2
At the Jailhouse
The next morning I closed the office to visit the scene of the crime. All I have to do is lock the door, because I live in the upper floor. I got into my car. Crossing the bridge, I noticed alot of smoke in my direction. I shruged. There were alot of factories where I live, so I thought nothing of it. But when I got there, I realized where the smoke was coming from. It appeared as if a quarter of the jailhouse had been destroyed with the force of a small bomb. I parked the car and shuffled across the smoking rubble. I stepped inside. A rather worn man reaching his late 40's with flat matted hair wearing a sarcastic expression was sitting at a desk with a fan blowing in his face and smoking a cigar. He was reading a magazine which flapped and cracked in the blow of the fan. He put it down with a grunt and stared at me. His eyes dark as holes bored into my own.
"Spears. Tom Spears." I said. "Saw what happened and came to check things out." The man leaned on the desk and sighed through his nostrils, his eyes still fixed on mine.
"Follow me."
He led me through a gnarled door which led to a dimly lit jail house. All I could see was the whites of the prisoners eyes. They all stared at me with a hungry expression. The dull lifeless faces haunted me throughout the dungeon until we came to a room which clearly wasn't there anymore. A mushy cigar landed by my feet. I watched it burn and then shrivel up. Watching him relight another one, I walked around the grounds. Then I heard a sharp click. I whipped around and the last thing I saw was a man in a dark trenchcoat with yellow eyes. A rocket launcher is what made the click. I soon realized this small fact. The rocket landed clear in front of me and exploded with the force of a small bomb. My hat flew off. Part of the shrapnel hit me and everything went black.
**************************
I woke up with a jolt and a sharp pang in my forehead. I found myself in a hospital bed. I laid back down, thinking hard.
"Clearly," i thought. "someone doesnt want me here.
