the pile of shit.
In reply, I stick him with a kick to his right knee, he falls to the ground on all fours with a yell. Then, I kick him in his face and he rolls over onto his back, two red rivulets flow out of one nostril and from his mouth.
“Arkham!” the Inspector calls me again, and hits harder.
I ignore him and sit astride the presenter’s chest, quickly taking advantage of the first moan of pain to ram my gun in his mouth.
“Listen closely, you dirty bastard. Listen like you’ve never listened before. Okay, wanker? Okay? Nod that fucking head of yours, if you understand.”
His head goes up and down and tears spring into his terrified eyes.
“When I take my gun out of your mouth, you’re going to tell me where the elf lives, otherwise I’m going to spread the shit inside your skull all over the floor, is that clear? Now,
where does the elf live
?”
I extract the gun but still point it in his face.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” he answers hysterically, waving his meaty arms like a tortoise on its back. “I swear I don’t know, Oh God… oh God don’t shoot, I beg you.“
“ARKHAM!”
“Shut your bloody mouth, Cohl!” Back to the fatty mass underneath: “Wrong answer, lardarse.”
I cock the hammer.
“No! No! Betto knows, Betto knows! Don’t shoot!” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if not being able to see the gun makes him safe. Like a twenty-stone child who thinks he can hide by covering his eyes.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know, he ran off, he ran off right away! At home, he’ll be at home, I’ll give you the address, eh? What do you say?”
I get up, before he pisses his pants and wets me too. He catches his breath and leans against the wall, keeping his hands in full view and never taking his eyes off me.
“Open up or I’ll shoot this fucking door!” threatens Cohl from the alley.
“Clean your face, prick.”
The DJ wipes the back of his hand across his mouth with a sigh of relief while I go and open the door. The Inspector has already got his gun in his hand, there’s menace in his eyes.
“It was jammed,” I explain arrogantly.
“Yeah, right.” He takes a few steps, making the human brick shit house wince at the sight of the weapon. “Him?”
“He tripped over a roll of fat. Took a terrible fall, it made him want to collaborate.”
Nohl would like to lecture me, but I think he’s realised by now that it would be a complete waste of time. Never mind that he doesn’t have the authority to give me more than a mild bollocking.
“Any idea as to where Gilder may have gone?” I simply ask in the end.
“No, but the barman will know. Get a warrant for Betherdo’s arrest issued…” I look at the two-legged ox slumped against the wall, trying desperately to pull himself together. “Siten, Betherdo Siten, at 1072 on the r-270.”
“…Siten, 1972 r-270,” I repeat with a sadistic leer. “Let’s see if your colleagues can put their dicks away for a minute and do something useful, for a change.”
“I doubt he went home—“
“Obviously, otherwise we could go and get him, don’t you think? You, out of the fucking way.” I dismiss the presenter, who shows himself to be incredibly agile despite his size.
“And Gilder? A warrant for him as well?”
“No. The press will almost certainly find out…” And Lonny would literally rip my balls off. “…Oh, and by the way, if I see another interview with Inspector Cohl in a newspaper, I’ll make you eat the entire copy, is that clear?”
“All I said was that—“
“Don’t say a fucking word. Don’t do a thing, don’t think, don’t fuck and don’t even wank off without asking my permission first, you useless shit. That fucking stunt you pulled in there could have gotten us both killed, do you get it or not, you fuckwit?”
He listens to my rant, staring at a random spot on the floor. He’s angry, but smart enough to realise that I’m right. He doesn’t have the courage to look me
In reply, I stick him with a kick to his right knee, he falls to the ground on all fours with a yell. Then, I kick him in his face and he rolls over onto his back, two red rivulets flow out of one nostril and from his mouth.
“Arkham!” the Inspector calls me again, and hits harder.
I ignore him and sit astride the presenter’s chest, quickly taking advantage of the first moan of pain to ram my gun in his mouth.
“Listen closely, you dirty bastard. Listen like you’ve never listened before. Okay, wanker? Okay? Nod that fucking head of yours, if you understand.”
His head goes up and down and tears spring into his terrified eyes.
“When I take my gun out of your mouth, you’re going to tell me where the elf lives, otherwise I’m going to spread the shit inside your skull all over the floor, is that clear? Now,
where does the elf live
?”
I extract the gun but still point it in his face.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” he answers hysterically, waving his meaty arms like a tortoise on its back. “I swear I don’t know, Oh God… oh God don’t shoot, I beg you.“
“ARKHAM!”
“Shut your bloody mouth, Cohl!” Back to the fatty mass underneath: “Wrong answer, lardarse.”
I cock the hammer.
“No! No! Betto knows, Betto knows! Don’t shoot!” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if not being able to see the gun makes him safe. Like a twenty-stone child who thinks he can hide by covering his eyes.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know, he ran off, he ran off right away! At home, he’ll be at home, I’ll give you the address, eh? What do you say?”
I get up, before he pisses his pants and wets me too. He catches his breath and leans against the wall, keeping his hands in full view and never taking his eyes off me.
“Open up or I’ll shoot this fucking door!” threatens Cohl from the alley.
“Clean your face, prick.”
The DJ wipes the back of his hand across his mouth with a sigh of relief while I go and open the door. The Inspector has already got his gun in his hand, there’s menace in his eyes.
“It was jammed,” I explain arrogantly.
“Yeah, right.” He takes a few steps, making the human brick shit house wince at the sight of the weapon. “Him?”
“He tripped over a roll of fat. Took a terrible fall, it made him want to collaborate.”
Nohl would like to lecture me, but I think he’s realised by now that it would be a complete waste of time. Never mind that he doesn’t have the authority to give me more than a mild bollocking.
“Any idea as to where Gilder may have gone?” I simply ask in the end.
“No, but the barman will know. Get a warrant for Betherdo’s arrest issued…” I look at the two-legged ox slumped against the wall, trying desperately to pull himself together. “Siten, Betherdo Siten, at 1072 on the r-270.”
“…Siten, 1972 r-270,” I repeat with a sadistic leer. “Let’s see if your colleagues can put their dicks away for a minute and do something useful, for a change.”
“I doubt he went home—“
“Obviously, otherwise we could go and get him, don’t you think? You, out of the fucking way.” I dismiss the presenter, who shows himself to be incredibly agile despite his size.
“And Gilder? A warrant for him as well?”
“No. The press will almost certainly find out…” And Lonny would literally rip my balls off. “…Oh, and by the way, if I see another interview with Inspector Cohl in a newspaper, I’ll make you eat the entire copy, is that clear?”
“All I said was that—“
“Don’t say a fucking word. Don’t do a thing, don’t think, don’t fuck and don’t even wank off without asking my permission first, you useless shit. That fucking stunt you pulled in there could have gotten us both killed, do you get it or not, you fuckwit?”
He listens to my rant, staring at a random spot on the floor. He’s angry, but smart enough to realise that I’m right. He doesn’t have the courage to look me
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