No Possible Validation

Short Fiction Inspired by Real News
Russell Twyce

2012

No Possible Validation by Russell Twyce

“This is something we have to do.” The police chief spoke into a microphone at a press conference. “We're required to maintain order and keep the peace." Whether he had anything else to say suddenly became moot as a windowpane shattered from being hit with a bullet. The slug’s trajectory was essentially unaffected and it struck the police chief in the left temple. He was dead before he and the podium he was gripping collapsed off the stage.

Another hole was punctuated in the window and a scream followed the shot by an instant: the police officer that had employed the taser weapon on the ten-year-old girl dropped off his chair with a shattered spine. And bedlam ensued as people dived for cover, in a panic. But no further shots were fired.

“Over the span of less than five seconds,” a newscaster said in a disgusted voice, “one fine police chief was dead and an officer was consigned to a wheelchair. They were engaged in doing a brave and often thankless job. It was a cowardly sniper—”. He didn’t finish his sentence because a 22-caliber bullet fired from studio rafters broke his teeth and devastated his jaw’s right hinge.

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“What a day!” Jen the station’s young weather-girl commented to herself as she crossed the darkened parking lot. She might’ve felt a bit nervous after a deadly day but there were some police vehicles idling in the lot, as the forensic team was still busy inside the studio. “Poor Bob.” She muttered about the newscaster that would be drinking soup through a wired shut mouth. But she didn’t feel much sentiment: the guy was a conceited jerk and she wouldn’t miss him.

Jen keyed her car’s door lock and slipped into the driver’s seat. And from behind, a pungent cloth doused in chloroform was clamped over her face.

“You will not be harmed in any way.” A male voice said in a calm tone.

Jen had just awakened to find that she was bound and blindfolded. The restraints did not feel like ropes. Instead she had been tied with torn strips of a soft sheet. The weather girl could tell that she was still clothed, so the prospect of an immanent rape didn’t seem likely. “Who are you?” Jen mumbled over a tongue that felt dry and cottony from the knockout drug he had employed on her.

“I’m the cowardly sniper.” He spoke softly and in an ironic voice, while he busied himself with her bonds. The mysterious gunman freed her hands and then took off the girl’s blindfold. “I’ve brought you here so that you could interview me.”

“I’m not in the news department.” Jen protested. She saw that she was seated at a table, on which there was a steno-pad, pencils and a thankfully, a pitcher of water. She quickly poured a tumbler full.

“And neither are the administrative staff that would’ve first received a statement sent by post.” The kidnapper was wearing a mask. It was not a Halloween type or an improvised thug’s mask. Rather, he was elegantly attired for a masquerade ball. “Yet I suspect you took enough journalism courses to conduct a proper interview.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“Because as the weather girl,” he chuckled as he spoke, “you’re the only on-air person at that station that has not lied to me—or the other viewers. You report the weather as you know it, or as you believe it. Sometimes you’re wrong, but you don’t deliberately deceive, as all other reporters and anchor persons do.”

“Why did you do it?” Jen bluntly shot out the first question that came to mind.

“I did what many people wish they could do.” The masked sniper turned the chair opposite the interviewer and sat with his arms folded on the chair’s back. “An event like the police using a taser on a child offends the moral fiber of most people. It shows that the police are NOT protecting us. They are just brutal thugs tasked with keeping ordinary folk under the corrupt thumb of a criminal government. The cop that actually used the weapon on the ten-year old girl doesn’t deserve to be walking around armed, and now he will be in a wheelchair.”

“The police chief didn’t do it.”

“He merited much worse for defending the action. There is no possible validation for a policeman’s using a high-voltage stun gun against a child. The police chief’s defense of an out-of-control officer’s heinous action was in fact, a commendation for the cop’s action. He was stating that in traumatizing with brute force, anyone that had the gumption to refuse a policeman’s command – even and especially a child’s, that the officer was performing his real function of heavyhandedly subduing any future thoughts of resistance to the authority.”

“So you dealt him death.” Jen inquired as she scribbled notes on her pad. “That seems to be as heavy-handed as the officer’s assault on the girl.”

“I interpreted the chief’s words as a statement of eagerness to the political higher ups. He was saying that he was ruthless enough to step into a role in the criminal political organization. So I terminated his political career, instead of just giving him a painful wound for his part in the atrocity.”

“You speak of this ‘criminal government’ but this is a democracy: politicians are elected into office by vote.”

“No they’re not. A party determines who will be on a ballot. When is the last time you felt you actually had a choice between anything but

‘bad’ or ‘worse’. I expect your true answer would be ‘never’, but the fear of police brutality and/or social ostracizing is engrained as deeply in your psyche, as it is in everyone else’s.”

“And you visualize yourself as the only one that will point at the Emperors clothes?”

“Precisely.” The masked sniper stood. “And I’m well armed and equipped for that.”

“So the police in this area should be warned.”

“Not just in this jurisdiction. I happened to be handy to this event, but I’m willing and able to travel to wherever out-of-control police need to be reprimanded.”

“Who are you?” The girl paused in her writing to look appraisingly at him. The seemingly young man appeared to be in exceptional physical shape. Edited for Release – Find the complete story @ RussellTwyce.Com

The End

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