Length: 27,000 words.
Key words: Night shift, TV station, Australia, psychopath, survival, vendetta, payback.
Graveyard shift at Premium Sports Australia offers little excitement. No one stirs from their posts at the slumbering television station. Except Sam. A routine trip to the kitchen, finds him confronted by Jerome Smythe, a recently-fired employee. Their uneasy friendship sours as Smythe coerces Sam into joining him on a quest for vengeance. Fearful of what Smythe might do, he agrees.
What begins as anarchy soon develops into something far more sinister. Taking place during a single night, Hoi Polloi screws up the tension with each event. How far would you go to protect yourself - or others? If you've ever badmouthed one employee to another, this could be the outcome.Just $2.99. Use our secure shopping cart here:
A taste of this book:
'Got something to say?' Jerome asked, jabbing the automatic under his chin.
A barely perceptible headshake.
'You sure?' Jerome taunted, leering. 'Funny. You always have something to say. You're a big bag of fucking hot air, throwing your weight around, you peasant.'
Nahdo said nothing.
Jerome's wrapped his free hand around the other's trembling neck. 'Say something. Go on, do it.'
'Do it man,' someone said.
'I don't know what you mean,' Nahdo mumbled, face crumpling as if about to cry. 'What do you want?'
'You to admit that you're a fucking nothing.' Smythe tightened his grip around Nahdo's throat and shoved the gun against his cheek. 'You always carry on, you know that? Making everyone feel awful, putting people down, like you're the best person ever, and that we aren't worthy to breathe the same air. Who do you think you are, you flea?'
'I don't. I don't think that.'
'Bullshit. Bullshit,' Jerome said, snarling, practically frothing at the mouth. 'You always carried on. You're one of those fucking waste of spaces that walks through life and turns everything you touch to shit.'
Nahdo was on the verge of tears. One rolled down his cheek. It did nothing to soften Jerome's resolve. He took a step back in disgust.
One thing I'd learned from Smythe the hard way—he didn't like another man bawling his eyes out.
'Fuck off with that shit, you fucking shit cunt,' Smythe snapped, wavering the gun an inch from the uncontrollably sobbing face of Nahdo. 'How many fucking onions did you have to chop to make those water-works? You waste of space, piece of human filth, you fuck, have a look at you.'