Mr. Pilgrim

It was December 16, 2011. The snow plummeted down from the skies above. The roads of London were empty; wait that isn’t how I’m doing this. That just isn’t my type of story—who wants to listen to me blabber on with as many literary iterations as I possibly can? Nope, I’ve finally earned myself several pages inside a book, soppy sucker doesn’t know what he is letting himself in for. This… this is how my story will start.

I was driving about in a 4x4 land Rover, brilliant in the snow—the car wasn’t mine though. I borrowed it. Yes, borrowed it, that is the word (not stole it, I wouldn’t do that. Or would I?). Why would I buy a car when it was so easy for me to just take one and possibly return it when finished?

I could tell you how I obtained the vehicle. I think the sentence is as follows. A criminal, wait no, damn it’s magician. A magician never reveals the truth behind his tricks. Damn, I really thought it was criminal. Well I can’t tell you anyway—that would be dangerous for me and you, definitely you.

Oh, by the way, my name… What is it… Marcus. Marcus Pilgrim. Well known thief around London, I would say mainly among thieves, yet that would be a lie. The police know me pretty well, too. Really, I shouldn’t even tell you my name. Might be bad for business. You are probably reading and thinking. "Okay, is this guy talking to me?" I am—the guy writing this, he’s just taking the credit for each word that I speak. I mean, who the fuck is this Shane guy? Some new author, never heard of him. Maybe this little story of mine will get him somewhere (doubtful).

This author fella, he probably wants to be the next James Patterson or Stephen King. Like that’s going to happen. I promised him, though, that I wouldn’t jump into any of his other stories and ruin them. I’m a man of my word. So back to the point.

Stealing stuff is simple for me. It’s the not getting caught part that you want to master. What can I say? I’m good at what I do, nothing is impossible to get, and I have proved that on many occasions. Admittedly I have been caught on several occasions, not my fault.

The blame for those occasions goes to my partner who for now, we will call Dave. He is currently shaking his head and saying not to name him (I will later on). Hopefully you read that as a whisper—that is what I did.

Some people ask why I chose the criminal life. I usually say I didn’t. It chose me. Which is just bullshit, I love it. I don’t even do it for the money. It’s the thrill, the planning it all out and most of all the chase! I mean, who doesn’t love a guy or girl in uniform chasing them? There is usually a lot of taunting coming from my end.

The cocky bastard I am, I'm usually shouting, “Come on, keep up. You trained for this! I didn’t.” Usually when I get caught, it’s because of a woman. It’s difficult not to stop and say, “Hey, How you doin?” That was a friend’s television show reference right there. It works too—well, most of the time.

I grew up in London surrounded by gangs, criminals, and violence, so it became a way of life. Except the violence, I don’t believe in that. Well, not all of the time. Sometimes your mind and mouth can get you into and out of many situations. Violence is never at the forefront of my mind during a confrontation. Not saying that I won’t fight, I just prefer not to. Okay, I’m going off topic here. I’ll get us back to it.

So, it was winter in December, lovely snowy weather fell down upon the ground. I was driving around in what was possibly a stolen vehicle, yet we discussed that situation earlier. I guess you could say that my life kind of flashed before my eyes. I wasn’t going fast (I was, I lied), yet I didn’t see the rabbits—yes, there were more than one. Four to be exact.

They hopped along the road, right ahead of me. I knew I couldn’t stop in time. I also couldn’t squash the cute little fellas. Yes, I have a heart. So I swerved to miss them and crashed into a young gentleman’s home. As in, my car impaled his wall, straight through it while he was watching television in the living room. His attention turned from EastEnders of all things. I truly do not understand why.

He didn’t look too pleased that myself and the vehicle was now inside his living room, I think I really disturbed his episode of the soap drama. What was one supposed to say after such a terrible incident? He wouldn’t stop staring at me.

So, the words that came out my mouth were this: “Don’t suppose it would be any trouble to join you, a cuppa would be lovely.” I wasn’t easily embarrassed—in all honesty, it was hilarious. Definitely thinking about it now.

He stood up from what looked to be such a comfortable sofa chair. I wanted to jump from the car and steal the seat. That’s how comfy it looked. I shuffled myself from my seat, opening the car door, ready to run. Even though my ribs were hurting like hell, something had to be broken and was.

He approached so calmly that to be honest it was scary, then he spoke in a feminine voice. “What in the fuck have you done? Are you going to pay for the damage?” he said. I didn’t expect his voice to sound like that; he looked like a ripped boulder and had such an awesome beard.

To look at him you would not have guessed that he was gay. No, I do not have anything against gays. I swing both ways myself, proud to admit it. I was just shocked because the way he looked did not match his voice.

He didn’t even ask the question, the one that would have meant more to me. Come on, you know what I’m talking about. He did not ask if I was okay. “So, no seeing if I’m okay, checking if I have any broken bones. I just crashed my car through a goddam wall. Your goddam wall. Seriously, it came out of nowhere.”

Maybe the better thing to do would have been to keep my mouth shut. That wasn’t me, though; plus it insulted me that he did not care in the least to even ask that fucking question! Is it that hard? Anger was the only expression on his face, yet for an odd reason, I just wanted to stroke his beard. It looked so fluffy. It felt like a cute dog I wanted to stroke for a moment. “I’m sorry, what? Are you kidding? You just obliterated my entire wall because you weren’t watching the road. Now you want sympathy?” He was very angry.

