Martin couldn’t believe they were booking him, about to haul him off to prison to wait till either someone bailed him out…he couldn’t imagine who, not his Calvinistic mum or dad certainly…or he went to trial. A real cock-up. All that running. Three thousand miles. And all he ended up being in the end…all he’d ever been all his life…was an utterly pathetic damp squib who couldn’t do shit. Unable to bear it, he looked away from the ink the cop had managed to get on Martin’s vintage Frank Sinatra shirt while fingerprinting him.
Two dese/dem/dose-type Brooklynites were also being fingerprinted while they smacked what was probably vintage Hubba Bubba gum. They must have weighed over 20 stone…each. When they caught Martin looking them over, they looked him over, then leered and winked.
A thin-shouldered, “effeminate” Brit in prison? And to think he’d once imagined it would be preferable to a lifetime of picking up Jennifer’s dry cleaning. Or even paying off her debts. Or even…
Speaking of Jennifer, where was she?
Jennifer. Her phone she’d left in his apartment! He’d been so distracted by that porn with her on it that he only now realized the men involved were politicians he recognized. And…the rest. That stupid little bitch had actually been instrumental in throwing a major election! If he wasn’t such an incurable damp squib he would have, instead of confessing, silenced Jennifer back in that bitch detective’s apartment with just one mention of what he’d seen on Jennifer’s phone.
Bollocks! Bloody fucking hell! Was the only thing in his life he could possibly be thankful for that he’d finally stopped hallucinating? He looked up again. Right into the eyes of one of the gum-smacking monsters they’d just finished fingerprinting. The monster took a step closer. No one stopped him. He smiled. Martin cringed. Maybe there were things even worse than hallucinating…
And then it happened.
Martin was almost relieved to see Jennifer ride in on top of a T-rex.