CHAPTER ONE

It’s a cold afternoon; the sky is thick with a slurry of grey clouds. Richie, walks out his front door heading to a place he knows all too well. He opens the door and steps foot outside, heading towards his car, he holds his files, neatly packed in a folder. Marching through the rain and wind. His neatly combed hair is now wet, his white Saville Row shirt is patterned with raindrops. Suddenly, the wind lashes at him, sending the folder and its contents scattering in the air.

Richie lunges towards the flying pieces of paper. The documents are crucial, containing responses from a press report he attended. It’s the culmination of months of hard work. He chases them, cursing under his breath. The documents are gone, lost in the wind and drenched in rain. He stops his pursuit of the paper. The cold seeps into his bones, a shiver runs through him, not just from the chill, but from the realization of what he has lost. He heads towards his car in disbelief. In the driver’s seat, the rain drumming on the roof of the car. He takes a minute for himself, staring out the windshield. He sits there, motionless. Then, with a deep sigh, he puts the key in the ignition. He heads out on the road, knowing he’ll have to start over. Pulling out of his drive, he heads onto the main street. The dim streetlights show the way. The storm outside mirrors the turmoil within him. As his mind rages, the rhythm of the windshield wipers provides a steady counterpoint to his thoughts.

Richie feels like he is losing control, day after day. It’s almost as if losing control of his documents plays as a metaphor in his life. Then, the familiar building emerges from the curtain of rain, a beacon of calmness amid his thoughts. He parks the car and takes a moment to compose himself, taking deep breaths to steady himself. Stepping out into the rain, Richie makes his way to the entrance. He sighs as he sees the office of ‘Ms. Heron’.

Richie knocks on the door.

“Mr Robinson, come in,” said Heron. 

Richie opens the door and enters the room. The walls are adorned with serene paintings coupled with a large window, streaked with rain. The furnishings are elegant. The sound of the rain is muffled, creating a soothing backdrop. 

Richie begins to sit down on the couch, the cushions yielding comfortably as he settles in.

“My understanding from our previous session is that you’ve been feeling better. How are we feeling today?” Heron asks.

Richie stares at Heron.

“Mr. Robinson?”  Heron asks, looking at him.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Richie grits his teeth. “Every time I feel like I’m on the verge of something better, you know, the cusp of doing something new, fate shovels shit in my face. I don’t know what the fuck to do. I mean let me tell you. As I left- “

“Mr. Robinson. I understand your frustration, however, can we keep the profanity to a minimum during our discussions? It isn’t a healthy way to express ourselves.” Heron interrupts. 

“I thought this was therapy, not a council board meeting. I’m trying to speak here and you’re telling me to shut up. You see what I mean, this is exactly what is going on in my life. I have you, sitting right in front of me, telling me what I should and shouldn’t say!” Richie exclaims.

“Carry on.” Says Heron.

“On my way here, you wouldn’t believe what happened. Mother Nature and her ‘physical touch’ decided to take my press report papers in the wind. Fucking rain drenched them! I couldn’t save shit. I get in the car, I head over here, thinking I’d be able to talk this out, but no, to answer your original question, I’m not feeling any better!” 

Heron listens intently, “I understand that must have been frustrating. It sounds like these events are symbolic of a greater issue in your life. You feel like you aren’t going in the direction you wish. Let’s explore that feeling.”

Richie pauses, taking a deep breath. “It’s the fucking line of work, that’s what it is. Every time I think I’m moving forward; something pulls me back. I can’t grasp the idea of what it could be.

“Do you feel like these are beyond your control?” Heron asks gently.

“Absolutely,” Richie responds, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and helplessness. “It’s like I’m not in the driver’s seat of my own life. And today, well, shit is just another reminder.”

Heron nods, writing in her notebook. “Let’s see then, things you can control would be your emotions, right? The way we control our reaction to these setbacks and how we move forward from them.”

Richie leans back on the couch, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “You mean what? Get rid of my emotions?”

“As simple as it may sound, it isn’t blocking out all your emotions.” Heron replies, “It is only a way of controlling your emotion, you’ll still feel what you feel, but you instead control it.”

