A collection of three geeks featuring in a thrill seek, caught up in a trauma, in a town of mafia diplomacy and that they never planned to be in. They are not suspicious of what is about to happen. And that calls upon the STRANGE CALL and subsequently collected in action series.
There is always a crime committed but not a culprit to find, and when there is, only the wrong people are found. However, Shanks Rivella and Steve Doyle face an upcoming blast of Jensen Smith, who appears to make things flame out. But their extraordinary powers of deduction generally solve the mystery, often to the discomfiture of the official police force.
These old boys from college Shanks and Steve happen not to look for any trouble, but trouble comes their way. The more they try to fix up issues, the more it gets worse. Where shall it end?
Shanks is a man of many facets, and I do not share the common perception of him as cold and humourless: his sense of fun can be sparkling, and there are moments of rare pathos.
********
THE HOUSE WAS SILENT when Shanks got home, but that meant nothing. In his youth, his parents would know he was home because his music would be blaring from the ghetto box in his room. Nowadays guys used headphones or ear buds or whatever they called them 24/7. He was fairly confident that was where Steve was right now, on the computer, ear buds firmly in place. The house could catch fire, and he would have no idea.
Steve was a guy of keys, pressing keys all day. He could sit in front of his laptop and forget to take lunch. He said information technology was his talent and his dream and his laptop his friend.
Despite this, Shanks shouted at the top of his lungs, “Steve!” There was no answer. There hadn't been an answer in at least three years. He poured himself a drinks pomegranate vodka with a splash of lime and collapsed onto the worn club chair. The chair had been Steve's favorite, and yeah, that was probably no big deal, keeping the chair here and collapsing in it with a drink at the end of the day, but he found it comforting, so tough.
How the hell, Shanks had wondered before today, would he pay for the house rent bills on his current wedges of club bagging? Now that wasn't a concern because there was simply no way. He took another sip, glanced out the window, pondered where he would go from here. Nobody was hiring and as Vic his operator had so delicately pointed out, he was damaged goods.
He thought about what other kind of job He could do but realized that he had no other marketable skills. He was hot-tempered, disorganized, ornery, not a team player. If he took home a work report card, it would read, “Does not play well with others" That worked as a reporter going after a story. It worked almost nowhere else.
He hit his head as he looked at the calendar. ‘I hate Sundays,’ He said to the empty room. He flipped through the colours coded hangers in His wardrobe, making sure that he had the correct clothes for the week ahead. Black jeans for Monday. Check. White for Tuesday. Check. Red jean for Wednesday.
He is a DJ and he performs at club Amnesia every weekend. He's now in a hurry to be there and start it off. A street bash has been put up and it has been a must-attend.
"Steve, let's go" he shouted one more time.
*******
9pm along Jinja highway, body to body at the roadside. The party was thundering outside the bait-and-tackle shops with disintegrating roofs and broken signs that stood next to shiny new convenience stores, and futuristic high rise apartment complexes that rose skyward on either side of narrow, retro streets lined with wholesalers of bacon barbecue.
This street was busy and was the best stop for fashion parties. It's pavemented ground allowed the passers by to glance at the Fashion stars. The smell of roasted barbecue prompted everyone to buy one..
The cold air was not an issue the dressing of the crowd could show it. At least three motorcycles arrived in every couple of seconds dropping party animals. Ladies in this town loved putting on tuxedos along with bikinis as the bad boys put on Gucci and leather.
Sounds of Miley Cyrus' We can't stop in the air.
Red cups and sweaty bodies
everywhere.
Hands in the air like we don't
Care.
Cheering loud at the speed freak cars down the road. The night being a long waited one, it's time to hit the soles off. Everybody out of control, the liquor has done it, screaming throats out as one favourite car passes by accompanied by noises of drunk dudes around the block.
If you not ready to go home,
Let me get the hell know!
"Woo-hoo! that's Paul Walker of fast and furious" shouted a gigantic bad boy in a binge drinking crowd.
"Paul Walker passed away nigga, that's Jason" said another dude with a bottle of wine in hand.
The Dj suddenly stopped the music.
The dancy crowd looked bazark "what kind of Dj is this? turn the music on, we're gonna go all night."
"Hey guys look, look at that car!" the DJ yelled jumping out of his box.
A sound of squishing tyres turned everyone's gaze toward the slopping end of the highway, what's going on?
A black saloon car with headlights off slopping in a way as if the driver has lost it's control. Swerving in the road, then somebody jumps out and rolls down the road, gets up freaking fast, and starts off.
"Get that brat, what's wrong with him?" The crazy crowd sprinted like a swam of bees after him.
Only running around this town could get you into trouble, it doesn't need them to know what's going on, their hands are just blood guilt.
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Stŕânge Ćall
Non-FictionDo or die. when tragedy strikes, it matters not young or old. Whom have you got to trust? These fresh boys have got piss to cleanse. Watch em twist their fate. Inevitable trauma meets their destiny.
