Jeffy

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Jeffy (Jlaix) is an Executive Coach with Real Social Dynamics and features in the program "The Jeffy Show". He is also the writer of the RSD newsletter.



"You WHAT?"

The prison officer was a huge man, his muscled torso straining through his blue, regulation shirt. His voice raged over the intercom.

"What do you mean, escaped?!"

On the other end of the line Jimmy Ryan babbled excuses into the vicious hiss of radio static. He wasn't paid nearly enough for this. This was his first day. He'd only taken the job so that he could save up enough money to marry Betty-Lou, settle down and get that house with the white picket fence.

It was hard for a guy growing up in Hicksville, Kentucky to make a good living in this crazy world, but he'd got a recommendation from his cousin, and that had been enough to get him his first real job, as a guard at the local prison.

Everything was going to be fine. He'd work here for a year, maybe two, get that house and a patch of land then he and Betty-Lou would be able to have those kids they'd always wanted.

Mary-Sue, Sarah-Jane and little Bradley.

It wasn't a big dream, but it was his dream.

And now it was in trouble. He wasn't being paid enough for this.

Because today wasn't going according to plan. No. Not at all.

First, there was a prisoner transfer from the Maximum Security block.

It was totally routine, but even so everyone seemed spooked... on edge. Scared.

Then he'd heard who was being transferred, and he'd gotten scared too. His supervisor had told him to watch the CCTV monitors - you know, stay out of harms way and everything.

But then they'd started going down one by one, then all of them had cut out.

He wasn't paid enough for this.

A ripping sound broke him out of his reverie, and he looked down, confused at the large chunk of serrated metal that jutted from the centre of his chest.

Then he died.

Jeffy pushed the twitching corpse gleefully aside, and absentmindedly licked the blood off his delicate hands.

He retrieved the guard's revolver and ammo pouch.

He glanced briefly at the handle of the improvised shiv he'd forced through the guard's spinal column, heart and ribcage with one thrust.

A souvenir? No. No time for fun. Not right now.

He'd play later.

"Where do you think he could be?" asked Brian Hartman, the prison's governor. His office was a mess, as was he. It was a day that he knew would haunt him forever.

He'd never seen such horror.

"Miles away by now." The Chief of Police, Rick Striker, looked like he'd aged a decade in a day. "He could be halfway to Canada." He turned on Hartman, and smashed his hand into the desk. "Goddamnit, man! What the hell! This could be the most dangerous man alive! And you let him escape? I should have you shot!"

"Hey, screw you!" Hartman leapt to his feet. "Thirty-four of my men are dead! Thirty-four! I only had thirty-seven men! Now I have three! Three!"

"Well you should have known!"

"How!?" Hartman's voice was shrill. "How could I have known when this - " he grasped a sheaf of paper marked Top Secret - "was kept from me until AFTER MY MEN WERE DEAD!"

"Hey, that's purely 'need to know.'"

"Are you fuckin' blind?" Hartman flung the pages into Striker's face. "This prison is an abattoir and you're talking about my 'need to know?' Why don't you go down there and help clean up the mess! There's a mop in the closet, you sanctimonious son of a bitch!"

For one second Striker looked like he was about to explode, but then his shoulders sagged. Hartman was right. He stooped and began to pick up the CIA Dossier. Looking down, he glanced across the opening page:

Jeffy Allen, AKA Jlaix

Classification - TOP SECRET

Subject exhibits unheard of levels of personal magnetism.

Charisma radiation factor unlike anything previously recorded.

Teaching skills - exceptional.

DANGER... Subject unstable and prone to acts of absurdity, sex, violence and karaoke.

Subject also exhibits super-normal levels of speed, agility and rage.

Unconfirmed reports suggest some kind of 'cloaking ability,' that obscures him from sight. Speculation is also rife that he can move objects with his mind alone, destroy chodeliness with the power of his eyes and travel through time.

Recommendation - Under no circumstances should subject be unshackled.

Known associates - Tyler Durden, Papa, Journey.

Wanted in connection with 'Operation Total Annihilation.'

Subject to be transferred to Maximum Security Detention Center in Black Mesa Research Facility, New Mexico, with immediate effect.

Because of his powerful connections, it would be advisable to keep civilian authorities in the dark regarding the status of this prisoner. Leaks in information could lead to an escape attempt."

Striker reached out and placed the CIA Dossier on the table. Then, suddenly, his brow furrowed.

"Wait.." Striker said "you didn't know about his secret powers, and you had thirty-four men guarding him?"

"No." Hartman sat back down, with a strange, lost look on his face. "No, I had six men guarding him. When he finished with them he just went around the prison, killing all the other guards." Tears welled up in Hartman's eyes. "He hunted them down like dogs!"

"Dear Christ."

"Not exactly," said Jeffy, as he dropped from the ceiling to land, cat-like, behind Hartman.

The silent bulk slid gracefully through the afternoon sky. A Zeppelin, huge and blue, emblazoned with three letters on the side.... R. S. D.

A small rope-ladder snaked down to the yard below. Jeffy stepped out into the noonday sun. The left hand side of his body was completely covered in blood. Inexplicably, the right hand side of his body was immaculately clean. In his right hand he held a sheaf of paper.

A small black 2-way radio landed in the dirt at his feet. He picked it up.

"Have you got it?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Good. Do they know?"

"They suspect. They know about Total Annihilation."

"Irrelevant. If that's as far as they've gotten, they're all doomed."

"Good." Jeffy smiled.

"Well," crackled Tyler's voice. "You'd better come aboard."

Jeffy took hold of the ladder, and rose like a ghost into the wide blue sky.

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