Philly''s P-Hine{t} /> Hardcore Phant-[o]m$ Part One Chapter I

I

April 24^th, 2015

9:37 a.m.

“Seems pretty obvious if you ask me. I’d say we’re about done here.”

It was nine-thirty eight in the morning on a Friday, a sunny-yet-cold day in Philadelphia, PA, and Special Agent Palmer’s third day on the job /> Special Agent Gestarrè’s (jest-are-ray ($)) forty-first year. Already, it’d proven to be an interesting relationship, as only moving time could tell for sure in the end. The snow begotten from the storm three days earlier still packed as if it’d only happened in the previous few minutes, Palmer being the only one who realized it. He did his best to let it drift out of his mind without notice. As expected, he was unsuccessful.

He ‘replied’ (mumbled), in response to Gestarrè’s ‘earned’ conclusion, still on his knees examining a blood-soaked chainsaw, “yea I guess…” barely decipherable.

Blood still filled almost every speck of Randall’s old room. His horribly disfigured body lay in several, often very unrecognizable, pieces on the ground and on and around the bed. The mother and father of the deceased had greeted the two Special Agents at the front door and proceeded to show them to their son’s room, barely able to hold in their tears. As expected, they were quite torn over the situation, but they had originally, despite all evidence and/or past experience/pretense telling them otherwise /> they did have faith that things might actually work out for once, something that they weren’t too used to #RaceMatters #CornelWest #MoneyMatters($). Whether it was their own fault or not, at the very least, the parents thought that someone would able to sympathize with them a little, but then again, maybe they were just being-

After some >less-than ‘sympathetic’ remarks from the older, more experienced Special Agent Gestarrè, Mrs. and Mr. Gähstŭr (gash-toor ($)) decided sedulously, at the subdued behest of a reluctant conclusion made with the help from some steps and pieces of opinions and suggestions from others (like Palmer(‘s lack of speech)?), that they leave for the rest of their home, to their own devices, to deal in whatever way they found helpful, amongst only themselves, in their just newly defined-as-young/dark, souls.

Palmer and Gestarrè continued investigating the situation in the room, alone, like aliens from different universes.

“Typical gang case,” Gestarrè said as he got up from his squat, terminating his examination of the bed.

“We’ll report it to Sergeant Fucs (f***s ($)),” he continued. “He’ll file it in its rightful place, under miscellaneous, pointless gang-related violence, and we can go back to our normal routine. Normal s**t. No worries.”

He straightened his glasses and pet his nice, fully white beard and then began to write something down on his clipboard (a ‘fancy’ clipboard with a cool, however totally-fake-a*s looking silver border around the edge (it was real (silver (I think)), I don’t know for a fact though so don’t take me up on that (so it could be fake (plastic)??? #WhyTheFuckDoesItMatter? (I dunno))) =p). Palmer didn’t care; he was engulfed in blankness and murk. He’d never seen a live dead body before. If Gestarrè were holding anything back, Palmer wouldn’t have noticed it anyway.

“It’s clear whoever did this will see the necessary punishment through, so long as nobody gets in the way of us doing our job of course, or trying to think for themselves in such times of ultimate moral ineptitude and disintegration. It’s a moot point. There’s a reason we have laws. You have anything to add, Palmer?”

Palmer didn’t answer. He didn’t agree with his senior partner (of course ;), although, admittedly, he wasn’t nearly as experienced as Gestarrè (or understanding of what the old man was talking about (ever)), but Palmer was smart enough to know that there was a bit more to his ‘problem’ than just that. He had a flash of thought and confusion swing through his head like a broken headset in the very short period of time during which he examined his options, too short a time to really do so, which was increasingly more often the case for him as-of-late.

After a noticeable amount of time had gone by, Gestarrè looked up and over the lens of his glasses to see Palmer still staring intensely out the window, his hands held together behind his back, ‘clearly’ unmoved, like he hadn’t heard Gestarrè at all.

“Special Agent Palmer?” Gestarrè inquired.

Gestarrè was completely content with this conclusion and next course of action (because he was a lazy a*s (‘clearly’)). This, even though the Gähstŭrs had told them of the strange phone calls, the constant threats, and the fact that Randall hadn’t been involved in ‘gang’ activity, or anything illegal for that matter, in over a decade. ‘He can’t be right,’ Officer Gähstŭr (or rather, Former Officer Gähstŭr o.O) thought to himself, with an added air of racism which I chose to leave out there for political purposes (:OOO) I-might-add ;). He’d made sure that Randall got over that whole ‘gang-motivated’ and ‘rebellious-in-youth’ phase very quickly soon after they moved out from South Philly to suburban Bucks County where they’d resided ever since. Mr. Gähstŭr was a good dad, and in a particularly tough time to be so, that can be saying quite a bit.

