Ever wondered what it's like to have your heart torn out in front of you? To have that meaty lump of pulsating flesh thrust in your face? To watch it undulate in a monster's hand before your very eyes, slowly spurting out precious life-preserving fluid and gradually slowing to an occasional spasmodic leak as the lights slowly dim? To have the past images of your life swiftly pass by in an all too short montage as you begin to ebb away? To question how on earth you got yourself into this mess in the first place?

 I have.

And Im still here.....at least for a while. I'm unsure of how long Ive got....hope I can get my tale finished

I've been a reporter for a questionable entertainment news magazine for the past four years - just think 'Very Local' Enquirer rather than 'National'. I have my finger on the pulse of what my mentor Jeff, the senior editor, has come to term as "..the great unwashed...a rag-tag bag of hoors who like nothing better than reading the dirtiest of dirt on celebs in between eeking out a miserable existence in their crappy jobs, watching their mind-numbing soap operas and stuffing their faces with shitty fast food". It was my first real job after finally passing my journalism course and, after quickly picking up the ropes under the tutelage of Big Jeff, I seemed to develop a real smell for the type of story that the readers lapped up with a big spoon. From starting out in lowly advertising I got my big break as it were concerning the expose of an up and coming wannabe Hollywood starlet, a minor sporting celebrity, a local MP and their sordid tale of drugs, sex, farm animals and absolute debauchery. I'd heard a few rumours from one of my contacts and Jeff, fair play to him, gave me the chance to run with the story. My story made the front page, sales of the rag went up about 600 % and I haven't looked back since.

True, the story made my name but people were now more wary when I walked down the street or nipped into the pub for a quick one after work. People treated me differently after that story, and, for my sins, I liked the notoriety that I had gained. The mad, bad sleaze story seemed to sell so my sole purpose from that point onwards was to search every dirty nook and cranny, to scour the filthy, seedy underbelly of the city, to give the people what they really wanted. I had developed a knack of being at the right place at the right time, of cultivating a widespread pool of dependable, albeit unsavoury, contacts who provided a steady stream of leads and locations from which I could bolster a top story, and finally, with my boyish good looks and disarming demeanour, I was able to gain access to certain areas that my fellow hacks could only gnash their dentures at and dream of getting to.

It's a combination of these talents, tricks and, admittedly, some frankly horrible luck that has led me to my present state... lying propped against an alley wall behind a 'gentleman's club' with a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be and an ineffectual ass-paddle loosely gripped in my left hand, watching the unrelenting rain carry my river of lost blood to the lip of a nearby sewer grating and listening to the wailing clamour of police sirens draw near... too little too late you f_ckers!. I'd shake my fist at them all if I still had the strength. It was at this time that I wished I'd never shown interest in the serial killer case of that cold, cold winter, that I'd never heard of the man that the city (with my help and garish headlines) had come to know as 'Doctor Valentine', and that I'd never met Christie/Sierra or whatever the hell that American girl's name was. Well....I'm lying about that last one. Ive always been a sucker for a tight body, a beautiful smile and a great set of boobs. Yep, when I think about it now, shes the real reason I'm in this mess.......

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