Richie looks out the window, lost in thought.

“Mr. Robinson?”

Richie turns back to her, a gloom in his eyes. “Yeah, so, after all the fucking bullshit, I’m supposed to control it. How about the world controls itself, feeding me with its shit every day!”

“Why do you feel that way about the world?” Heron replies.

“Because nothing good is happening. I’m writing articles day in, day out. I’m going to jobs to get work and I don’t make nothing from it. My articles never get released, the one time it did, the editorial team fucked up the format and my name got screwed over it. How would that make you feel? It’s beyond your control, now try telling me to control my emotions.”

“Mr. Robinson. The way you feel is purely up to you. You can reflect on these… bad scenarios per se as a stepping stone. You can control the emotions you feel instead of caving into them to see a different way of approaching the issues you feel so familiar with.” Heron explains. 

“I’ll try. I feel like all I have is a putrid existence, you know.” Richie’s voice breaking.

Richie’s fingers trace the damp leather of the chair, finding the crevices of the cushion. He wants to fidget, to fiddle, the idea of talking about his lifestyle is reminding him of the issues he faces, the issues he hasn’t dealt with, the issues to come.

“Well, Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid that is all the time we have for today. Thank you again for coming, we’ll see each other next week, same slot as usual.” Heron says.

Stepping out of Ms. Heron’s office. The rain has lessened to a gentle drizzle and the clouds have started to break apart, creating clarity in the sky. A brief glimpse of the stars came to life.

As he makes his way back to his car, he breathes a sigh, reflecting on his earlier conversation with Ms. Heron, the realisation that setbacks could be viewed as stepping stones rather than obstacles or failures is a perspective he didn’t consider.

Richie reaching his car notices the raindrops sliding down the windshield. He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath of the fresh, rain-cleansed air. He unlocks his car, settling into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine and listens to the car murmur the revs. He adjusts his rear-view mirror and sets off.

As he pulls away from the curb, he begins to head home. At every intersection, the traffic lights are green. He doesn’t have to stop, he keeps going. He knows life has its challenges ahead, but he keeps going. 

Suddenly, his phone starts ringing. He aims to try get it out of his pocket while still concentrating on the road.

“Richie, it’s Tommy, you got a minute?” he asks.

“Yeah, make it quick, I’m driving right now.” Replies Richie

“Listen, company going bust, it’s called ‘Genecies’, they reported their quarterly earnings. It’s not looking good over there. You should check it.”

Richie’s interest piques “Shit, I know the one. They’re just outside the downtown district, the bioengineering firm.”

“Yeah, yeah, them. I think this could be a big opportunity, a bioengineering company going bust. It’s not no average company.” Tommy replies.

“Some shit the FBI would get involved in.” Richie laughs. “I wonder if they had any wicked shit going on behind the doors.” 

Tommy laughs on the other line, “People are gonna be over there reporting, company gone bust, I don’t know what else you do with your time but it might be worthwhile checking it out. Try being the first one there.”

A sense of determination starts to build within Richie. “Alright, Tommy. I’ll check it out.” 

“Sounds good. Drive safe, okay?”

“Yeah, speak to you soon Tommy.” Richie ends the call; a mix of emotions begins to arise. Despite the setbacks, there’s a glimmer of hope now. He feels challenged, but one he feels he can tackle.

Arriving home, he pulls into his driveway, the light of his car bouncing off the garage door. He’s sitting there for about a minute, contemplating the opportunity ahead of him, the idea that this could be a big break if he can get in there early. 

Exiting the car, he heads towards his front door and steps inside. The comfort of his home greets him. He takes off his coat, hanging it up to dry, and removes his shoes. It is as if the tension from earlier has cascaded. 

Richie heads upstairs to lie down. Crawling into bed, he feels the softness of the sheets and the comfort of his pillow, with a loud sigh and gentle exhaustion. His mind with tranquillity at the end of it all. The day’s turmoil seems distant, and in its place. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, a peaceful, restorative sleep.

