The Void

The Void [2] - A Sorry State of Affairs

“It’s a wise man who profits by his own experience, but it’s a great deal wiser one who lets the rattlesnake bite the other fellow.” Josh Billings

            hey

            wake up

            wake up pal

            A flood of colors and noises bombarded his brain with the force of a stealth bomber as he opened his eyes carefully.

            After his vision cleared, he quietly took in his surroundings. From what he could see, he was in some sort of medical centre as far as he could tell- too polished for a makeshift medical area yet too rough-and-tumble for a hospital.

            A memory flashed before his eyes and all of a sudden he knew that he was in the Bruckheimer police station’s medical ward- he had sent quite a few shot-up criminals here, long ago. Those days seemed like aeons ago to his fuzzy, frustratingly unresponsive memory neurons. He mustered up the strength to ask the strange-looking fella what the heck he was doing here.

            “You got knocked out,” came the reply from the orderly, his large nose seemingly bouncing up and down with every word. “Chief insisted we bring you here.”

            “Who knocked me out?”

            “That doesn’t matter. But what does is that Chief Roberts gave me specific orders to get you to his office as soon as you awoke.”

            Bastard, the man thought, and suddenly felt a clawing pain where the blow had struck. He lifted an aching hand in order to massage it and felt a thick bandage covering the wound.

            “Erm, when is this gonna come off?”

            The orderly smiled and led him on.

            Ten minutes and roughly five hundred stares later, the man found himself standing in front of Chief Roberts’ door. He stared cautiously at the golden plaque, remembering when his own name had been there, before dismissing the memory once again. He scratched the back of his right hand- an irritating habit, but soothing nonetheless in its own weird way- and pushed the door open.

            All one-hundred and fifteen kilograms of Police Chief Norman P. Roberts wobbled sideways to face the newcomer. The man watched with interest as Roberts’ look of annoyance quickly became a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame.

            “Hunton!” Roberts boomed, sounding extremely similar to an ordinary humpback whale, “it’s good to have you back in Bruckheimer.”

            “Looks like Bruckheimer isn’t too glad to see me.” He gestured towards his bandage.

            Roberts roared with laughter. “You haven’t lost the old spark, I see. Good old Rick Hunton. Always prepared with a punch line to spare.”

            What the fuck is he playing at? This guy hates my guts, Hunton thought.

            “So, um… why’d you call me down here?”

            “Ah yes,” Roberts sullied down. “We… ahem… kind of…”

            Hunton got it in a flash. “You want me back on the force.”

            Roberts gave him a puppy-eye look that a Saint Bernard would kill for.

            “No!” Hunton roared. “I came here to bury my family, not join up for the fucking police force, Norm. You can’t convince me otherwise.”