So I was bored one night, and decided to write a short story. So.. here it is.
Pain…
That’s the last thing I can remember. Always the last thing you remember. Not a bad thing though. Lets you know you’re still alive.
I was in a bar… Big Ben’s Bar. Bunch of bikers came in. Didn’t like the looks of them. Decided to have just a few more drinks. Big mistake.
I wasn’t quite sober, don’t remember exactly what happened. Got in a fight with one of them over a seat. Stupid damn seats. I remember seeing a fist, and then a dumpster. And here I am now, I assume still in the dumpster. I don’t really want to open my eyes..
Light…
Ugh. I hate the light, it always ruins a perfectly good, drunken night. Hurts the eyes. As I climbed out of the dumpster, I looked around to reorient myself. It’s about noon. There’s Big Bens, so at least they had the courtesy to dump me in a nearby dumpster. Maybe my ride is still around. Climbing out of the dumpster, I discover that is is- well, kind of.
My poor baby. Once a good, respectable car, now a piece of scrap metal. Oh well. Happened before, happen again. I just wish it would stop happening after I get a paint job.
Wandering into the bar, I ask the bartender if he knows where those hoodlums went. No dice. Oh well. They’ll get what’s coming to them one day, on way or another. In the mean time, I’ve gotta job to do.
I’m an assassin. A hired murderer. I do a little babysitting on the side too. Five bucks an hour for the first kid, an extra two dollars per extra kid. Free if I drop them. But mostly I kill people. It’s a good living, but I’m not proud of it. It’s just what I do.
I tried to justify it for a long time. I’m like the Boondock Saints, or maybe even a superhero, like Batman I’d tell myself. But I gave up on that long ago. In order to kill anyone, anywhere, ruthlessly, you can’t live lies. You have to accept what you are, and live with it.
Called a taxi. Goddamn taxis. It’ll take ‘em an hour to get here, hour to drive me back. Cost me a fortune. Well. Not me. My expenses are paid by my employer. Suckers. Assassinating someone really isn’t that hard or expensive. Buy some good, solid guns. A few knives. Find the guy. Track him for a day or two, then you move in and out. The movies are so great. Ninjas jumping around everywhere, elaborate ancient Japanese weaponry. They think I can nearly fly, and so I charge them a good five, six, sometimes seven hundred percent markup. Damn I love capitalism.
************
Robert Fineo. Italian, male, twenty five years old. So young. And yet, he still managed to piss off Finidelli, the Godfather around here in these parts. Messing with the mob. Not a good idea. Been tracking this guy for a few days. Not a very interesting guy. Cubicle day job, wife, and I’ve counted five mistresses so far. Goes to the club every night it seems. I decided to bag him tonight.
There, he’s walking out now. Two gals with him. Prostitutes- it figures. Low-life trash to keep the low-life scum company. This ought to be interesting. As I’m walking up, I slide my silenced Browning M-1900 into the inside pockets of my overcoat.
“Excuse me, Sir. Are you Robert Fineo?” I ask, disguising my voice in a deep Russian accent.
“Hoo ‘ants to oh?” he grunts, grinning at his two hired lovers, thinking he’s big ****. They giggle back.
Damnit, am I going to enjoy this. Damn kids butchering the stupid language. Probably dropped out of high school. “I’d like to see you alone for a moment, Sir. I have a business proposition for you.” He starts to follow me, ladies in tow. “Alone, sir. If you don’t mind. It may not be.. appropriate.. for their ears.” I murmur to him, as I motion towards the prostitutes.
“Riiight dude.” He gives the girls a ‘stay here’ signal. Following me into the ally, the *** pipes up again. “So wat’s da deal, bro? Yo got sometin’ foh me?”
Spinning around and dropping the accent I sneer, “I’m not your bro.” Pressing him against me, I stick my silenced Browning M-1900 into his stomach. Leaning in close as his knees are quivering, I whisper into his ear my trademark, my personal version of the only bible verse I know:
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For Evil art with me;
Thy knife and thy sword, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a grave before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my head with fire; My cup runneth of thy blood.”
He whimpers. I pull the trigger once. Twice. He slides to the ground, and I drag him to a dark corner. A quick search revealed a wallet, cell phone, and a pager. Taking the three hundred in the wallet, I slink towards the other end of the alley and depart.
***************
Death.
It follows me everywhere, yet I’m always a step ahead. The police can never find me, every kill is different. Out of one hundred and thirty six jobs, they’ve connected three of them together. My entire family, innocent bystanders and victims in a mob war. And now I’m working for the same family that killed my parents. It’s all just a job though.
No one can quite understand how I feel. I’ve never felt that teenage angst. Instead, I felt the urge to kill. I am the Shadowwalker. Unfound until I am sought, Unseen until I am found. I am the Angel of Death, walking amongst the living, until your time is up.
So leik... that's that.
------------------
[19:59] Happy "Liar liar" dud: This is arguably one of the lowest points in my life.
[20:00] Happy "Liar liar" dud: I'm sitting here infront of my two computers wearing shorts and with no shirt, eating potato salad and orange juice, debating the existance of pants.