As dawn breaks, Richie is awakened by the chirping of birds outside. The morning sun and its rays filter through his curtains striking him in his eyes. He gets up and is reminded of his call with Richie. He looks at his alarm, 7:42 AM.

“Shit.”

Richie rushes out of bed, chucking on the same clothes he wore last night, charcoal-grey trousers, a red shirt and his grey blazer alongside his leather shoes.
He has no time to brush his teeth. He brews a strong cup of coffee and with his mind racing, he rushes out the door ready to see what he may uncover at the firm.

Stepping outside, locking the door behind him. He paces himself to his car, unlocking it quickly. He turns the engine on and shifts into gear, dropping the clutch almost instantly. He drives downtown onto 126^th Street. 

As he approaches, the density of buildings increases. The streets are full of yellow-taxis and people eager to catch a lift to work. Men are dressed in suits carrying suitcases. Richie arrives outside the firm. He finds a parking spot nearby and takes a moment to observe the building. Nobody seems to be outside. 

He calls Tommy. The phone ringing, vibrating against Richie’s ear. 

“Richie, what’s up? You over at Genecies yet?” 

“Yeah Tommy. I’m the only one here. You sure you were right about the place shutting down? I don’t see any media teams or anyone even from the press here.” Richie looks around once again, yet nobody is showing.

“I mean it was word of mouth but trust me for a second, see if you can enter the building or something. I don’t know, you are the one outside, I’m not.” Tommy replies laughing. 

Suddenly, a wail of distant sirens began to whisper, gradually getting louder and echoing through the streets. A piercing cry, just consistently getting louder, sparking a sense of urgency in the air.

“Hold on Tommy, somethings going on.” says Richie.

“What are those, sirens?” Tommy replies.

“I’ll call you back.” Richie hangs up, dropping his phone on the passenger seat. He looks at his rear-view mirror to see a reflection of red and blue lights. He turns around to look out his rear window. A group of police cars are approaching him.

Richie rushes to grab his camera and journal book. He opens the driver-side door of his car and runs out. He remains cautious as the police cars arrive by one, blocking any form of access to the road or the building. The scene before Richie is chaotic, yet strangely ordered, as if every officer and detective know what is to be expected. 

Amongst the officers, Richie spots a familiar face, Detective Tubbs, a contact from previous stories. Making his way towards him, he tries to maintain his professionalism. Knowing he’s never encountered anything of this scale before. 

“Detective Tubbs” Richie calls out.

Tubbs, noticing Richie, signals him to stay back while approaching him. His face is stern. 

“Richie, what are you doing here?” he asks, her tone indicating that this is neither the time nor the place for a chat. “Get out of here.”

“Woah, just relax, okay? I’m only here to report on the building, I heard something was about to go down.” Richie replies.

“Go down? How did you hear about this – this is meant to be a confidential matter.” Tubbs replies with a mix of anger and confusion. 

“I was told, so I’m here… you know, public interest. Anyway, everyone knows they are going broke, what’s the big deal?” Richie replies with a smirk. 

Tubbs sighs, glancing back at the building as if measuring how much he can tell Richie. “It’s a bit more complicated than them just going broke.”

Suddenly, special response unit vehicles approach the building, given clearance to enter alongside homeland security. Officers rush out the special response unit vans equipped with assault rifles – running up the steps to the building preparing to breach entry. 

“Why the fuck are they about to bust open this door for a company that’s gone broke?” Richie asked Tubbs. 

Tubbs noticing Richie’s intense scrutiny, approaches him again, this time with a softer tone. “Look, I can’t say much but once they get in that building, either two things will happen. We’ll never see them again, or something will come out, that well, can be a shock. Genecis attracted a lot of federal attention, put it that way.  

“I get it. I get it.” Richie understanding the gravity of the situation. “Well look, you go do your thing. I’m gonna see what happens. I’m not gonna walk away from this.”

“Just be careful, this is some sensitive stuff.” 

As Tubbs returns to his team, awaiting the remainder of the operation. Richie takes a moment to prepare himself, ensuring his storage chip is inside of his camera, he gets ready, snapping photos of homeland security preparing to breach the doors of the building. He realises this could be his make it or break it moment.

