Tidal Rage

stool. Through a mist of pain, Werner could see the prisoner smirk at him. Werner looked intently at the splintered end, which had a point like a dagger. He turned it around in his fingers, studying it and formatting the next stage of his plan.
With the quickness which belied his injury, he had reached his prey in a millisecond, crossing the space between them with the prowess of a lion. He was on him and used his weight to pin down the man’s shoulders and arms. The victim tried to kick his leg and dismount Werner from his upper torso, but the guard had been well trained, and brought his truncheon down on his right knee. The unmistakable sound of hardwood cracking bone lasted only a second before the man screamed in agony.
Werner took a breath, enjoying the pain, his pain and the prisoner’s pain. The detainee was stubborn and brave; he fought to gain control of the pain and after a minute, grunted and grimaced rather than screamed. It was Werner’s turn to smirk.
Werner waited a few more seconds, relishing the look of agony and arrogance in the man’s eyes before violently and efficiently forcing the splintered, sharp end of the stool leg down the activist’s mouth. The force of the blow , breaking his teeth and ripping through his voice box before emerging from the back of the neck close to the spine.
***
But, back to reality, back to today. This pain was something else. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Maybe it was this kind of pain the prisoner had felt, he thought, but then his pain lasted minutes rather than the constant pain Werner had endured since the morphine had worn off.
Herr Braun, an eminent ear, nose and throat specialist, explained that the bullet had destroyed Werner’s voice box and he would have to perform a laryngectomy. Herr Braun continued in a soft, professional tone in which he detailed that the operation removed his voice box and had permanently left a breathing hole in his neck.
Werner tried to interject, but only frothy, blood-infused spittle gargled out of the breathing hole.
Herr Braun further explained that the only hope of communicating verbally would be through an artificial mechanical larynx.
Werner shook his head; Herr Braun took this as meaning he did not understand, when Werner was thinking, you better sort this or I will kill you.
“Basically, after a week or so, when your throat recovers some more, we insert a small vibration plate and give you a handheld microphone which will pick up vibrations. And after several months of practice and rehabilitation, this will let you communicate,” Herr Braun continued.
Werner was shaking his head violently from side to side. The nurse handed him a pen and paper.
“Unfortunately, your oesophagus was severely affected and presently, and for the foreseeable future, this will be the only means of communication. Technological advances are happening all the time; we never say anything is forever,” Herr Braun said optimistically, as Werner scribbled on the notepad.
Werner showed him the paper. “Sort this out and get me off fucking baby food.”
“Solid food is not viable as a food source; not now, and probably not in the future,” Herr Braun replied, as again Werner scribbled away frantically.
“You want me to eat fucking baby food?” he wrote down and thrust the paper up under the consultant’s face and struggled to get up closer to him.
The consultant remained calm as one of the police officers forced him back onto the bed.
The consultant was not used to such venom, such anger; after all, he was trying to help this patient. He turned on his heels, followed by the nurse and policeman, and left the windowless room.
Werner waited several minutes before pulling the assistance cord for the nurse. The nurse was male; this was by design rather than chance, due to the fact that no females were allowed to be alone with Werner at any time, such was his perceived risk to members of staff.
Werner wrote a phone number on his paper and below the number was another, but this had a monetary value.
“Ten thousand euros for you to call this number and just let the person on the end of the phone know my whereabouts.”
The nurse shook his head from side to side vigorously, declining the offer. Werner pointed at the name badge, ripped up the previous page and on the virgin-white paper wrote, “I know your name, Nurse Hessler. You must know who I am and my reputation? How long will it take for my friends to find you outside this hospital? The police will not guard you; they can’t guard you forever.”
Nurse Seppi Hessler spun around, scared, and walked out. Hessler had thought maybe thirty minutes, but the nurse had fought his predicament for over an hour before he returned. The nurse wanted to know how and when he would be paid and got Werner to rewrite the telephone number.
After the nurse had scurried out, Werner turned his thoughts to the other two outstanding issues that needed immediate attention. He had over twenty-four million dollars in cash hanging around, genuine dollars he had been paid for the counterfeit notes. The money was stashed in a safe in a townhouse in Bad Tölz.
The spa town based in Tölzer land was a favourite of Werner’s. The resort spa hamlet sat in the alpine foothills, nestled between the alpine lakes of Bad Weissee and Lake Starnberg. Werner would visit the town when he could no longer stand the pain and irritation his gout brought on. Werner swore by the healing capabilities of the mud baths and visited at least four times a year. The resort was within easy driving distance of Munich, but far enough away from the metropolis to not fall under the watchful eyes of the Munich Police Department, an easy selection for