Reading Time: 3 minutesI’ve no tools. I have no real use for tools. I’ve tried, but found my less than perfect results, my lack of experience and inadequate tools a constant source of frustration. So I tried to write a story. I tried to write a story that had clear direction, a plot, some interesting characters and loads of realistic, somewhat optimistically successful human interaction? He also tried to learn about improving his website, the sad tale about Hillsdale Hamburgers might help.
For no real reason I went back to thinking about tools. Often trying to be handy with tools and swearing each lame arse time that I’d never try again. Being forced to listen to people talking endlessly about their tools. Going on about their choice, their joy and the satisfaction of working with one’s hands to complete a task.
The sitting and talking
My thinking about a new story was interrupted by a murder of crows, screaming, flying, fighting and screaming next door. A frightful noise that would wake the dead and certainly disturb those who weren’t yet. The reason for this onslaught of terrible noise seemed to be an invasion of smaller birds seeking refuge or dinner in the crow’s nests. A multi layered range of grass, twigs and sticks were perched on the mobile phone tower nesting location.
The backyard was the large section of an odd shaped triangle, which shared a boundary fence with the shopping centre and a service station. The garden was home to only the strongest plants. Plants that had survived neglect, the rock hard clay soil and the complete lack of interest offered.
The crows
Sometimes flew into the green grassy “no plant to speak of space” to find bugs. Two dogs kept them away, even when the birds swooped down and attacked them. The noise during this natural interaction was nothing to the noise going on during today’s crow turf war. Indeed, the story I tried to write a story was nearly ready. One more smoke while pondering the story title / description. Maybe a murder of crows. Inside was safe and free of the silly goings on, going on outside. After opening a window, stripping down to my inadequately utilised sport shorts I started typing …
I tried to write a story
Peter had actioned some hard worn research, which placed him at the right place at the right time. It was all good except that he was with the wrong people. The crew he’d booked had not turned up, despite being paid. Two other low life weirdos had arrived to fill in. Unbeknownst to Pete, One of the two, namely Two had a close connection to the Police. Ally was in fact an undercover Police Officer. The One of the two, Sam was also an undercover Police Officer, but didn’t know that number Two was as well.
This concentrated confusion and disorganised subterfuge did nothing but hurt Pete’s chances of success. Pete got out of his van at the prearranged time and flagged down the truck. He was pretending to be the store manager, faking an emergency with his mad waving, his flagging and coordinated uniform. This target truck was a dark blue Ford transit, built like an armoured truck but cleverly disguised as a fruit delivery vehicle.
Phillip as owner of the security company did this with every new vehicle he brought online nowadays. Not all fruit, he did some butchers, some florist and some laundry vans. The armoured nature was very cleverly disguised and so to the casual observer, just another Ford going about it’s business. Its business today was transporting 8 million dollars worth of the easily managed “Euro 500” notes. The store stop over was a routine stop. A stop the bosses thought they could get away with.
Different sections
Pete soon realised that two separate sections of the State Police placed an officer in the crew that joined Pete. Their task was to make sure Pete was stopped, that nobody get killed and that the money be kept safe. In a safe and off the streets. Pete pulled out his assault riffle and aimed it at the truck. Number One grabbed their gun, as did number Two.
One and Two aimed their respective weapons at Pete and screamed Police. It was unclear who was more shocked, One, Two or Pete. It didn’t really matter because the ever alert truck crew saw all this weaponry and wild action and drove straight past. They hit their Police hotline panic button and sped past smiling at the chaos unfolding.
Police arrived and found One, Two and Pete holding each other at gun point. They laughed as they arrested Pete, loud and heartfelt, although the debrief organised by who’d sent the undercover officers was less so. It was a mess.
Distracted, but I did try to write a story
I went outside again to enjoy the quiet of his backyard and contemplated how to bring some life into this story. It sure was I tried to write a story, could it have merit? What about One and Two, maybe they’ll fall in love? Maybe they’ll kiss on the way back to the office. “No, that’s just plain ridiculous, I can’t do that. I might stay outside and think some thoughts. I might write about the horrendous goings on at Hillsdale Hamburgers.
An increasingly grumpy old fart posting rants, observations and trying to write somewhat twisted short stories for adults. All rights reserved unless otherwise credited © Alan Crawford - 2024
