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May 12, 2011 / iainnd

To Kill A Mockingbird, as understood by someone who didn’t read it

Author’s note: I had to read this book for school in Year 10, which was seven years ago. I got less than a quarter of the way through it, but I’m pretty sure this is what it was about.

“What about just a glass of water?” Atticus Finch asked the guard. He was running out of ideas.
“Once again, no” the guard replied sternly. “I will not bring you any food, any cigarettes, any water – nothing. I’m not abandoning my post for any reason.”
Finch sighed and leaned against the cell wall. As an elite member of the Mockingbird espionage team, he’d been in worse jams than this. He already had a plan to escape. All he needed was for that guard to leave. And a goddamn cigarette.
“These cuffs are getting pretty itchy,” he noted.
“That’s great,” the guard sneered. “I’m not loosening them.”
Tough nut to crack, Finch thought, chewing on a paperclip. He checked his watch. He had fifteen minutes to get out. Surely his partner, Tom “Scout” Robinson had already made it to the pickup zone. If only he could contact Scout and have him create a distraction for the guard, they’d both be out of there. Too bad all his equipment was stored in the next room. The next room which, Finch had noticed, was accessible from the air vent in his cell.
As if someone had heard Finch’s thoughts, the guard’s radio began buzzing before relaying a message that Finch couldn’t hear.
“No can do boss,” the guard replied. “I have to stay with this guy. Who knows what he’ll get up to?”
Another garbled message came through and the guard stood up.
“Be quick then,” he responded, then turned to Finch. “They need me on the other side of the base. Someone’s coming down to replace me though, so don’t think you can relax.”
Finch smiled sarcastically.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, buddy.”
Five minutes later, after a knock on the door, the guard glared at Finch.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he warned.
“You have my word, champ,” Finch smirked.
Taking advantage of the split second in which he wasn’t being watched, Finch spat out the paperclip he’d hidden under his tongue. The first guard left and the second took his place in the chair across from Finch’s cell.
“Hey slugger,” Finch greeted him. “Got any cigarettes?”
The guard immediately charged over to the bars.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he commanded. “Don’t say another fucking word.” Finch nodded.
“Got it.”
“Not another word!” the guard repeated, and grabbed onto the bars. Big mistake, Finch thought. “I will pump you full of lead so fast—“
He was interrupted by Finch grabbing his wrists, pulling him against the bars and headbutting him in the face. He fell instantly. Finch worked at the lock on his cuffs with the paperclip until they released, then reached out and pulled the guard’s body close enough to grab his keys.
Once on the other side, Finch searched the guard’s pockets. Here we go, he thought to himself, then took a packet of cigarettes.
“Alright,” Finch said to himself, lighting one up. “Time for this Mockingbird to fly free.”
“Dammit!” Bob Ewell yelled as he slammed his fists on his desk. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” and again, “Dammit!”
“Sorry, sir,” his assistant, Gem, hung her head and apologised. “Nobody can seem to catch Atticus Finch. He’s just too good.”
Ewell finished his glass of whiskey and composed himself.
“No,” He rose from his chair and faced the window of his office, looking out onto the city skyline. “I have one last plan. This one is foolproof. I had to resort to outside help, but he’ll be very effective. A South American mercenary. Has a reputation for doing what nobody else can. They say he’s unstoppable.”
The high-pitched ding from the elevator floated into Ewell’s office. He smiled and turned back to Gem.
“That’ll be him now. Be a dear and let him in, Gem.”
“Yes sir Mr. Ewell,” Gem nodded and opened the door. “Come right in,” she said, then left.
“Ah, Mr. Radley, welcome,” Ewell grinned as the giant tower of muscle that was “Boo” Radley stepped through the door. He wore a trench coat over all black clothing, with a Lucha mask and carried a small leather bag that looked to contain a bowling ball.
“Good evening,” Radley greeted his new employer in a deep voice with a thick Latin accent.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries. You believe you can handle this job?” Ewell took a briefcase from beside his desk and stepped towards Radley.
“I know I can,” Radley nodded. “For one hundred.”
One hundred million?” Ewell echoed, angered. “We said fifty.”
“I reconsidered,” Radley smirked.
“You son of a bitch!” Ewell yelled. “How do I even know you’re going to deliver?”
“I always deliver. And I’m the only man who can do this job.” Radley unzipped his bag and reached in. “You want Atticus Finch dead, I can do it.” He let the bag drop to the ground while he held onto its contents. “I think you’ll find that one hundred million is a very reasonable price…” – he held up his trophy and smiled at the look of horror Ewell showed as he presented the severed head of Tom Robinson – “…to kill a Mockingbird.

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