06/AUG/2010
I'm on the 935 Gatwick Express train into London Victoria. A journey like any others, involving obtrusive ambient noises of wheels to tracks, engines, people doing various bodily functions, wind rushing pass the windows.

It's warm today, well, it should be hot but as the air con is up to maximum, it feels wintery. The dark grey heavy clouds, stopping all the sun's light penetrating through, the rain skimming on the windows,  though knowing English weather it will just throw the most inconvenient parts of any type of weather without leaving any satisfaction of it's inconvenience. It all adds to the wintery effect, oh and it's November.

I'm sitting at a table with a daily free newspaper I’d jus finished 'reading' (I of course mean, browsed and looked at pictures) and two ripped and scrunched up cereal bat wrappers, containing the most disappointing food substance known to man. The bars just crumbled at first sight of natural unpackaged air and even though, I consciously picked two completely different flavours (pineapple and cranberry) they both were jammed full of raisins, that they may as well just done away with writing the flavours on the packet and stuck with raisin flavour and let the colours fool us we're eating something with flavour.

Anyway, looking around my carriage, there's the usual array of solo businessmen, reading big thick fantasy books about human psychology, war and bagpipes, possibly. Being that the book is over an inch thick and looks old, it's something I’ll never read, random made-up musings of someone I don't know nor care for, what a waste of time.

This is the point I turn slowly to the camera in a self aware moment, but as this a written story and you have no idea what I look like, imagine a giraffe chewing on some leaves for a couple of seconds with some cute zany music playing in the background by porcupines.

An annoying American family broke my concentration, with their verbal air polluting noise virus, which in any mode is tolerable and sometimes charming, but mix in surprise or shock and the reverberations from their vocal organs to your ears is something similar to a world war two siren, going off next to your face. Except of warning of danger, the dangers happened, the Lllllaaaannnndon Eyyyeeeeee has been spotted and they have left their finger print in your inner thoughts, to plague and infest in you until the next American decides to be shocked or surprised within a two mile radius.

The Brits aren't much, we're live fast die young with our annoyance and only fuelled by alcohol, the only comparison would be a dog playing with its owner being play aggressive (the Brit probably will want to put physical harm onto you, so use caution) after a while, the dog will get dog bored (the Brit, Brit bored) and just sleep wherever, after a few circles marking their territory (usually the same for both dog and Brit)

There's a man standing near me, who's caught my eye, not in a gay way, but in an 'I'm looking at you, you know' way. I acknowledged this by looking away; he seemed to be anxious and fearful for his suitcase, which can only mean one thing.

He's playing spy, a wannabe. The buffet cart rolled loudly through the carriage and he leaped out his skin, He's looking all over the place, pacing away a hole in the floor, and has a few beads of sweat on his brow and has his finger on the door button tapping away for it to open, even though we're still rolling at seventy miles an hour. Oh, it's the button to the toilet. Guess that answers the anxious, sweaty look about him, it happens to the best of us.

We arrived into London Victoria

Do you ever feel like being apart of a group, yet so removed from it, not out of choice just consequence kicking in. You feel as if it's fate's way of saying you don't belong, even though you do. It's a bizarre occurrence that happens once every so often, where you end up thinking deep about your existence, this happened because a group of people complained the train was late, tuting and huffing and I was an outcast, without a hilarious joke to get me accepted, I felt redundant as a human. Though to be honest I couldn't care less about train punctuality as I’d finished my work day.

Still, the moaner pack moved off the train, and split up pretty rapidly to our own adventures, mine however, remained on the train. The toilet doors opened automatically as I pressed the button and the pacing shit prone guy from earlier was dead. Out cold on the floor, not bleeding or anything disgusting like that. Just out cold. I'd be more surprised by this had I not been the one who killed him.

You know how it is, discrete injection as you board the train when you accidently knock into someone, and 20minutes later you feel like Elvis, shitting your pants, when in fact you're dying, a typical day really being me, wait, I don't shit my pants just induce it and it was my first kill, so nothing typical at all.

My job was only to get the standard issue briefcase, that all intelligence guys seem to have, they must all shop at the same place for their gear, I was feeling pretty nervous myself, but I had to frisk the dead guy for his possessions and get the case.

He didn't have much in his wallet, £20, blood card (O Rh positive) and a stripper-gram receipt, not even any ID, so I left him and everything just spread out, soaking in the pool of misfired pee next to the loo.

I took the case off the luggage rack and fought my way along the narrow platform through the hoards of fast inpatient commuters and slow clueless tourists, needless to say my adrenaline was running high, as was my shoulders as I barged pass those fuckers in my way.

I took the escalator to the next floor up and attempted to get a cab to the drop off point.

To Be Continued…