After snapping pictures from his car. The building’s doors are blown wide open and the officers enter. The silence that follows is almost eerie, the landscape is coated in blue and red from the lights of emergency vehicles. Then, an officer exits, his face grim and focused – Richie captures a photo. After, more officers follow with the same look on their faces. Then, a small team emerge, their uniforms displaying ‘I.C.E’. Behind them, a figure, almost like a bird, tall and living, cloaked in white fur with a long beak. Richie immediately captures a photo.

“Holy shit.” Richie mutters stunned by the unreal sight. “What have they been doing in there?”

The commanding officers rush to get the bird in a van and escorted out of the area, they unlatch the doors of the van and hurry the bird in. Richie captures another photo of the officers raising the bird into the van. 

Richie tries to get closer, instinctively trying to get a better angle for another photo. However, Tubbs spots him again, this time he approaches with anger and screams at Richie “I told you to stay over there!”

Richie decides to comply and jogs back to his car, opening the driver-side door and jumping in. “I need to get this out now.” 

Richie starts his car and drives away from the scene. He pulls into the driveway and runs towards his front door. Without taking his jacket or shoes off, he connects his camera to his computer. Reviewing the photos he took, the images of the creature are haunting, yet there is something unique about it. Richie grabs his phone and calls Tommy.

“Tommy, dude, you won’t believe what just came out of Genecies.” Richie says. “A fucking bird, but not just any bird, think of a six-foot bird that walks like a pelican, a beak like the Empire State and fur as white as the arctic. I mean this thing was – “ 

Tommy interrupts Richie “Hold on a second, you mean to tell me some creature came out the building?” 

Out of breath, Richie continues to explain, “Listen they did some messed up stuff in there, I don’t know what else, but I need to get this article out.” Richie then hangs up the phone, without letting Tommy reply. 

He begins to write, describing the images of what he had seen – the bird remaining unnamed and only shown in photographs, he submits it to his editor. 

CHAPTER II

Richie wakes up, languidly rubbing out the crust from his eyes. He reaches for his phone laying on the bedside drawer. He unlocks it. He sees that he’s got hundreds of email notifications of multiple people asking him if he knows the whereabouts of the bird.  

He checks to see his article had been published crediting him as the author. He’s now in the eye of a media storm. 

He reflects on his journey through college of; one-night stands, revision on how to down a bottle of Vodka without vomiting. Workless nights, workless days, all to obtain a diploma that he’s only just found useful. He has finally made it. But, deep inside him a quiet voice was shouting. That he was a grifter, that he was a failure, that he had to change. Riche smothered it and continued with his day, undeterred, exalted. 

After a quick shower, Richie heads downstairs, making himself a cup of coffee – black with lots of sugar. He sits down at his kitchen table and opens his laptop, checking his inbox once again. He is pleased by the attention; however, he does not reply to any of them. He keeps them waiting, he plays hard to get. He feels eighteen again, star of the football team with the cheerleaders shouting his name, women wanting him, men wanting to be him and him there ignoring it all, basking in the attention. He wants them to keep wanting him.

His phone starts ringing. It’s Tommy. He answers.

“Tommy, the article has gone mad.” Richie says. “My name is everywhere.”

“I know dude. I saw, and I saw those pictures… that fucking thing is incredible, don’t you think?” Tommy replies.

Richie laughs. “Listen, I’m gonna go for a couple drinks this evening at The Bannered, you want to come along?

“Drinks? Tell me more about this bird! I wanna know.” 

“Yeah, man, look come for some drinks and I’ll tell you then.”

“Nah, tell me now! I put you on, you should tell me what happened”.

Richie repeats his laugh, now forced, “Come for some drinks and I’ll tell you.”

“Fine, I’ll be there” Tommy tone then turned confused, “and uh, the Bannered, isn’t that the on-18th Street?” 

“Nah, 19^th street, you know the one by the Garden of Eden.” 

“Oh yeah, for sure, I’ll catch you there later today then.” Tommy replies “We gotta talk about that bird, for sure.”  

