Tuesday, 27 November 2007

Under Cover, Brother

There is a room. Inside the room is a pad, written on the pad is an address. The address is my address. The writing is not mine.

There is a small scrap of paper. I eat the small scrap of paper. It is the first thing I have eaten all day.

People keep shouting at me as I walk down the street. I am supposed to be under cover. I am supposed to be invisible.

My tongue is too big for my mouth, my cheeks have swollen up. I can’t breath. I CAN’T BREATH.

I crash through a glass door, the door doesn’t break but the noise it makes is worse than anything I have heard for days, worse than a hundred fingernails slowly scraping down a blackboard. A tiny bell rings and I fall to the floor in a heap.

I have no idea where I am.

If I could only sleep


Socrates Adams-Florou said...

Who are you tracking? Who pays your bills? Do you wear many hats?

Frank Morgan said...

You know I can't talk about the current cases in any detail, it's a dame and that's all I can say.

The clients pay the bills but I'm employed by an agency so I get a monthly pay cheque.

I also get my expenses paid (unless I got drunk and lost the receipts)

I do wear many hats (not at the same time) but I don't own a trilby if that's where this is going . . .

Socrates Adams-Florou said...

do you own a trilby?

Frank Morgan said...

no, I don't own a trilby