“F*****g gangs; lazy, immature hoodlums tearing our world apart,” Gestarrè mumbled as he went back to not caring about anything. “If only we could find a way to stop them from forming in the first place ($).”

Palmer bit his tongue in a strong wince.

“… -But-“ he stumbled “-but what about that ‘Barry Swindle’? The one Officer Gähstŭr was mentioning?”

Gestarrè sighed loudly.

“Palmer, I’ve been forced to tell you very frequently over the past few days and I’m beginning to get worried that you might not be a team player,” and then he pulled a cigarette out and lit it. “Don’t be assuming that you know any more than your superiors, slick,” as he inhaled his first puff. “We know what we’re doing as you will after you gain the experience. We have our reasons for doing it the way we do. You’ll get it in time.”

“There’s so much blood…” -Palmer.

“It’s just blood, Palmer. If you didn’t already know, you have quite a bit of that yourself so it shouldn’t be too much of a disruption to see it out of its normal habitat (in your body). That’s prejudiced.”

There was a pause.

“But all the limbs…”

Palmer was referring to the torn limbs and organs also mixed in with the human cocktail lying just below and around them #AMetephorFor:World,2016 ://.

“These entrails could circle the entire house, maybe even more than a time and a half-“

“No one’s denying how sick these people can be, Palmer,” and his tone was noticeably exactly-the-same. “Killers like this aren’t even human, if you think about it.”

Gestarrè was now back to writing diligently on his ‘paper-strapped-to-a-piece-of-wood-as-a-leaning-factor-for-handwriting-purposes’ device (fancy word for a fancy world™ #FancyBrandy™ #MakingTrademarkedPhrasesIsWhatMakesMeMoney$$$-), speaking plainly and without attentive mind or any adherence to other people or their own abilities to do this. Palmer figured Gestarrè a dick and assumed this as the final straw in his drawing a final conclusion on the matter (his opinion (final judgment) on Gestarrè’s personality and DOUCHEBAG character), but considering the circumstances, and the fact that he got bored thinking about it after about ten seconds (longer than usual), Palmer decided that it wasn’t very important, nor his place, to be placing such damnations onto people he barely knew. ‘If only most people could have that mentality,’ he thought.

“I guess you’re right,” he then said to himself honestly.

Here, Palmer’s thought quickly moved on and he gazed about the room, mostly now thinking about Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and the basics of quantum physics (the ones he understood (so barely any)) because his thinking necessarily moved so ‘fast’. He noticed a small, framed picture on the nightstand at the top of the bed. It was the only thing not knocked over on that table.

He picked up the picture, smeared with chunky, bright and eternally staining blood, and gently swiped the s**t off of it. It was a picture of Randall and around his sloppy #Drunk arm, what would appear to be a one-time girlfriend. They were at a party. It was dark through the windows, and there were people with smiles and hugs in the background.

Palmer smiled J. Then he wiped off the remaining stronger-stickier brain matter still stuck to the picture and held it closer to his eye to get a better view. It was a nice picture if it had to be nice, and Palmer figured that it did <3.

Then, after getting the sentiment he needed (because he was a p***y), he let it go and watched it slowly waver down toward, and back onto, the mattress, amidst the big pile of entrails as he looked, accidently though not completely without purpose, at the top half (specifically: the forehead with the left eye ;) of Randall’s split and severed head, probably one of the more disturbing aspects of the scene.

‘Hardcore B***h’ it read in sloppy handwriting, the kind that someone with a strong case of ADD and a terrible obsession with that horrible ‘hip-hop’ music would have: written in blood and embedded ever-so-deeply in rotting flesh. If all practical on-the-spot guesses would prove correct, the tool used for such a discreet venture could only have been a very rusty shank of some sort, because after only a few hours, it had already turned a nasty mix of green and purple with a black rotting crust.

‘Hardcore…’ Palmer thought.

o.O.

‘I think I’m having a strong feeling that there might be something more to this, something as-yet unseen...’

#WayTooPoliticallyCorrect/Judgmental/ObsessedWithWordsOverMeanings-Straight up hipster-as-s**t douchebag-#WannabeMover-#WhackedTheFuckOut-Crazy-F**k-Cheat-Dicksmeller-In-The-Morning-#LoveVomiter-#LoveHating-Confused-Dumbass-fake-copper-bullshit-

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