“Yeah,” Richie laughs, less forced, more in control. “I’ll see you then.”

The hours pass in a blur, as day turns into evening. Richie had spent his time getting ready reading emails yet still not replying to them – continuously feeding the never-ending pit of his ego. 

He leaves his house, and in what feels like no time at all, he arrives at the Bannered. A pub, a popular one, known for its mellow atmosphere and for Richie, an opportunity to cash in his new fame for some… sexual liaisons. 

Richie spots Tommy, he’s found himself a table, far back in the pub and already has himself a drink. Richie approaches him. “Couldn’t have waited for me, could you? Already got yourself a drink.” Richie laughs as he takes his jacket off and places it on his chair. “What have you got for yourself?” 

“Ah, sorry mate. You should’ve been quicker, just some rum and coke though. Double.” 

“Double, fuck me. Take the night easy. You’re not trying to black out, are you?” Richie says with a smirk. 

“No way am I trying to get drunk tonight.” Tommy says as he takes another sip from his glass. “I need to see you start drinking.”

Richie while waiting for his drinks, gazes abroad the people in the room, his head moving from one side to the other. The bar is full of single women, with their girl friends, singing, dancing, playing about, looking for men, looking for opportunities. He nudges Tommy. “Hey Tommy, with every girl in here, I’d have enough butter to butter my toast.” 

“Tell me about it man, why do you think I got a double?”

They both belt out in laughter. 

Richie likes to sleep around. Women were like food, going one after the other. Never held a relationship for more than a month. 

“This place stinks.” Tommy sighed.

“Best place in town, ay? My ass.” Richie repeated. “I’ve been hoodwinked.” 

“It’s not that bad, I guess.” Tommy says, “rum is good though.”

“Trying to get lucky-” Richie was interrupted by the approaching barmaid who clumsily trips against the table.

“Ah shit, I’m sorry. Oh fuck, I’m sorry excuse my French.” The barmaid apologises frantically, “what will you guys be having today?”

Tommy pipes up, “I’ll be having another rum and coke, spiced and doubled.” He downs the remainder of his drink and hands over the glass.

“And you?” the barmaid asks, but Richie wasn’t listening. 

He was too busy staring at her, distracted by her beauty. Her lagoon blue eyes, her sun kissed her, her alabaster skin and her roman nose. Tall in life, just his type – and then she speaks again. 

“Sir, you’re not drunk already?” she quips.

Richie shook his head, “oh yeah, no, sorry. I’ll have a martini, shaken not stirred.” He says, trying to impress her.

    “Uh-huh.” The barmaid walks off.

    Tommy drumming his knuckles on the table like a baby chimp. “She was so into you bro.” 

    Richie then smirks, “ain’t that the truth. Chicks can’t get enough. That’s why they call me the aviator.” Richie then gazes around the room once again before looking at Tommy, “so what’s up with you then, seen anyone in here that caught your attention?” 

“Nah. It’s turning into a dry spell today, not interested in settling it. Might have to drink myself wet today.” Tommy hiccups. 

“You do you bro. Me, rum won’t be getting me wet, if you know what I mean.” Richie replies.

Tommy then turns to him. “That’s the truth player.” They spud their fists.

Moments later, the barmaid arrives with their drinks. “Here you are.” She places the drinks down on the table clumsily. “Oops.”

“So, what’s your name doll?” Richie asks. 

“Shelly.”

“Yeah, but I wanna know your name, you know, government name…” 

“Shelly Brawler.” She replies. 

“Shelly Brawler, that’s a good name, for a good woman.” Richie smiles, “how old are …you?”

“Is this an interrogation? You wanted your drinks, didn’t you?”

Tommy slams his hand against the table, “Hold your horses, don’t you know this guy? This is Richie Richardson! The aviator, he found the bird you’ve been seeing in the news!” Tommy grabs his phone to show-off Richie’s article. Richie’s name is plastered all over it, like Big Brother from 1984.

