Jerry and the Mannons group
i haven't yet finished writing this, but as always i've gotten impatient and decided to post some here. this time, though, i need some advice from my fellows.
i'm trying to change my writing style, as i seem to bog things down too much with unnecessary detail. i've done it with almost all of my other stuff, i tried to change with The Land Of Dostollin (which is still under planning, just stalled at the moment) but the way i had to write for that genre exhausted me quite quickly, so i'm not overly keen on returning to it any time soon, and a big fat sorry to anyone waiting on it. it'll probably be a while before its continued/finished.
i've split the 1st chapter into two parts for ease of reading, but i'll have to post the prologue too, so you know what the hell's going on. any and all advice is welcome, as i wanted to see if this style isn't too boring, bogged down, too vague or bland. also, i don't want anything too cliche. i don't like cliche stuff in a work i want to be half decent. so let me know what you lot think.
this is still like a draft, as everyday i seem to edit parts, so don't worry too much about any grammatical mistakes or the like; they'll most likely be sorted by the time i finish.
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Jerry and the Mannons group.
PROLOGUE
No one knows what's going on any more. No one with more than two ounces of brains trusts anything the television or news reports tell them. Not even the newsreaders themselves believe what they're telling the viewers most of the time. About the only thing you can trust on TV right now is the weather forecast, and half the time even that's wrong. Through no fault of their own, of course. The same goes for the new radio broadcasts: all of the old DJ's have been replaced by people who like to remain anonymous, not even speaking or telling the latest news. Simply playing music, constantly, with no song names.
The country, and the majority of the planet, has gone into a sort of 'lock-down' regarding consumer products. No one knows why or how other countries are doing because no information is given, but in the UK electrical items, furniture, not to mention the essentials like certain food and drinks, are now being imported. The country or countries that are supplying them are unknown, and people cannot leave to find these places due to the 'lock-down'. The military guard coasts and country borders, and simply let no one in or out. They're armed to the teeth for this job, so they mean business. It wasn't long before people found their mobile phones could never find a signal, and connections made via computers to the internet or elsewhere were constantly failing, displaying a 'disconnected' message.
In England itself, no one has seen any fizzy drinks like Coca Cola or similar products for over 6 months. Not even the cheap supermarket-brand pop is around. Then again, there is nowhere to shop: all the big supermarkets are being used to house the homeless. The majority of those people are the ones who couldn't keep up with the necessary rent payments. Rent was one of the few things to be kept regular, despite the current slow but noticeable slide into poverty.
Many took it unto themselves to get supplies and rarer items like exotic foods or alcohol, leaving the low-grade imported items for others to purchase. Smuggling became popular and much harder, with a heavy fine to match if caught. A few individuals started to make livings by hiring themselves out as private smugglers. These people were the ones that were able to get away with it, one way or another, and not one of the incredibly long line of people who had been fined or thrown into prison for it.
These individuals eventually began to meet up with others in the same profession for help with bigger jobs. Then when certain knowledge or tools were needed they would meet up with smugglers even further away from them. Inevitably, this led to groups forming, specialising in the illegal smuggling profession. Many local law enforcers let this happen, anyway. They didn't even receive bribes for this as they would simply hire the smugglers themselves to get what they wanted without having to put up with the low-grade food and products.
They were hired to 'get' desired items by just about anyone. Authoritative figures, homeless, respected community members, even those that had luckily bought the land they resided on before the 'lock-down' had begun, went to the smugglers at times of need. As long as you had the money, the job would be done. Complete confidentiality was guaranteed.
Criminals they may have been by definition, but that doesn't mean to say they weren't necessary for the restraint of a social breakdown. They were now organised, and had their own hierarchy within each group, but some groups had forgotten the point of their existence as they grew more powerful.
Right now, its twelve months into the 'lock-down'.
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Chapter 1
Devious Deviants
Stacks of notes lay on a circular table. Tens and twenties, mostly. A man sat counting them, his expression quite relaxed, as if he had done it a thousand times before. Another man opposite him was doing exactly the same, except this one was much older. He had his face scrunched up in concentration whilst smoking a cigarette, as if half blind.
“Bill, how many you got so far?” The more relaxed man asked. Bill continued his pained expression, not daring to look up out of fear of losing count. After all, he had quite a hefty stack just next to him. He wasn't about to count all that again.
“Hey Bill...Bill!” The man continued.
“Taylor, will you shut up? Fucking hell.” Bill replied, still not looking up and seemingly counting the notes even faster now. “1520...25...35...55...1555...55...no, shit!”
“What's wrong?” Taylor asked quite innocently, but unable to hold back the smirk.
“You know what!” Bill said, defeated, as Taylor began to laugh.
“Bill, it was-”
“I don't give a shit what it was!” Bill yelled, only making Taylor laugh even harder.
A plain-looking man holding a screwdriver walked over, saying “Bill, you seen any fuses around? I thought they were under-”
“Yeah I've seen some.” He snapped. “Up your fucking arse.”
The plain-looking man soon dropped his pleased expression on Bill's last words. Taylor was in fits of laughter, now.
“B...Bill...it was-” Taylor managed to say between laughs.
“I told ya! I don't care!” Bill snapped again, then turning to the plain-looking man. “And are you trying to fix the bloody kettle again?”
“Yeah, its bro-”
“No it isn't broken, Marty, you just want it to be broken.” He turned back to the pile. “Now lets count this all over again.”
Wiping his eyes, Taylor said “Bill, please, it was 1565.”
Bill grumbled unintelligibly and continued to count from where he left off, Taylor replying “You're a riot, Bill.”
The phone began to ring, and Marty walked away from Bill, over to the long table where it sat, yelling “John, if its Frank, are you here?” as he half turned towards a door on his right.
“...No.” Was his muffled reply.
“Fucking Frank.” Bill grumbled under his breath, causing Taylor to look up from his money counting and smirk.
Finally, Marty picked up the phone. “Hello?...who's this?...what the...whoever you are, don't phone this number again unless you've got an appointment.” He slammed the phone down.
“Who was that, Marty?” Taylor asked, looking up briefly before returning to the stacks of money.
“Err...” Marty replied, not really listening, then picking up the phone and dialling 1471 to find out where the call had come from. Ear to the receiver, his eyes widened. “John!”
“What?” John shouted from the other side of the door.
“John get in here! Its your kid!”
The door burst open and John, a large, scruffy looking man, lumbered into the room looking like he hadn't shaved for the past couple of days. Needless to say, Bill and Taylor looked up from the table in surprise during the ruckus.
“What you say 'bout my kid, Marty?” He asked, tone of voice both urgent and aggressive.
“I picked up the phone, I heard screaming, I thought it was a prank, then 1471 its your house!” Marty bumbled, knowing that every second could be vital. John was already halfway to the door once he heard Marty say the word 'screaming'.
“Jesus Christ!” Bill exclaimed, stubbing out his cigarette, grabbing his coat from the back of a nearby chair and following John outside as Taylor said to Marty “I'll have to stay here. You take Bill, you're a quicker driver. I'll phone the Boss.”
Marty nodded feverishly, seemingly glad he'd been told what to do, and rushed out after Bill. Marty walked over to the phone resting on the long table, its receiver still off the hook leaving the machine repeating itself on the other end. He disconnected the call and dialled his boss's number, muttering as the tone rang through his ears.
“Come on, Jerry...hurry up...”
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if i feel its worth it, i'll post the second half of this chapter. if not, i'll continue from this chapter (or rewrite it) when i've totally finished and start posting it.
thanks a lot!
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