a black eye mask and a very distinct looking mole on his cheek. Vic had his man.

And what’s more, a message flashing in red under his picture said “Murder In Progress”.

That sick fuck was doing it again, half way across town. Vic needed a car.

If only …

With the pace and speed and strength of an Olympic sprinter, Vic raced through the building and up two flights of stairs to the fifth floor impound. Without breaking stride, he crashed through a massive security door, shattering and splintering it into a hundred pieces.

And there she was … his Cherry Red GM Ford Chevy Mustang.

They had predictably impounded her and bought her up to the fifth floor. Vic slid in through the open window and saw there were no keys. He didn’t need them, this baby knew he was inside her, and she immediately began purring.

Grinding the car into drive, he floored the pedal, and with a screech and burning rubber, he sped out through the hallway and down four flights of stairs, hand brake turning around the reception desk, accelerating through the doors, and then flying out over the steps.

A cherry red blur streaked through the night streets, barely seen it was going so fast, but the whole city heard Vic chasing. The fifteen litre engine growled almost as huskily as Vic’s voice, as he expertly wove through the traffic, nimble, fast, speedy and agile.

One final hand brake turn worthy of an Indy 500 racer, and Vic was storming down another alleyway. Ahead, he could see the Beast, his foot on a woman’s chest, aiming a bow and arrow right into her face.

Vic squeezed even more speed into the engine, and roared forward mercilessly. Just as he was about to hit them both, he rocked hard back and forth in his seat, the motion enough to launch the car a few feet from the ground, and send it careering over the woman, and crashing straight into the killer’s chest.

The car smacked into a wall, pinning the Beast hard against the fender, and Vic rolled out of his seat, gun already at the ready. He had it pointing right into the Beast’s eye before he could blink. With a crushed rib cage, this psycho was going nowhere.

“You got me Vic.” And he spluttered some blood on to the hood, and began laughing maniacally.

“What’s so funny?” Vic scowled.

“You’ll soon find out.”

Vic cold cocked him with his butt. Out cold now, but he was right. Vic would soon find out.

BLANK

Continue to Chapter 7 or buy the whole book now on Amazon UK or Amazon US.

One thought on “Thought Vomit #75: ft. Pulp Fiction 6

  • July 30, 2009 at 8:03 am
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    Her Majesty’s NYPD Police Headquarters hee hee
    I like story this a LOT

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