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Help the Homeless

Sitting in a police interview room, the man greedily drinks his coffee, burning his mouth and loving the sensation. A hot drink. A sugary hot drink. It felt good; he could ignore the cuts, bruises and (probable) broken bones, but the sensation of a Nescafe instant was immense.

"Mr... Penry-Smythe? Is that your real name, Sir?" the wpc asks.

"Yes. Yes."

"Sir, we have some suspects we'd like you to take a look at. If your attackers are amongst them, please identify them. You will be hidden from sight and you are in our care so please don't worry."

"I'm safe here, but I'll be back sleeping rough after this. They won't leave me alone. They're animals."

Looking at the dishevelled man, wpc Roberts swallowed down her disgust. He stank of human waste, but it was who he was that really made her nauseous.

In the line-up, an assortment of the underclass scowled and cursed under their breath. DC Atkins absently stroked his sidearm; a recent addition to the British police force, but one he was comfortable with, present company especially. Walking up to #6, he asks, "Why didn't you finish him off? He's hardly in a position to fight back."

6 replies, "You can only kill a man once, but you can beat him many times, DC."

The DC sighs and glances over to his Watch Sergeant. The Sergeant knows the instruction he's going to receive. It will be a bitch to cover up.

The next morning, The Times headline reads "'Master of the Universe' Chokes on own Faeces in Police Protection".

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submitted at 4:04pm

25 February 2009

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