Shelly squints her eyes, “Oh, so you’re a big shot, huh?” she lightly kicks Richie’s foot in a playful gesture, “How much money do you make then?”

Richie nods down at the table. “You know, I’ve almost made it all. I got the power, I got the money and now…” he then turns to Shelly, “I need the woman.”

Shelly shivers, Riche thinks its in delight. 

Tommy makes a face at him. The face seems to say, ‘what the fuck?’ Richie ignores it.

Richie then reaches into his pocket, he pulls out a piece of broken cardboard cut from a pizza box, stained with grease, wrinkly and ripped in its edges. It has his name and number on it alongside a complimentary email written poorly with slightly smudged ink. “If you have any nudes, I’m the man to inform.” 

“Nudes?” Shelly replies, confused. 

“Nudes? No, I said news. What do you take me for?” Richie replies. 

Shelly then takes the business card off Richie, “Mhm.” She toys around with it with a scrunched up look in her face. “So, tell me more about this bird.”

“So, the government been doing some genetic engineering, some fucked up shit. You ever read Oryx and Crake? Nah probably not, it’s just like that though.” Richie laughs. “Anyway, they made some bird with human genetics behind the scenes and I.C.E come along and take the poor soul away. I don’t know if they are treating it like a person or animal.”

“So, where is the bird?” Shelly asks.

“I know where it is” Richie lied. “I.C.E got it held up in one of their facilities. I’m about to raise a campaign to have the bird released, you should watch out, my name will be everywhere soon.”

“Oh my god. That’s awful, the poor thing. I can’t believe you’re using your status for good, not many do that anymore…”

Hours later, in Richie’s bed. Arms around Shelly. It was the best sixty seconds of his life. 

“So… when are you starting this campaign?” Shelly asks. 

Richie is out of breath, it’s as if he had run a marathon or had an asthma attack, whatever you make of it. “Oh, uh, yeah. I’ll get to that.”

Richie gets up out of bed and puts on a set of denim blue pants, buttoning it up and buckling his belt. 

“You’re gonna do it right?” Shelly asks, “you better do it!” 

“Why’d you think I won’t?” Richie turns around and picks up Shelly’s underwear off the floor, he fondles with it in his hand before throwing it at her. “It’ll be done, I gotta keep the money flowing.” 

“Okay, I was just saying, we all got flaws and from my experience, many men-”

Richie interrupts her, “What, you some shrink talking about flaws?” 

“Did I touch a nerve?” 

“Listen here, why would I let a whore affect me? I had you in my bed, matter fact, you’re still in it!” 

Shelly throws the covers off, revealing herself in her underwear. She ushers herself off the bed, dressing herself in the same work clothes from the previous night, “The sex was as quick as it was to get my clothes on, you prick.” 

Shelly is quick, too quick. Stung by Richie’s words, she grabs her purse and strides towards the door without glancing back at Richie. She slams the door behind her, and just like that, she’s gone from Richie’s grasp. 

CHAPTER III

A month passes by. Richie’s earlier work begins to become only a memoir of what once was. It is overshadowed by the assassination of Steven Seagal orchestrated by Russia. Richie is back to zero. He is freaking out and just like that, his five minutes of fame are over. The attention, the spark of a beginning has extinguished, the power and the glory are gone. 

He was bedbound most days, rotting away and the days he wasn’t, he was out, trying to capture that lost spark. Richie had always wanted to be someone. He was a single child, raised by a single mother – he recalls his mother telling him that his father was the man on the news. His father seemed to change appearance every time he appeared on screen, black skin, white skin, blue suit, white suit, glasses, no glasses, old, young. He wanted to be just like him and in turn, be with him, see him, feel him, call him father, call him dad. 

It would’ve been rough, but Richie always thought he’d find a way. Found a way, found a way, found a way.

“Richie, are you there?” Heron asks pulling him from his thoughts. 

“What?” 

“You just blanked out.”

“Oh, sorry, where was I?”

“Your mother told you that your father was the news man, repeatedly.” 

“Yeah. That’s why I started this shit, searching for my father.”

Heron nods. 

