Who killed Marsha Hunt?
‘She wasn’t anything special, you have to let it go.’, My wife Patty said. I ignored her like I usually did. She was a good simple stay at home spouse, and I think the boredom of it and the media she consumed had bred that cold approach at times. I had enough of people’s opinions today, and I headed out for a smoke. I thought back on that sixteen year old kid, left mutilated – skinned, gutted, and left on a meat rack. Left as some packaged meat ready for shipment to one of those gourmet restaurants. Not a television network, or paper had reported it though, yet thousands had glimmered at the sight through their screens as a livestream had been setup. Thousands had watched, and yet the video had failed to trend. My police department – A shrine for justice had taken its time to respond to the matter. Almost like a child to a chore, they slowly made their way to detach the corpse from its setting in front of the Inferno Nightclub. Brats had to be dragged out so forensics could do their jobs.
Work the next day had been what you expect in a city grappling with a 50% youth unemployment rate, Recession pressure, and the usual jerk offs knee deep in a wars they couldn’t win, but would these invalids even be bothered? Cops, crooks, and hookers each preoccupied with their satellite like worlds. Reality mattered so little to these people, and you could see it in how they lived. A stack of papers were slammed onto my desk, as the bookie had disregarded the photos of Marsha I had neatly sorted out, and insisted I oversea the cases of overdose, gang violence, and solicitation, as I explained all those cases had belonged to different departments. ‘We all have to pick up the slack.’ Forced labour on a Friday, and tonight I’m in a more awful state then I can imagine. Mass graves, droughts plaguing millions, and my wife mentions she would like to go blonde. Where would Marsha be on a day like this, I think to myself. One more gin, and I can have the courage to walkout of the program change my wife’s made onto a show about airheads, and their trendy IBS anaemic bodies. Just some sticks for thighs that would eventually ignite themselves alight. I got up, and told Patty I needed a smoke to clear myself up. I headed back to Inferno, and in bewilderment that they had managed to get themselves open, but it appeared that having a sixteen year old mutilated by your door creates more buzz then cheap booze. Junkies, whores, and fanatics had just walked past the monument I created as an omen with glee. Their cameras captured the residue of blood with ease, as they humoured themselves at the possibility of getting killed, and being left as one of my monuments. I had not made an effect on their simple lives.