This is a short story I began writing in November '11 and completed around the next month The idea came after I'd spent a day in Central London observing the tourism of the area. After a while I began to wonder what it would be like if someone just jumped into their car and plowed through all the tourists.
Admittedly, this is far from being one of my best pieces, but I think it has a strong storyline and some good phrases. Enjoy!
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Day in and day out I saw them walking around with their A to Z travel guides, "I Heart London" t-shirts and their fancy digital SLR cameras. Tourists fucking pissed me off. It was bad enough driving them around, but each time I had to stop at a green light because they didn't know the the difference between the stop and go figures I got one step closer to putting my foot down and simply speeding through them. I knew that one day it would inevitably happen. I'd be plowing through those creatures like a harvester through hay, sending them flying as rabbits do when hit by a car; And I'd smile, no, I'd laugh with both pleasure and amusement. Being arrested was almost a certainty, but it was the perfect idea.
The day it happened began like any other: I awoke, showered, shaved and had my usual breakfast of two slices of Marmite on toast. Beyond that, nothing was, or would be, normal. I dressed in just a plain polo shirt and blue jeans, nothing like the "presentable" crap I wore on a normal day, made up some lunch (if I lasted that long, or remembered to eat) and some bottled water - a man like me needed to remain liquidated if I wanted my performance to be up to scratch and perfect. Perfect killing. Now there's a phrase I never thought I'd relate to; plowing, killing, destroying. Three brutal acts performed in one day, and the only emotion I felt was hate. Pure, dirty fucking hate.
I sat in my cab in front of the fuck-ugly tower block I spent my long, miserable days living in and let the engine warm up. It had just gone 8am so tourists would still be asleep in their swanky hotel rooms, dreaming of the London Eye and Trafalgar lions. Little did those tourists know that these would be their final dreams, or, failing that, their final happy ones. I was their nightmare about to come true. I was the bomb on the underground. The flight which fell into the sea. Everything a tourist would shit himself over.
The drive towards Central was uneventful and as boring as any other day with a bunch of students being the closest to tourists I saw and although despicable, they weren't my target for today. For 20 minutes I drove, staring hard ahead, thinking about nothing but giving those tourists a flying lesson. It was still early but traffic was beginning to build, indicating that I was close. Then, slowly, the Gherkin building began to grow as it came closer. I could tell Tower Hill - location of the Tower of London and Tower Bridge, two major tourist hotspots - were just about round the corner. It was nearly time.
I turned and the road leading to the Tower Bridge crossing was ahead of me. This whole area within a 4 mile radius would soon be swarming with feral tourists. I parked behind the Tower Hamlets pub and waited with a book. It was 8:45.
By quarter past nine the tourists were starting to appear in crowds, climbing off of the roofless tour buses and piling out of Tower Hill station. I stood looking over the side of Tower Bridge at the blue and brown rippling waters while the travellers posed for cameras and tour buses were driven over the bridge each way.
I then made my way back to the car, studying the road as I went, noting the spots where tourists crossed towards the tower and bridge, still unaware of the fate that awaited them. Back in the car I put on some sunglasses and a hat to reduce the risk of being recognised, hit play on the CD player for some angry Amon Amarth and after letting the engine warm up, exited the car park towards London's tower of torture and death. The traffic was still light at this point and as I put my foot down to pick up some speed, my first victim stepped into the road. As the figure came closer I prepared myself for the hit. 3 seconds later I felt it - a hard thump on the bumper followed by a wail and the somersaulting body of a thirty something man. I had no time to stop, but in my rear-view mirror I could see the body land followed by a small camera which, like the body, bounced slightly then settled. A smile escaped my lips as I saw people run into the road towards the body which by now was either a corpse, or, at the very least, mauled beyond recognition.
I drove past St. Paul's, the Gherkin and Samuel Pepys business snob's bar along with numerous office blocks until I finally arrived at the long straight commonly known as Victoria Embankment. To my left was the Thames with the London Eye in the distance and to my right was a small green and side road lined with architectural buildings. It was picturesque with the sun low in the sky and worthy of admiration, but that would take time, and time I didn't have. The pigs would be after me soon and I had tourists to destroy.