“Are you familiar that most people spend their lives trying to chase after their parents. We see examples of this in, Oedipus for instance.”

“You’re telling me to fuck my mom?”

“No. I’m telling you that you want to provide for her.” 

He mulls it over; he remembers the last time he saw his mother. He had just graduated from college; football star and he had promised her that he would become big. He would live in a big house, he’d have a big car and a big bank account, and then he joked to her that he would have an even bigger wife. A month later, she died. 

Richie had never cried so hard.

“I don’t want to talk about my mother.” 

“Okay Mr. Robinson.” She flicks through her notes, “let us talk about your career, how is that going?”

“It’s going.” 

“You don’t sound very enthused; it was just the other month that you were on top of the world.” 

“Well, you know, what goes up, must come down – every king must die as they say. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.” 

“Hamlet?”

“Yeah, I’m just another cog. I realised that now, it wasn’t my work, it was just a phone call from a friend that made me as big as I were.” 

“You can’t give up yet Mr. Robinson.” 

Richie remembers the first time he asked out a girl and she told him no. He was devastated. He remembers the first time a job rejected him. He was devastated. He remembers the first time a teacher told him his work wasn’t good enough. He was devastated. But he always managed to pick himself up. He asked out a different girl. He applied for a different job. He cheated and handed in better work. 

Life was a bitch; you could only make it by cheating. Going the extra mile. Thinking ahead, lying, planting contraband, taking illicit photos. 

Richie has an epiphany. 

He cuts the session short. 

“Well, that was a good session!” Richie says clicking his fingers pointing at her, “Same time next week?”

Before Heron could even utter a response, Richie rushes out the room, ignoring what she has to say or her feedback.

He calls Tommy.

The phone continues to ring. 

“Pick up you son of a bitch, pick up.” 

Tommy answers.

“Richie, my man. Where you been?”

“Chilling, killing, slinging. You know how it is.” Richie was breathless, “Anyway, I got some plans, you need to hear this.”

“I’m all ears.”

“This is how it’ll go down, just meet me at Queen’s detention center,” Richie replies. 

The plan was simple. So simple, a baby could do it. Tommy is wearing his best suit. Ironed and crisp, he looks like a million dollars. A visitor badge on his suit’s breast pocket. Aside him, is Richie, wearing a janitor’s uniform – he looks like a bum, wearing dirty rags and a face smudged like he walked out of the industrial revolution.

They enter the I.C.E facility’s reception. Tommy goes to the receptionist, his accent is cleaner, refined, speaking as if he were on Wall Street. 

“I’m here to see my client.” 

All whilst Richie inconspicuously edges his way to the scanners.

“Name?” the receptionist asked. 

“Carlos Cruz” Tommy replies.

“I meant your name” the receptionist reiterated. 

“That is my name.” Tommy becomes aggressive, “what, you think a Mexican can’t be a fucking lawyer?”

“No – I…” 

“Look, it’s one thing to be racist, taking us back to the fucking sixties, segregating us and shit, but it is a whole other thing to be illegally detaining someone. The Alamo was more than a hundred years ago, and here you are, still giving me shit for it. 

Security begins marching their way to Tommy. 

“This bitch called me a fucking beaner, said Mexicans can’t be lawyers, she couldn’t even pronounce my name properly!” Tommy raises his hands in the air, “it’s simple, Ramon Salamanca!

Tommy is acting like his life depends on it. It’s working. With all eyes on Tommy, Richie sneaks past the scanners, vaulting over the alarm sensor and making his way toward the confinement. Richie’s path is clear. He lifts his mop bucket over the scanners and darts towards the detention cells. His heart pounding in his chest. The corridor is dimly lit, cameras positioned at each junction watching the halls. 

‘Authorised Personnel Only’ a door reads, Richie shoulder barges against the door, ushering it open. Inside, lights flicker overhead – casting long shadows, then, Richie sees the bird. He grabs his camera from his satchel and focuses the photo on the bird. A bright flash lights up the holding room followed by the sound of the camera’s shutter close. Richie has it. The photo to reignite the attention he once had, the key to his desire, held in one photo.