This man really did not like me, with good excuse. The fact was, he was not a sympathetic man. Definitely not. “Whoa. I think someone needs a dosage of chill the fuck out! I can pay for the damage.” I had to tell him, no way was it going to be acceptable to sit and take that. Even from a huge, scary, sasquatch looking guy.

“Okay, well if you can pay, then fair do’s. Sorry for becoming so enraged. You did interrupt a special moment on the show.” Okay, holy crap. Did he seriously say that? It’s a soap drama. They are all the same, constantly replaying old story lines. Tweaking them slightly, each show mimics the other. Garbage.

“Of course, I got money in the boot. You can take 20 thousand, should cover the damage with interest.” I’m generous like that—plus I did crash into the front of his house. He walked past me towards the boot. He clearly didn’t believe or trust me.

Yet, I wouldn’t trust me. My hair was a mess, I had five o' clock shadow, and my clothes were ripped. A drug user is what I would say my appearance gave off. The boot opened and the black luggage bag full of money was there. Can’t at this moment in time tell you where I got that vast amount of money from (in the near future, I will).

I pushed the button to get my window to go down, poking my head out, and I don’t even feel bad about what I said. “Remember 20 thousand, don’t take it all. Otherwise we're going to have issues. If you take what is needed, I will leave you to finish watching that crap you call television.”

He walked up beside my window, clearly angered by my words (I don’t know why, honest). “I’m taking 300 thousand and then I won’t profile you when the police ask questions. Happy?” he asked, still in such a calm manner. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? He looked angry, yet remained so fucking calm. It was extremely scary.

The decision was clearly made; it was pretty hard to argue after what I had just done. I did need that money though. My offer would have gotten me a telling off, a slap on the wrist. What he was going to take? Well, that would get me the beating of a lifetime. Maybe they’d try out their new torture methods on me before putting a bullet between my eyes.

“Okay, now I can’t let you do that. You see, there are several people who would not be very happy if I showed up with a large chunk of that money gone. I really did not want to do this.” I really didn’t want to do it, yet he wasn’t giving me much choice. I reached for the gun in the door panel.

As I pulled the gun on him, suddenly he became some kind of ninja. Disarmed me within seconds and hit me in the face with my gun. Bloody broke my nose. He dragged me from the car and threw me to the ground.

“In five minutes, I call the police. I’d advise you to leave beforehand.” He reached into the bag and threw me 250 thousand pounds. “Run!” he said as he walked back to his chair. It was at that moment I knew that there was no chance of getting the other three-quarters of the money, not without resorting to violence, which didn’t work the first time. He kind of just kicked my ass anyway.

Grabbing the cash he threw at me, I picked myself up off the floor and began running. I didn’t know where, the cops would eventually show up, and there was no chance that I was going to prison any time soon.

I ran and didn’t stop, sprinting through estates, past shops and bookies. Nothing was stopping me, home was where I wanted to go. Yet that was a dangerous place to stay at that current time.

A man named Fenix was awaiting my arrival with the money—he wasn’t a nice person. I once had to watch as he tortured a young man who had stolen from him. He cut his hands off and then after heating the bottom of a frying pan up, he cauterized the wounds. He made the poor guy suffer for hours, before he pulled a rather large axe from his weapon cabinet. He called it his tool cabinet.

It didn’t have any tools in it that could be referred to as normal tools by the average person. There were large blades, axes, knives, and several guns in there. He had his two henchmen Karl and Archie place the wounded young man on a thick wooden table. Karl and Archie were rather fat fella’s, loved their food. I avoided them at every chance I could.

Anyone with eyes and a brain could have known what was about to happen. I tried not to watch. He didn’t like that. Fenix wanted everyone to see the thief die. “Watch or you’re next!” he shouted. My eyes struggled to stay open as he lifted the axe into the air and swung it down, slicing straight through the skin and bone.

The axe drove itself half way through his neck; the guy was still alive. How, I do not know. Fenix took another swing and the head rolled off the table. I will admit, I vomited. That was not a sight that I planned to see that day and I never wanted to see anything like that again.

So, that is why for every reason, I do not want to go to Fenix without the money I owe him. Unhappy would be a polite way to put it. Dangerously pissed off is the impolite way to put it. In a one-on-one fair fight, I could probably beat Fenix, but he doesn’t play fair. So, in that retrospect, I’d die.

The thing is this is only the beginning of my story. I have so much more to tell and more about certain people to reveal—all while on the run from a psychotic mad man and his crew and the police.

So, if you're reading this then there is the possibility that I am dead (hopefully not). I’m good at what I do, yet what I do causes a lot of trouble. For me and others who associate themselves with me.

Maybe some other time, I will tell you the remainder of this story. Maybe. Depends on who is reading this. Is someone actually reading this? Well, I guess you will hear from me in the next couple of years.

I may even be the center of attention in this poor shmuck's novel. Now that would be bonkers. Bye for now, you butt munching, book-dwelling fuckers. Not very nice of me, is it? I couldn’t care less. We are who we are.

Mr. Pilgrim