By: Aithne
So there I was, your favourite crimson-coiffed correspondent, zipping through our gloriously grimy city in my trusty little red chariot. Yes, the city did entrust me with a driving license! So, if you spot a scarlet streak that vaguely resembles a car (and a slightly panicked redhead behind the wheel), that’s probably just me, late for another thrilling exposé!
Anyway! My daily pilgrimage past the police station — always a hotbed for, shall we say, energetic civic engagement — paid off in spades. I slammed on the brakes as blinking lights pierced the urban gloom. But hold your horses, these weren’t the usual HPD disco strobes. Oh no, these were the pulsating reds of none other than Velma! You know Velma — the cutest fire engine in the fleet, rocking that rather fetching pin-up art on her door.
By the time my little red racer screeched to a halt, the fire-fighting festivities were winding down. A crew of strapping smoke-eaters were busy wrestling hoses and boarding up what looked like a very soggy, very recently en Fuego building, conveniently located just a stone’s throw from the cop shop. Timing, alas, is not always my strong suit, so I missed the main pyrotechnic performance.
However, my fabulous colleague, the ever-prepared Venus, managed to snap some crackerjack shots before she was whisked away to her own adventure. So, kudos to Venus for the dramatic visuals you’re currently feasting your eyes on above!
Fast forward to the next day. My journalistic sense to return to the scene of the fire, led me back to the charred carcass of the building. And there he was, the Fire Chief himself, looking rather Sherlock Holmes-y amidst the soot. Cue an impromptu interview where I tried desperately not to drool over his amazing camera! That thing must have cost more than my car and my last three rent payments combined! He patiently explained it was his high-tech eye for detail, perfect for pinpointing where the blaze got its groove on, essential for those thrilling insurance claims and, ahem, criminal investigations.
The Chief, bless his fire-resistant socks, was still scratching his head a bit over the cause but was definitely leaning towards the “somebody’s been naughty” theory — aka, arson. Apparently, the building was as vacant as a politician’s promises, with the gas and electric cut off. While there was ample evidence of our city’s less fortunate citizens camping outside the building, nary a sign they’d been bunking down inside, especially not in the stairwell where the inferno apparently threw its initial fiery tantrum. The Chief even mused, that perhaps some disgruntled individual wanted to give the HPD a rather warm “how’do-you-do” but chickened out and picked the easier, emptier target next door, hoping the flames would play mailman.
Honestly, these derelict dumps are peppered across our fair city like unwelcome acne. Our esteemed Mayor and the visionary city planners? Well, they seem to be in a permanent state of ‘unable to locate the ‘do something’ button'” So, these sad structures just sit there, decaying and daring disaster, either becoming playgrounds for pyromaniacal pests or just accidentally combusting out of sheer neglect. A crying shame, really. Think of the lovely dog parks or artisanal pickleball courts they could be!
Now, get this. As I was literally typing up this tale of urban woe, a character straight out of a B-movie strolled up. Mask? Check. Cap pulled low? Check. Baseball bat for… emphasis? Check. And the pièce de résistance? A Molotov cocktail, just casually dangling from his grip like a forgotten grocery bag. This gentleman was clearly miffed! (He’s leading with our cover image!)
“They gotta feel what it’s like innit!” he declared, his voice muffled but his outrage crystal clear. “Standing about with stupid boards and chanting shit ain’t doing nuffin!” He then hinted, with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, “Well something might go down later… is all I can say right now… not sayin who or where… but something going down… pigs done fucked up big time innit… mans had enuff now…time to riiiiiise up innit!”
And just in case I hadn’t quite grasped the full depth of his, shall we say, grievance, when asked for a statement for the press, he continued, his voice raspy and echoing slightly from behind the mask, “They treat us like, you know, beating mans up however whenever they want…if their missus don’t give um some punani, they come take it out of us….had enuff bruv, we have had enuff!” He gestured emphatically with the hand not holding the flammable fashion accessory. “Now it’s time to give them summadat medicine they can taste themselves innit bruv…see them get well off that sickness quick when they flavour that pain themselves innit!”
So, the plot, much like that building, thickens and smokes! While our bat-wielding, cocktail-toting orator didn’t exactly whip out a signed confession for the earlier blaze, he didn’t exactly deny any involvement either. And he certainly left the door wide open for an encore performance with that kind of talk.
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Perhaps the Chief was onto something after all. Stay tuned, folks, things are rarely quiet for long in this city, especially when your redheaded reporter and her fabulous colleagues are on the beat!
