bad guy

He looked at the highly-expensive, monogrammed, white shirt bound around his blood-soaked hand.

StoryKettle » Amy » bad guy

Copyright © 2019, Michael M Wayman

The policewoman showed a picture of some guy to Amy. “Yes, he could be nasty and evil. I understand that you want to impress your colleagues by nailing a crook, but I think Trace would be better than me at digging up the dirt.”

“Yes, I know who he is and what sort of guy he is. I could follow him for a couple of weeks and tell you what I find.”

“Thanks, Trace.”


The Hon. John Grangersmith, Leader of the Bigtown Council was not of interest to me. He was certainly nasty and evil, he certainly was heavily into council work, but otherwise I knew nothing about him, in other words he was boring.

So I followed him secretly for two week, this was easy, I turned off my Margaret Thatcher hologram, he couldn’t see me.

What did he do in his spare time? He lived alone in a large and expensive apartment. He gambled: poker on his smart phone, horses at the “Turf Accountants”, slot machines in the “Gaming Halls”, football on the pools, anything at casinos.

Where did he get the money? His salary was very good, but most of it went direct to a debt collection agency (a mafia service). He had money stashed away all over his apartment, guns and ammunition too.

Where did he get the money? Why did he always lose?

One evening he drove to a dog racing track and lost some more cash. He drove back on the side roads, I rode on the roof of his car. Why didn’t he take the freeway?

He stopped at a petrol station, I knew what he wanted to do. And I knew what I had to do: all the lights went out and the doors locked. That did not stop our brave councillor, he continued to the main door, it was locked shut.

He emptied his handgun into the door, but no he could not open it, he swore. He turned and walked back to his car.

Time for my first appearance, I sat at the wheel, he opened the driver’s door, he swore again. “Get the eff outta here!” I said “Nooooooo!” He punched me, but I was feeling very solid, he hit solid-steel me – very painful.

He pulled out his gun and waved it at me. “Ha, ha. It’s empty.” Was he angry, he needed to get out of there pronto.

“Get in the car, we need to get away.” He got in on the passenger side. I drove off gracefully.

On the other side of town I saw a police road block, I punched him in the side of the head, he slumped unconscious back in his seat.

“’Evening, officer! Yes, he drank too much, I gotta drive him home. Here’s my driving licence. No? The petrol station was closed, all the lights out, I didn’t see anything odd.”

“Good night, safe journey home.” I drove him home and threw him into bed.


“Who are you?”

I was on the ceiling in his apartment looking down on him. “I’m your nemesis, but you can call me Trace. Next you are going to ask what I’m doing. I’ll tell you.”

“I’ve been watching you for two weeks. I saw you in action last night, you tried to hold-up a petrol station, didn’t you. You certainly didn’t get any cash, you certainly scared the people in the petrol station, they lay on the floor in the dark and shook with fear as you shot up the glass door.

But you did gain something, why does your hand hurt and your head too. He looked at the highly-expensive, monogrammed, white shirt bound around his blood-soaked hand.

“I have decided that you are not nasty and evil, but that you are very nasty and very evil. I will be patient, I will stay with you and drop you in it when the opportunity comes.”

“But first I’ll take you to hospital to have your hand and head seen to. Remember to do as I say in future, or suffer.”


I searched his house thoroughly, I found all his money and weapon stashes and rehid them where he would not find them, but where the police in a house search would.


I went everywhere with him, I was his new girlfriend, his colleagues were amazed. Every night twenty-four Margaret Thatchers on his bedroom ceiling sang him to sleep. Every morning eleven Margaret Thatchers carried him to the bathroom and showered him. I did have fun, he was annoyed.

He was annoyed because he couldn’t gamble, he had no cash, and no credit since before you were born.


I knew he was planning something, he managed to obtain a gun and some ammunition and a balaclava helmet from somewhere. One morning in town I let him escape from me. It was clear to me where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there.

I texted the policewoman, “Hold-up in the First National Bank in the High Street”.

When I arrived in the bank, he was stuffing bank notes into his bag and waving his pistol at everybody.

I shouted “Mr Grangersmith, Mr Grangersmith.”

He turned, he saw me, he took his chance, he fired at me, he fired two shots and his gun jammed.

The shots went straight through me and ricocheted around the room.

He stuffed his gun into his bag and ran at me, but no, I was feeling very solid again and he couldn’t run through me – he fell to the ground.

The policewoman entered the bank, she put her knee on his back and handcuffed him, I heard a forearm snap.

More policemen arrived, the senior officer told the policewoman to turn him over and remove his balaclava.

“The Hon. John Grangersmith, Leader of the Bigtown Council.”