"Adrenalin"

DISCLAIMER: May cause offence with language and content.



I'm surfing along at a steady pace of about 80.
A circular signpost with red ring around it tells me 40.
Not a clue what that means. And I don't care either. Why should I? What am I doing here? Don't care about that either. It'll only last ten minutes more, so make the most of it. That's the last lot of your payment, mate, no more. The last three grams were the best in months, though. No money left. All I had was a couple of purple notes, and they barely got me through the line. No energy left to nick anything neither. I'll just relax. Once I get these guys off my tail. Who are they, the P.P.P.? Speeding, they are. There could be kids about.

Oh, red light. What's that? It hurts, that does. Tone it down a bit, mate.
Why the light? What does it mean? Should I know? It's the same colour as my car, isn't it?

Crap -- there's a woman there! Some old crone, hunched over by the bright light, watching me cruise toward her. She want it? I'm not interested tonight, love. Sorry, plenty more fish in the sea, yeah? Works a treat. Better stop. I think the light might mean stop. Red means stop, yeah? Some help here. Help? No? No help? I'll stop then.

Screech the brakes down just in time, half wear them out just this once. And it's new, this baby. Only stole it couple of hours ago. Can't go smashing it up just for some old bitch standing by a painful red light.

She's staring. Have I not told her yet? She's a bit old, too. Glad I'm stoned, or I might have said some I'd later regret. What's she thinking? I won't bother. Just move my hand, tell her nicely to kindly shuffle on. I do it. She does it. Moves on. Watching me all the time as she goes. You want a picture, eh? I'll give her something to look at. I rev up the engine at her, but she doesn’t accelerate. Just staring. Cow.

And the blinding red light is off, then there's some yellow one below it, then a green'ne. I presume that's go? I'll go, since the old hag's now stood at the other post staring. I say my goodbyes, and off I go. ‘Cause that black van's catching up on me. I look behind. They've stopped. Some bird with black hair's talking to my bit on the side back yonder. She points at me, rude old cow, and then my P.P.P. pursuers set off again. Speeding again! Is an idiot driving that car? Better push down harder on the accelerator. Got to keep my lead. I mean, I'm winning this race by a clean streak. They’ve no chance catching up now. 90... 100... 110... getting higher. What's the max? 230. Can I get to it? Can I?

I take a quick glance at the van. Some punk's looking at me. Oh **** -- he's got a gun! That's cheating! CHEAT! What am I doing? I'm racing in this olde-worlde city of old girls and bright lights, and some kid I never even met wants to shoot me. How anti-social are the natives here? I never was told about this. It's like that time in Manchester, this is.

He's aiming. 120... 130... how high can you go? Can you hit a moving target, speed demon? Can you? CAN YOU?
Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road. Here comes a junction. Should I risk it? Could a turn slow me up? Turn left! I've lost them! No. Haven't lost them. 140...

I'm hitting an adrenalin-pumping speed now, though they’re right up my back, and my left turn doesn’t help, and I've still got about seven minutes of a high to go. I'm loving this! Should I go higher? He's still got the gun, look! He's still trying to shoot me! Bad losers, or what?

BANG! BANG! BANG! Three gunshots at my wheel. Two misses, then – there's a flash of white behind me, nearly gives me a heart attack, and I skid off to a halt, now
unable to move my crimson vehicle of pure beauty now, as she sits on a cul-de-sac road, smoking like a green addict in paradise.

I jump out, not a glance back ‘case they see me, take the little old-fashioned pea-shooter from the glove compartment for my own protection, of course, and bound across the lawn, smash down the unlocked door.

“Sorry about that, I’m on the run. I need help,” I blurt out, at the four staring humans.
“What the – ?” a tall man asks me, in a slow, calm voice that barely shows his fright. I think he’s Welsh.
He runs at me, this bald guy in white. I shoot. Twice. Hit him just below the chest. He collapses, clutching at the wounds.
Two women now, screaming at me. I can hear the boys in black outside, and they’re heading this way. I grab this girl, dark hair, not a bad looker, and point my pistol at her head. This should be a good bribe for ‘em. Humans are always so sentimental about this sorta stuff.

They enter. Four of them. I concentrate.

The shorter guy takes off his jacket, tries to help the nutcase on the floor. That’s the nutcase I shot. The only other bystander’s screaming and crying like a baby, and the bird with black hair goes up to her. That’s the one that was chatting to my friend by the lights earlier. She’s another looker. This little hamlet’s a nice place for the ladies, innit?

And then the other two, at the back, the shy ones: a tall, serious guy who I’ll bet my life wouldn’t have a spliff if you paid him, and a short Oriental lovely with a bleeping blue device. This little hamlet’s a nice place for the ladies, innit? I’m getting déjà vu here: have I met one of these people before? Wish I had? Or was it something I said?

Concentrate, concentrate…
What do I hear? All those thoughts, rushing through their heads.

Oh, she’s talking, my girl with her machine, she’s interrupting the thought waves:
“Massive levels of adrenalin, mixed with approximately three grams of cocaine. That’s vicious, what are you?”
Speak the bleeding obvious, love! Now I’m hearing something, a word… Torchwood. I remember that. What’s that. Ohhh yes. He said that. The dealer. Torchwood.

“So, this is Team Torchwood,” I says to them, working hard to get my answers: “the teacher’s pets… But teacher’s gone, hasn’t he? Leaving the kiddy-kids all alone,”

Ooh, I’m getting to them now, aren’t I?

“and look at you, trying so hard to be all grown-up,”

Here comes the REAL work. I’ll pull it out. Every last doubt:

“but the doctor, with his hands full of blood;”
The short guy looks up.

“the carer, with her oh-so-beating heart,”
The black-haired bird’s heart pumps harder for me.

“the technician, with her cold devices,”
Yes I would…

“which leaves me with the office boy, promoted beyond his measure,”
Shy guy tightens his grip on the trigger he can’t pull.

“All of you, lost without your master, all of you, pretending to be so brave, all of you, so scared!”
I take a sharp intake to my lungs, with only five or six minutes left, and kiss my pretty hostage, before turning back to Team Torchwood.
“So, what about it, minion? Can you do it? How good are you? How sharp is your aim? What if you kill her?”

He’s shaking like a s*** dog, the office boy. I switch sides, scare him:
“What if I kill her first? Can you shoot before I do? Can you? Dare you! Would you? Won’t you?”

He can’t do it. Not a chance in hell. But then I spot something, too late, behind him in the gangway, an imposing dude in a trenchcoat, and I’m staring down the cold barrel of his revolver, and I realise what I’ve done, but the adrenalin holds my high, so I barely saw it coming.
And then the bastard shoots me.

Nice one

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