Pain…
That’s the last thing I can remember. Always the last thing you remember. Not a bad thing though. Lets you know you’re still alive.
I was in a bar… Big Ben’s Bar. Bunch of bikers came in. Didn’t like the looks of them. Decided to have just a few more drinks. Big mistake.
I wasn’t quite sober, don’t remember exactly what happened. Got in a fight with one of them over a seat. Stupid damn seats. I remember seeing a fist, and then a dumpster. And here I am now, I assume still in the dumpster. I don’t really want to open my eyes..
Light…
Ugh. I hate the light, it always ruins a perfectly good, drunken night. Hurts the eyes. As I climbed out of the dumpster, I looked around to reorient myself. It’s about noon. There’s Big Bens, so at least they had the courtesy to dump me in a nearby dumpster. Maybe my ride is still around. Climbing out of the dumpster, I discover that is is- well, kind of.
My poor baby. Once a good, respectable car, now a piece of scrap metal. Oh well. Happened before, happen again. I just wish it would stop happening after I get a paint job.
Wandering into the bar, I ask the bartender if he knows where those hoodlums went. No dice. Oh well. They’ll get what’s coming to them one day, on way or another. In the mean time, I’ve gotta job to do.
I’m an assassin. A hired murderer. I do a little babysitting on the side too. Five bucks an hour for the first kid, an extra two dollars per extra kid. Free if I drop them. But mostly I kill people. It’s a good living, but I’m not proud of it. It’s just what I do.
I tried to justify it for a long time. I’m like the Boondock Saints, or maybe even a superhero, like Batman I’d tell myself. But I gave up on that long ago. In order to kill anyone, anywhere, ruthlessly, you can’t live lies. You have to accept what you are, and live with it.
Called a taxi. Goddamn taxis. It’ll take ‘em an hour to get here, hour to drive me back. Cost me a fortune. Well. Not me. My expenses are paid by my employer. Suckers. Assassinating someone really isn’t that hard or expensive. Buy some good, solid guns. A few knives. Find the guy. Track him for a day or two, then you move in and out. The movies are so great. Ninjas jumping around everywhere, elaborate ancient Japanese weaponry. They think I can nearly fly, and so I charge them a good five, six, sometimes seven hundred percent markup. Damn I love capitalism.
************
Robert Fineo. Italian, male, twenty five years old. So young. And yet, he still managed to piss off Finidelli, the Godfather around here in these parts. Messing with the mob. Not a good idea. Been tracking this guy for a few days. Not a very interesting guy. Cubicle day job, wife, and I’ve counted five mistresses so far. Goes to the club every night it seems. I decided to bag him tonight.
There, he’s walking out now. Two gals with him. Prostitutes- it figures. Low-life trash to keep the low-life scum company. This ought to be interesting. As I’m walking up, I slide my silenced Browning M-1900 into the inside pockets of my overcoat.
“Excuse me, Sir. Are you Robert Fineo?” I ask, disguising my voice in a deep Russian accent.
“Hoo ‘ants to oh?” he grunts, grinning at his two hired lovers, thinking he’s big ****. They giggle back.
Damnit, am I going to enjoy this. Damn kids butchering the stupid language. Probably dropped out of high school. “I’d like to see you alone for a moment, Sir. I have a business proposition for you.” He starts to follow me, ladies in tow. “Alone, sir. If you don’t mind. It may not be.. appropriate.. for their ears.” I murmur to him, as I motion towards the prostitutes.
“Riiight dude.” He gives the girls a ‘stay here’ signal. Following me into the ally, the *** pipes up again. “So wat’s da deal, bro? Yo got sometin’ foh me?”
Spinning around and dropping the accent I sneer, “I’m not your bro.” Pressing him against me, I stick my silenced Browning M-1900 into his stomach. Leaning in close as his knees are quivering, I whisper into his ear my trademark, my personal version of the only bible verse I know:
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For Evil art with me;
Thy knife and thy sword, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a grave before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my head with fire; My cup runneth of thy blood.”
He whimpers. I pull the trigger once. Twice. He slides to the ground, and I drag him to a dark corner. A quick search revealed a wallet, cell phone, and a pager. Taking the three hundred in the wallet, I slink towards the other end of the alley and depart.
***************
Death.
It follows me everywhere, yet I’m always a step ahead. The police can never find me, every kill is different. Out of one hundred and thirty six jobs, they’ve connected three of them together. My entire family, innocent bystanders and victims in a mob war. And now I’m working for the same family that killed my parents. It’s all just a job though.
No one can quite understand how I feel. I’ve never felt that teenage angst. Instead, I felt the urge to kill. I am the Shadowwalker. Unfound until I am sought, Unseen until I am found. I am the Angel of Death, walking amongst the living, until your time is up.
So leik... that's that.
------------------
[19:59] Happy "Liar liar" dud: This is arguably one of the lowest points in my life.
[20:00] Happy "Liar liar" dud: I'm sitting here infront of my two computers wearing shorts and with no shirt, eating potato salad and orange juice, debating the existance of pants.
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