Frontier Justice Extract

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is an extract of a short story I have written for University, about a serial killer named Arlington Wallace who finds himself placed in a Big Brother type house called The Jailhouse.

Submitted: May 06, 2016

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Submitted: May 06, 2016



“Lorraine, please will ya come to the diary room?” Gosh, the Geordie accent is disgraceful is it not? I quite despise that man, I despise most people in general. He sounds so…uncivilised. Actually, ungentlemanly is the word. It’s quite tedious being in here, if I am honest. I’m surrounded by invalids and tarts, the type who can hardly string a sentence together, without resorting to sex, drugs and foul language. As I said, uncivilised.

Thankfully, I do plan to kill them all. They don’t know that obviously, they think they’re quite safe, what with the electrical implant in my neck and the tag on my ankle. One of them even decided to goad me yesterday, haha, hmm I think I’ll kill him first. Anyway, I presume you must be quite lost at this point, so how about I fill you in on how I got here?

Well, my name is Arlington Wallace, and for the past few years, I have been living in Wandsworth Prison, the very same place that once housed that nice Charles Bronson. You see, life gets a little mundane sometimes, and in the end, you can either conform to this monotony or you can choose to spice things up a little. I chose the latter.

Having evaded the police for several months, I decided that I would indulge myself one last time before I gave in, and let the judicial system have its way with me. Thus, on one particularly muggy day fifteen years ago, I walked into Harrods and went on a bit of a spree that resulted in me gutting the security guard with a pocket knife, and proceeding to wear his insides as a scarf. I thought it was quite hysterical at the time, but the police didn’t. Neither did the victim’s family, who called me a monster and other choice words. Well, we can’t all have the same sense of humour can we? Anyway, I got whisked off to Wandsworth on a thirty year sentence, and presumed I wouldn’t see the light of day for quite some time. 

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