The
government newspapers—a daily tabloid and a broadsheet, The Orb and The
Inquisitor—were open under their noses. Pictures of the exterior of the
latest murder house, along with photographs of the victims extracted from their
Asylum patient files, took prominence on the front pages. The headlines
screamed: Butchery in Lie, Death in the Community, Fresh
Murders, with the promise of more details and further pictures—shots of the
butchered corpses—on the inside pages. As ever, the press had their sources,
and a scurrilous police photographer had provided the goods.
The fifteen
minutes of morning break was almost up and by now an audible buzz was about the
room on the subject of these murders most foul. People were animated by the
heinous crimes. Joe and Mordechai began to vent on the topic, too.
—“I hope
they get the fucker soon,” was Grudge’s contribution to the discussion. “He
must be one sick bastard! Look at the details, he chopped them to bits.”
—“I
wouldn’t count on the police to find him that quickly, Big Grudge,” Mordechai said.
“Of course, it would be a different story if it was you blogging against the
government. They’d be around to your gaff in a second.”
—“Easy,
Mord,” Joe said, throwing his eyes towards the listening device attached to the
canteen wall. “Watch what you’re saying, you never know when they’re monitoring
you.”
Mordechai
put his finger to his lips and smiled. Grudge nodded. It was an unusually
perceptive remark from Joe.
The horn
blasted again. The drones returned to the factory floor and resumed their chores.
©Brian Ahern 2014
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