The traffic moved at a comfortable speed with no to little amount of hold-ups and soon I could see the tip of the clock tower, something which those creatures like to mistakenly call Big Ben. The bunch of uninformed cretins. I was fast approaching another tourist hotspot: Victoria Square - the location of the Houses of Parliament and neighbour of the clock tower, Millenium Bridge and Westminster Abbey. Not forgetting a set of headlights where tourists didn't know the difference between the red 'stop' man and the green 'cross' man. I could take down five in one hit here.
Victoria Square traffic was at its usual heaviness, but I wasn't put off, it just meant more targets would be floating around.
As I waited at the traffic lights I heard a familiar London sound: sirens, and for the first time in all my years of living and working here I ducked my head down. It was obvious that they were after me, but I wasn't ready to be caught. Not just yet anyway. A few more deaths and injuries were due before they could lock me up.
I kept my head down and picked at my jeans until a set of flashing lights went past just as the traffic lights started to change. I was safe. Others were not. The cars ahead of me shifted and I turned left and onto the pavement where I sped up.
Some tourists escaped my path, others were knocked down like bowling pins. Their expressions would never be forgotten, they were looks of true fear. The type they've never felt before and, more than likely, would never feel again. One by one the car hit the feral creatures sending them in all directions. Those who weren't hit either laid flat on the patches of grass around the square or were crouched beside my victims which included Asians, Africans, Whites and even a judge or two. I didn't discriminate, I hit whoever crossed my path.
Having gone round Victoria Square, I sped towards my next destination: Trafalgar Square. I wouldn't be able to drive through the square, but a few road-crossers would be enough to satisfy my urges. The ringing of sirens was loud and irritating, but my current adrenaline rush, coupled with the heavy traffic, prevented any fear from taking away my fun. And so I continued, now on my way round the corner to Soho after aboloshing some Trafalgar tourists.
It was starting to cloud over with what looked like some ugly rain-clouds. If the rain came now I'd be slowed down, adding to the risk of being caught, so I sped up, desperate to terrorise Soho.
The CD I'd been listening to ended and the radio turned on to Capital. The news was on; "A red taxi has been seen driving through Central London and hitting vistors and workers" it said, "If you see this happening, the Met has advised the public to avoid the car and driver and to alert the police by dialing 999," the female continued.
So, they were on to me. It was time to turn the caution up a notch and be extra vigilant. It'd be hard, but I had no choice. It was either be vigilant or be caught, and I knew which I'd prefer.
Thinking quickly I decided to avoid Soho as it was too open and hit Covent Garden instead; the back streets were a-plenty which meant there were places to hide, and there was the plaza, filled with locals and tourists. Perfect to continue my path of destruction.
Again, I drove through the now busy midday London streets with my head low and attention high.
After avoiding the long and busy roads, instead taking the back, more communal streets, I made it to Covent Garden - a place of shops, theatres, street entertainers and, more importantly, tourists. They were everywhere, swarming the market and streets with their guides, pathetic tee-shirts and souvenir shopping. It made me want to rip my eyes out. With a quick drive through (as opposed to drive-by) I'd be able to take out hundreds of the things. This really was a genuine tourist hot spot and, judging from the volume of the sirens, my last.
I turned into one of the many backroads as fast as the traffic would allow and followed the crowds towards the famous market known to be popular with travellers and tourists alike, giving me the perfect final destination before the inevitable arrest happened.
As the giant market came into view I accepted the fact that I was about to be locked up and pushed my foot down, slowly picking up speed before plowing through the crowds, sending bags, bodies and cameras in all directions.
The car then began to slow down and gargle. As I rolled to a stop, I closed my eyes and smiled; it had been a good few hours running a trail of death, destruction and hatred through the city, but now it was time for it to end. I didn't care about being arrested - in fact, I was the happiest I'd been in a long time - and I looked forward to being with my own kind again, starting afresh in a pure British atmosphere.
Finally optimistic, I smiled more and thought to myself about new beginnings as the Met pigs dragged me away, telling me what a piece of shit I was.
