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Stephen J Holloway

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Krime and Sgt Brown
By Stephen J Holloway
Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Rated "PG13" by the Author.

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Krime is a serious Crime, hence why it's spelt with a K (K being bigger than C you see). Join Sgt. Brown as he engages Krime and gives it a ruddy good sorting out.


Chapter K

In the not too near distance is a place; a place of wonder and imagination; a place where serious crimes are called ‘Krimes’. Origins of the ‘Krimes’ lay with a creature named Sgt. Brown, the best damn Police Beast this side of town had seen. Once, while at his desk, toying with the idea of chewing his foot, he came to a conclusion.
“I wonder.” said Sgt Brown. “I just don’t think the word crime has enough kick in it. I mean, the letter ‘c’ is of the tiniest proportions and to my knowledge is the foreigner’s word for ‘yes’. Now you see, (now you yes?) the letter ‘K’; is a letter worthy of Gods. Its incredible girth and length, the two jaws that stand ready to kill (a word that in fact has ‘k’ in it, he thought) and what better way to put a bit of kick into it, than ‘k’, the very letter that holds the foundations of kick itself.” He leaned back in his squeaky black chair and nodded. His feet barely touch the wood before they ‘re thrown down to the floor once more. He dug into his deep furry pockets and fumbles around for a maximum of thirty seconds; so he reckons. From the abyss of brown fur he takes a small cigarette and places it between his shaggy lips. The light in the room was dim, lit only by the headlamp that rested neatly at the corner of his table. Various sheets were scattered around, catching the shadows as they played. His big brown eyes looked into the headlamp, not knowing which car he had stolen it from and waited. Suddenly a small bird flew into the window beside him, its head crashing into the glass, leaving a trail of thick red pulp and severed bone. The Sergeant frowned and took out his small box of matches (the beauty of HIS matchbox is that it will always have one left. A gift given to him by his dying mother on her death bed, she said... I’ll tell you later what she said but it’s still a useful tool) carefully removing the last one before placing it back into his pockets. He held the match to his face and struck it across his eyebrow; the most shaven part of any beasts body, before raising it to the end of the cigarette and inhaling. He knew that today would be a good day. He reached behind him and took up his tatty, worn jacket that had hung lifelessly over some cabinets. As he turned to the door he chuffed his cigarette and removed his hat from the hat stand before turning the handle and leaving.
I bet you’re wondering why that bird crashed into his window; you’re thinking, is it relevant to the story? Well I’ll tell you; yes. See Sgt Brown is cursed. Well not cursed but blessed. He has a special power but the problem is the affects are totally random every time. All that is required of him is that he soaks light into his eyes; sometimes useless, sometimes amazing, anyway. This took place about seven minutes ago so you’re pretty much up to date anyway. Oh and I’m Jacob but people call me shaky Jake; I’m a wand with Parkinson’s. Sgt. Brown discovered me whilst on a case to subdue some dealers of arms. Why leave your fingerprints when you could lead dead beggar prints or DBP on the street.
Anyway, some fella, chap named Big Rick, was dealing these arms, using me to enchant them i.e. commit the crimes for the buyers. We were sitting their cooking up some dinner when out of nowhere Sgt. Brown bursts in, guns a’blazin’. Big Rick falls to the floor like a sack of shit, piping hot lead bonding with his skin. Brown took me downtown and questioned me but let me off when he knew I had Parkinson’s and wasn’t just shifty looking. Since that day I’ve been by his side fighting crime. Exciting life eh? I’ll say. Now allow me to take you on a journey into the life and work of Sgt. Brown, fighter of Krime!

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