Showing posts with label real crime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label real crime. Show all posts

only a dead mole is a good mole

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The Presidential Security Guard closest to the woman with a mole ignored the immediate screams and angry flashes of cameras around him. Not one of the three PSG's cordoning the tiny woman was able to break her fall. She had taken six steps after descending the low stairs coming out of the hotel's entrance when a thud was heard. It was not a bullet's sound, but that of her small torso hitting pavement.

The PSG leader's screams as he ran to the immediately thick crowd could be heard crisply over the clicks of cameras and oooohs of reporters who had leaned in and over the body, shielding it like an umbrella, effectively blocking, in the few seconds after the President's head blew up like a watermelon, the PSG's line of vision. No one had managed to approximate where the bullet came from. Orders to secure the area were heard.

The media wasted no time serializing the authorities' efforts to catch a phantom who was not a hero. No one seriously wanted the President dead. No one cared enough to take the needed steps to kill her. But then everyone knew that no one wanted her alive either. It was not relief that people watching the live feed from the Oakwood's front entrance felt. The tiny woman was not a dictator in the terrifying sense that Marcos had been. It was not victory that the Opposition party, who were at the scene, felt when the mob of reporters and bystanders rushed to lean in and crowd around the President's pavement. Because now, the Opposition would need someone else to negotiate with.

It might have been a scene where a pedestrian got run over by a bus on a boring afternoon. Except that this one pedestrian annoyed the nation. Had she been a celebrity, the people may have panicked, yelled for someone to call an ambulance. But no, the crowd continued to stare at the torso without a head. It was a scene no one wanted to ruin by calling for help, or showing signs of wanting to help. She's dead? Hindi nga. Tomorrow is another day.

man strangled with miniskirt almost survives

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The nightsky fell on October 16. It wobbled a bit as Rony saw his girlfriend of two years having dinner at McDonald's Philcoa at around 7 pm. Police reports were to indicate later that night that the girl in a miniskirt who lives in Project 4 had texted Rony. She was to meet her boss to discuss her promotion at 7 pm, so she cancelled her dinner plans with her boyfriend. The stocky 5'8"" Rony initially took the news as a good thing. Promotion is good. Having dinner by himself for one night couldn't possibly hurt. But it did. He walked towards the McDonald's entrance gripping his cellphone hard. He had only seen the two from afar. From the yosi vendor's stand under the Philcoa overpass, Rony had seen the girl in whose smile he drowns lean towards that bearded son of a bitch, the same one who was about to die. She had smiled to the man across that small table for two. But the nightsky was yet to fall. Rony stopped walking, deliberately. He pocketed his cellphone, which contained Mary Grace's text messages, all lies for all he cared. He took a deep breath and looked up at the nightsky. Maybe it's an obligatory thing, he thought. Flirt to get the boss' attention, get promoted, settle back to her life with me. He stood just outside the entrance. The polluted air, the throngs of passers by, and the indifferent traffic at Philcoa gave no clue that the weirdest crime that was to be recorded at Police Station 9 was about to happen. Rony gave his girlfriend the benefit of the doubt, and stared at them, again, from outside, without being noticed. Her hand traced a wayward strand of hair on her face, slowly placed it behind her ear, smiled coyly, and touched the man's hand, stroking it. Time stopped for Rony. That moment his heart was ice. His eyes lost the capacity to blink. He walked into McDonald's and asked the attendant behind the counter to give him a butterknife.
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