draliman on life

Welcome to “Jorge’s Story”. Jorge was a character in our latest Chain Writing Game – “Have You Seen Helen?”, hosted by the talented Kerrie Ann Salsac with multiple authors taking part. You can read the whole story here and even download the compilation! Obviously there is some crossover with “Have You Seen Helen” – my thanks go to all the amazing authors who made this possible and to the following for contributing to the scenes containing Jorge which I have drawn upon (and plagiarised some of the dialogue):

Kerrie Ann Salsac
Al
Maryann

I got to wondering about Jorge. The last time we saw him, he’d been shot in the shoulder and had his shin shattered by a Harley motorbike.

Where did he come from? How did he get to this point? What happened to him? Is he really the unluckiest person alive? And most importantly, what is his pain threshold (pretty high as it turns out)?

This little story fills in the blanks. It’s not too gruesome, but small children should not read! It’s more a story of ever-increasing disasters and ridiculousness. I didn’t spend much time editing it, but it’s just a bit of fun 🙂 . Let the mayhem ensue!

Jorge’s Story

“Jorge the Unlucky” they had called him at school in Portugal. This unwelcome though unfortunately apt nickname followed him to both his first short-lived job (flipping burgers – freak fire) and his second (delivering vending machines – thirty car pileup).

Jorge moved to London hoping to shake off his well-earned reputation where he quickly fell in love with football (or “soccer” as he must remember to call it now) and a young red-haired trainee accountant called Sophie in equal measure. His beloved London-based football team, Arsenal, did quite well. His romance with Sophie, however, came to a premature end when her uncle, East End big shot Jimmy “The Nail” Harrison took offence at his wandering hands. Now is a good time to leave the country, Jorge thought, and took a flight to the United States.

He arrived at last, luggage-free, owning only the shirt on his back (a tribute to his football team, their logo emblazoned on it along with the words “I Love Arsenal”). What was a poor Portuguese to do in a new country, no belongings, no money? He hitched into town from the airport and, as night fell, began to look for a warm place to sleep. That was when he saw her – tight top, short skirt, a big guy hassling her. He stepped in, gave the guy a bloody nose. Before he knew it he was the girl’s protector – her pimp.

Looking after Trixie – for that was her name – was quite lucrative. Maybe at last he had shaken his “Unlucky” nickname, he thought as he walked down the alley, looking to meet Trixie and collect his cut.

What was this? At the other end of the alley he saw some guy manhandling Trixie! He pulled out his knife and approached.

“Oy, Trixie’s my girl! You want rough, you pay extra or I cut you!”

The guy turned and said something to Trixie, who nodded. The guy pointed something at him. Was that – yes, a gun!

“Freeze, pimp scum!” yelled the guy.

“You don’t have the guts, pinhead” Jorge sneered back. “Why don’t you put the gun down and I won’t hurt you too much?”

There was a flash and a roar and Jorge’s shoulder exploded. The knife fell from his nerveless fingers and he stared dumbly at the guy and Trixie, who were making off out of the alley. His arm dangling uselessly, Jorge stumbled towards the mouth of the alley, following the pair. That was pretty unlucky I suppose, he thought, as shades of his old nickname came back to haunt him.

As he exited the alley he heard a roaring sound, and barely had time to get his bearings before a Harley, driven by the guy, Trixie riding pillion, clipped him. His shin exploded in pain as it shattered and he fell to the ground, stunned.

This was not a good day. That guy was gonna pay! With his one good hand he grabbed a handy stick to use as a crutch and staggered in the direction they had gone. He thought it was the pain causing some delirium as he seemed to see, following the pair, maybe twenty more bikers, five cop cars and behind them, a bunch of guys in a pickup waving what looked like AK-47 automatic rifles. One of the bikers whacked him with a can as he drove past, splashing his “I Love Arsenal” shirt with petrol. Jorge shook his head to clear it and followed on behind.

After some time he stumbled up to what he vaguely remembered to be some kind of federal building. It looks like there’s been some sort of fracas here, he thought, struggling to form coherent thoughts in his fain-befuddled mind. He rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a big bruiser of a fellow, who, without missing a beat, smacked him in the face with the butt of an AK-47. Jorge’s head snapped back as his mouth filled with blood. He sank to his knees, spitting the remains of his teeth onto the pavement. As the AK-47 guy joined his friends and roared off down the street, Jorge stumbled into the road. This can’t be happening, he thought in shock as a terrible roaring sound filled the air. The bikers, heading back to their bar, didn’t even slow as they ran him over.

Now fuelled only by adrenalin, Jorge pulled himself to his feet. Just in front of him was a young, obviously scared, police officer. Jorge tried to beg for help but couldn’t manage more than a strangled moan, lurching forward, his good arm grasping, blood pouring from his mouth.

“Zombie!” screamed the police officer, a young and impressionable lad. Remembering his zombie films, in which bullets proved ineffective, the officer drew his Taser and shot Jorge in the chest. The last thing Jorge remembered as his body went into spasm was his chest catching fire as a spark from the Taser needles ignited the petrol on his beloved “I Love Arsenal” t-shirt.

Once recovered, Jorge was found guilty of numerous crimes and sentenced to ten years at a maximum security facility. His t-shirt, his favourite possession, was gone, consumed by fire. The cheap plastic forming the words had burned into his flesh, with the exception of three letters which had somehow escaped the conflagration. And so “Jorge the Unlucky” began his new life behind bars, the words “I Love Arse” tattooed forever on his chest.