15 November 2012
It was a fragile stability, that kept the man in his place. Shuffling up and down corridors, inner turmoil etched on his face.
He hated the indignity, when summoned to cue for his meds. Hated the rubberised mattresses, and the rough starched sheets on the beds.
Found no comfort in the day room, not content to watch tv. So his days where filled with anguish, and the memory of when he was free.
Tommy was an old school hard man, slowly tenderised by age. In his day it didn't take much to throw Old Tommy into a rage.
He'd done time at Her Majesty's Pleasure, thirteen years in all wiped from his youth. But Tommy was 76 now. Frail of body and long of tooth.
No one ever came to visit him, because he buried both his sons. A weight around his shoulders still, for they both grew up around guns.
What he hated the most where the Carers, not a single one was kind. Leaving the old folks lying in shit, and robbing the poor buggers blind.
Most of them where foreign, and all of them where rough. He'd thought: "I'll cut their fucking hands off if they ever touch my stuff!".
It was on the 15th of November, a damp and dismal day, when Alfred in the next room, had a stroke and passed away.
Tommy heard the Carers laughing, as they went to clear the room. As they rifled through Alfred's possessions, they called him a "Creepy Old Loon".
Tommy couldn't contain his fury, his face turning purple and red. He opened his old violin case and said: "You don't speak Ill of the dead!".
Inside was a Thompson machine gun, a relic from crazy old times. For years Tommy had kept it well hidden, but now they would pay for their crimes.
Tommy dressed in his finest pin stripe, though it was larger and didn't quite fit. He locked and loaded the Thompson, and said to himself: "This is it!".
Tommy knew he wasn't too agile, had to get them all into one place. He'd forgotten he'd not put his teeth in, as a toothless grin grew on his face.
He shuffled into the corridor, thinking "This will work a charm". Then giggled, grinned and dribbled as he smashed the fire alarm.
Tommy knew they all would gather in the car park just outside. He pushed open a fire exit, and the first of the Carers died.
As Tommy squeezed on the trigger, he was feeling pretty slick, but in all of the excitement, he'd forgotten about the kick. It nearly took his arm off, and he thought he heard a crack, as he flew back through the fire door, and landed on his back.
Not deterred by bumps and bruises, Tommy was soon back on his feet, Grabbed a cushion for his shoulder, and took aim at the retreat. For the fire alarm was still ringing, and it was ringing pretty loud. Tommy started spraying bullets, at the Carers in the crowd.
As the old folk huddled gobsmacked, on the car park, in the rain. Tommy put the last few bullets in the Care Home Managers brain.
Now he's back at Her Majesty's Pleasure, doing life without parole. Where the screws are polite and friendly, and the food is never cold.
Tommy • Opuss № I