Violent Mind Candy by Gary Kadet

Author:Gary Kadet [Kadet, Gary S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781955784986
Publisher: Melange Books, LLC

Another night.

The clawing at the bedding, the hot and cold sweat, the shakes, the broken chocolate bar on the nightstand which failed to stave off the need, the fire in the pit of the stomach no amount of cheap, store brand soda pop could quench.

The revulsion.

How many hours of the clock, how much time did she have left before they could take everything from her again. How much more could they take from her? How much more could she take of that?

Take, take, take and no give unless it was her doing the giving.

How these thoughts fall upon you in semi-sleep; regret itself became a semi-dream.

Her lungs were a bellows breathing cinders.

Her brains were beaten ragged.

Her eyes registered light despite the dark of the room, despite her eyes being squeezed shut hard.

Her ears screamed, and wrapping the pillow around her head did no good.

The screaming was real, undeniable, solid.

She dove for her phone.

Wurdalaka, droning, “LT, we got another one. Big brouhaha down at the 1270 on Boylston—freaking messy.”

“You been down?”

“No, I ain't been down, but they called me to call you, the guys that don't wanna deal with this. They said you'd love it.”

“There was gum present, wasn't there?”

“Wrappers scattered hither and thither.”

“How bad, Byron?”

“I got your numbers right here,” he said, fumbling with his new tablet.

He told her as few details as he had heard himself from slave dispatch and she gagged hard at turning on the light: Eight men out, near twenty wounded badly enough to be carried off to Boston City ER, over 100 injured, loss and destruction in the hundred thousands.”

“Pizza wagons dispatched?”

“They're already there doing the cleanup with Yonah Shimmel and his part-time student band bagging and tagging.”

She laughed a bitter, quiet laugh. Boston freaking CSI. Big time pro's. Comedy clusterfuck.

“Where are the news trucks?”

“We got three already. The night shift got no problem holding them back.”

“Let ‘em in and have Yonah preside.”

“Ya got authority for that, LT?”

“And what did they tell you, Byron? The wonks upstairs.”

“They told me they were going to try to tie the whole thing this time to Islamic Jihad, blame it all on the towel heads. Al Qaeda, Sheik Al Ahazared crap.”

“I bet they did, them and their “One Boston, Boston Strong” gang. What else they tell you?”

“We're fucking Boston Strong now we used 100 men, all contiguous police, 200 FBI flamers, enough tactical SWAT equipment to capture Switzerland to whack out one kid, corner another one half-dead holed up in a boat trailer so we can break our arms patting ourselves on the backs on such a difficult fucking collar.”

“One fucking Boston.”

“Just one fucking Boston,” replied Wurdalaka grimly. “Thank God. That's all we fucking need. Any more than that and I'll declare a fucking jihad myself!”

“You're talking heresy,” Wurdalaka.

“Who doesn't in Boston?”

“So what are we doing, Byron?” Her sweat smelled like gin, which made her stomach collapse in on itself and ache.

“Sure, LT. I'll let ‘em in. Let that faggot Yamaha boy play den mother in the carnage and debris to boot, just as you say.

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