111. CIA Implant

I must’ve fallen asleep, cuz the security guard wakes me up.

You can’t sleep in here.

I’m in MacD.

Come on.

Don’t touch me!

Fuk.

I grab my black laptop bag and rucksack and move outside.

Cold

Rainy.

A huddle of homeless sit on the right, outside Tescos, in the doorway.

Two women, drunk, and two men, one asleep.

I plonk my self down.

Oi! That’s my fuken pitch, one of the women slurs.

Sorry.

I move over and back.

I ain’t begging.

I spot a bin liner full of sandwiches in plastic triangle cartons from Pret a Manger.

Can I? I ask, sifting thru to see what’s there.

Course ya can love.

You got a smoke? says the bloke that’s not asleep.

He’s not English.

No. Sorry. Where you from?

Poland.

I open the chicken and sweetcorn sandwich.

Bite it. It’s good.

I remember I’ve got 9 bucks in my sky rocket, get up and walk on.

There must be an internet cafe open somewhere…

Head up charing cross road.

Spot one.

Go in.

£1 an hour.

I sit at a computer.

Google hearing aid implants.

I know they’re listening to my every word.

Mr. Fox.

I know this lump, in my neck, behind my ear, is a fuken implant.

CIA level.

Eavesdropping.

Listening to my every fuken word.

Author: Mark Dark

Actor turned Christian missionary turns his back on his Hollywood dreams to combat sex trafficking in Cambodia – and finds himself tangled up in gang culture and a surreal internal world of drugs psychosis. Based on true events.