Played Your Eyes 3: Headshot

He wasn’t a spokesperson, he was a tactician – he was somewhat good with words so they hoped that he would be able to convey what it was that ARMY stood for and what this last action they had carried out meant for them and the rest of the country. The government was in disarray and what remained of the cabinet had been unable to offer anything to assuage the fears of the country. That was not unexpected though, given that it wasn’t their country anymore.
The King and all his heirs were either dead with a bullet in their skull or on the run somewhere. They had taken all of the major settlements across the country – there were still small pockets of resistance scattered in certain places but how long would it take them to mop those up?
His group was composed of one particular section of the community but he had to speak to the whole community – had to let them know that ARMY was here to free everyone; that it realised everyone was held in chains. PEACE was the next phase – Project England: All Communities Embraced. That was the important thing that he wanted to talk about – the war was yesterday and it was tomorrow that they were interested in.
He was worried, because they believed that the media was not sympathetic to them – that it supported the deposed government and believed that the remaining royals with a rightful claim to the throne would rise up and claim back rulership. They had to be convinced that this was not a conceivable option for anyone anymore – that England had moved beyond such considerations. He had to convince them that he and the others who represented ARMY were not just some bunch of thugs who had driven away the bigger kids so they could just play with their toys. ARMY had to seem more than just a fighting force; ARMY had to transform before their eyes into its adult form: PEACE.
They’d been working on this a long time behind the scenes – everyone in the army knew of the intention; knew that this was what they had been planning – knew that it was their final goal. What use would it have been if they had fought to get all this way and then the troops had felt like they had been cheated by what kind of system was put in place to replace the old one?
Peter Hent was one of the first to step up and say – they all know what we’re against, but what are we for? And it had been a question that not one of them had been prepared to answer: no one had thought beyond the possibility of ousting the oppressors. Before the war he had been studying politics via the internet, trying to get a degree – here he was getting a chance to bring what he had learned to bear on the future of the country … it was terrifying and it was exciting.
Who would they send? What journalist would get the scoop? He kind of wished that there had been more options as far as media groups but that was part of the set up of the country they would soon change.

Played Your Eyes 2: Tracking Shot

‘So, Banks, do you wake up every morning looking like you tried to fuck a porcupine?’
‘Did I invite you in? I seriously doubt it – I gave up on poisonous cunts the day I dropped out of my mother and she walked away from me.’
‘You know you have an appointment today, yes? With the head of ARMY?’
‘Yeah, I’d heard something along those lines. Some stuck up bint gave me a phone call and told me I need to get myself detoxed.’
‘So you – ‘
‘So I went and got seriously fucked up, yes. Why? Because I haven’t written anything of worth in a long time and I was hoping that if I took enough drugs you all just might evaporate. But of course I am still held by the rules of some arcane contract that dredges me up out of the shitter every time they need some dispensible turd to go and stir up the other shit that floats around the bowl they call England.’
‘Yeah – okay – so how much detox juice am I going to have to pump you full of before you approach being somewhat more human?’
‘Are you sure you want to do that? I’m a bastard when I’m intoxicated, but I am way worse when I have sobered up – especially if you enforce rapid cold turkey.’
She looked at him – seriously, was this some kind of joke? A puke covered addict who according to the column inches he had managed to rack up since his spectacular implosion had barely been given the time of day by a single editor on even the smallest newspaper. She had to babysit this narcissistic no-mark prick while he jacked every known narcotic in the book into his veins? Was this just some kind of colossal fuck you to ARMY? It seemed kind of pathetic and low that this was all they could muster – here’s your big story so we’re sending you the worst journalist in the country to cover it. What did it say about what they thought of her? Asa Blumen one time hope of female journalists in the industry having to mollycoddle this fuckwit.
Banks leaned himself just close enough to the edge of the bed so he could puke on the floor. He began scrabbling inside the bag that was next to him on the bed and fished out a handful of ampoules of some dark scarlet drug.
‘Are you not worried you’ll OD?’
‘No, I have the constitution of cornfed cheerleader, and all that after I’ve been more fucked up than a funk band and an after party.’
Asa hit the speed-dial for Hunt Parser her editor.
‘Hunt – this is Asa Blumen; I have a question for you, sir, with all due respect, is this assignment some kind of fucking joke?’
‘Oh yes, Asa, of course it is. But the thing is you aren’t in on the joke, and you won’t be. You’re there to do a job – except if you ever call me again and use the tone you just used you’ll be writing the obituaries of diseased parrots and three-legged dogs from now until you retire. I can find some pimply intern who will be more than happy to shepherd our resident junky fuck-up around for minimum wage. Yes, you’re a babysitter, but you’re a very expensive one – so please quit your whining and do what you have to do to het him ready.’