Leather trousers and handcuffs

Hunting the Wolfe
The station was warm and chokingly dusty. The eternal remains of humidity from the dry seasons hung in the air like a sour faced elderly relative. Walls that could have used a lick of paint, a lick of anything to show they were cared for. Cybil’s office was little better, a brand spanking new fan provided an almost comforting hum, displacing some of the blanket which enveloped the rest of Brahms Police Station. Leaning further back on her chair, chewing on a tooth-pick as if it was giving her some form of untold wisdom. It would certainly explain the look of complacent smugness if nothing else. She scratched the back of her neck idly, appearing to all the world as though boredom had claimed another hour of her day. Truth was it was kinda quiet, her paperwork filed and no calls to take. She could probably take out Dirty Harry Mach 2 see if she came across anything untoward, do a just encase sweep but her mind was in other places today. Places which for a nice change were neither carnal nor nightmarish. She was damned sick of the bullshit and internal attempts at survivor’s guilt, it was just that, bullshit and she didn’t believe in it. It would be the perfect moment of dramatic irony for George Michael’s nasal whine to blare from the radio screaming about faith which was why she was really fucking glad she’d shot seven holes in it last week when it threatened her with an hour of soulful love ballads. Such obvious acts of war would not be taken lightly.

So……. that woman probably had sucked the crazy cock a little more than once and that much jizz would fuck anyone up. But it didn’t change the fact she knew something. The report from the psychologists included various interviews, photos and written evaluations. Most of it sounded like regular run of a mill mental-case but the symbol’s she’d draw, the things those fundamentalist eyes had seen. Aye, she had information alright and there was no way it was going to remain locked away in an asylum. It may not have been an official case but it was her responsibility… no her duty to find anyone who might have been trapped in that place. She would MAKE the creatures there respect the long arm of the law. Attempts to re-enter the alternative Silent Hill had so far been fruitless but Cybil knew there would be a way. Some kind of pass, every puzzle had a solution if you looked long enough. It was just a case of finding that bastarding key. Where were her keys anyway? A shiny metallic glint underneath twenty missing persons file. Most of them occurring after the date she personally had returned. Meaning there was no way she had been the last. Right now the list had been whittled down a dozen people or so who just appeared to vanish from the face of the earth all contenders for lambs to the slaughter. The photographs of each would stay with her each trip she made up there but as of yet, no results came from it.

But the woman in the asylum… right now that was her best bet. Cybil herself had found the woman in question; she’d not stuck around for her to regain consciousness of course; that was victim support not an area in which she could assist. Since that point there had been regular updates from the hospital until eventually the blond lady was committed. No one around these parts liked to be reminded of any of the cult’s activities, not after all the trouble they’d caused. First hand the police officer knew there was some basis in reality for all the tales that came along with that quaint little resort town.

Strapping her helmet to her head, toothpick still between her teeth she set off. Every second she wasted was precious.

Current Mood: I got on my arse kicking boots

Advertisement