My name is Jig-Puzzle, and I have a game. Tonight, as with most other nights in which the kidnappings take place, a game of roulette unfolds and the participants, though unwilling, face horrifying tasks that I state clearly to accomplish in order to find liberty, but rarely will that ever be the case. Pretty much everyone loses, if you catch my drift, wink.
My four victims this evening are all of the same nature, and their task, as I will tell them directly, is to understand the things they all have in common. Once the goal has been achieved, all four will be set free.
In a small room, no larger than a small cubicle, two men and two women sit, facing each other, in four chairs. My recording plays.
"Hello everyone. I would like to play a game." It starts. "In the last 34 years of all your lives-" They are all 34 years old. "-you have been burdened and succumbed to the tortures of life. Your goal today, however irrational it is for me to consider this actually benefiting you in the conclusion, is for yourselves to understand the similarities between you all."
I continue. "One similarity is so overpoweringly present and if you succeed in deciphering just that singular one, I will let you loose. Let the game begin."
With a camera placed within the confines of this small room, I can witness the whole ordeal play out.
John, an unsuccessful business man, whose parents despise his ever-living being, has become a slob who does no more than sit at home and attempt to succeed through online dating sites.
Charlie, an unsuccessful human-being all-around, has never made any decent accomplishments. He sits next to John, on his right.
Laura, another hamper to society, now has lessened herself to the duties of under-waged morons.
Rachel, a wannabe knitter, whose chances at such a role were dashed with the crippling-at-birth of her hands. She is now a worthless person.
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I have left the displayed image of their agony for many hours, and now have returned to see what progress has been made. None are blindfolded, so I imagined the task would be rather simple, but it appears no further exploration of the goal has been done.
All sit in drooling ridiculousness. As I had hoped, secretly, the four people, all bearing the illness of retardation, cannot function even enough to overcome such a simplistic task. The challenges of the weak are joyous from the eyes of an outsider.
That's when I saw John open his mouth. Could it be? Could he actually have understood enough to construe a reasonable answer?
No words were spoken, but his mouth lay agape. That's when I saw the fruition of his mouth-opening effort: He was, in glorious fashion, blowing bubbles with his mouth.
Simultaneously, Rachel was screaming random phrases: "Shlarp derp." Embarrassing, yet humorous in their futile nature.
Charlie, being the faggot that everyone knows him to be, sits there, soiling himself constantly, and quietly vomiting his own fecal matter into his mouth, letting slight amounts dribble out to his shirt-covered beer belly.
All the while, Laura has found joy in napping, but in doing so, has also initiated the snoring noises of a dieing squirrel. Though I've never heard such a noise, my imagination went to town with such a thought. The high pitched cry of agony, and the squeezing of such a poor creature could only just emit a squeal of deafening prowess.
Epic in their moronic nature, I flip the light-switch to the room. Though they can still achieve their task, I know such a thing will never happen. Forever the four of them shall sit retardedly inside a small room until they all die of their own vices.
That's when, and to the surprise of myself, I came to a shocking revelation. Only someone so stupid as myself would place people under such ridiculous circumstances with chances of success so outlandish in nature, expecting it to actually help the person later in life.
I... I too am a retard, and as such, should reside within the room of the four creatures.
As I open the door, the stench of rotted urine and recoiling in my aback-taken breathe of anything resembling fresh-air, I stepped within bravely. Never finding a dry piece of ground to stand on, I sat on Charlie's lap. The poop, though ever-horrifying, cushioned me comfortably, and I fell asleep.
Author's Note: I hate myself. A lot.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Flare
Deep in an arctic environment, I sit in isolated exhaustion. Any semblance of strength has been drained, and so I rest. While a blizzard forms, too seeming to accompany white-out conditions, I sit still. I can't move; not yet.
My nose begins to feel as though it were running, and I could tell it was rather chilled. Yet, to be honest, the rest of me was warm, so I lowered the mask I had equipped to insulate my frigid face. After the masks' warmth took hold, I fell to my back and into the snow. Sinking a couple inches, I felt an intense relaxation wash over me.
As a second coat, or perhaps a blanket, the snow that conformed to my body around me too kept myself safe from the piercing cold. As enjoyable as it was, and as deeply as I wished to stay, I could not. With a worrying noise being emitted from north of me, animal-like in it's ferocity, I felt a burst of desired adrenaline. Too, resting helped bounce me back to what was, while not peak condition, a large improvement, and allowed for my attempted escape.
Walking slowly, but not slow enough as to allow close following from the creature, I came to a wall of stone. Cornered would be a fine word, yet not one I had wanted to admit in such a fear-filled time. The noise, not having faltered in it's terrifying nature, came ever closer to my location.
As illogical panic swept over my body, and the scrambling for anything useful in my pack proceeded, I found a worthwhile tool. Gripping my flare gun, which had been handed to me by a nearby residential ranger of the lands I'm roaming, I aimed upwards. My finger yanked the trigger back, but to my dissatisfaction, nothing came of it.
The flare gun had no ammo, nor was I handed any to begin with, all the while, the dangerous beast was still nearing. Silhouette's are oftentimes more horrifying than the thing bringing upon their formation, but such thoughts only present themselves in hind-sight.
Crackle after crackle whispered danger into my ear loudly, and as the beast stomped, I remembered the noise of crunching snow from before this moment; how lovely it once was. Now, seeing as I lack the desire to check my watch, the heinous footsteps remain the only measure of time until my demise.
I can't run well; my snow shoes cannot stay atop such fluffy and soft snow. Too, the rocky wall obstructing my path doesn't allow much free space to roam.
Soon, and to my unfortunate luck, appeared the creature. A polar bear, larger than a normal sized vehicle, was walking towards me. A moment later the monster was no more than 20 feet away when a large pile of snow fell on top of and completely surrounded me. Frantically shoving the snow away, as to allow further vision of the beast, I finally created a large enough hole to peak: Nothing.
I cleared away, and brushed off the rest of the snow, and to my surprise, there was no bear around. It must have only been 4 seconds between the time I last saw him, and the moment I peered back to his location. No beast could escape that quickly. The first thought, however irrational, was of a vanishing act, but such things are not possible...
I sat for many moments in confusion, understandably for anyone who witnessed a disappearing act unlike any in the world, but a feeling of desire for movement overcame me, and so I stood. Something compelled me to not sit still, perhaps survival instincts, and so I began walking in a randomly decided direction. Though moving was not a large challenge, sight was.
The snow blotched out the view of my surroundings, and then, extremely upsetting as it was, the sound of heavy foot-steps reentered my radius of hearing. Someone once told me, and though their name escapes my conscious mind, I appreciate, that odd occurrences are abundant in the territory with which I currently reside. Spontaneous disappearance's have been rumored, which I can be witness to, and other happenings, though too I cannot recall, have occurred as well.
While the steps, never nostalgic in their heart-wrenching eerieness, became, yet again, my countdown to the end. It's at that point that my trip became a true regret. So distant was this land, and as harsh as I had been warned it was, I ventured onward.
Money is nice, which too was a defining word I would have used for this trip had it not been interrupted by a mammoth-sized polar bear. But money allows perks... The reasoning for my presence was pure curiosity, and too linked directly to the size of my bank account. Not having a family can lead you to odd places.
"Odd" is a rather suiting name for a massive polar bear, though I sense a lack of peril with such a title, so perhaps "dangerously odd" is more suiting; for Death and I have never brushed shoulders in such a direct manner.
I'm not cornered this time, at least not in the sense that one direction is blocked from further passage, but I cannot run; not now that he is so near. My only hope, because this is all I could muster in a survivalist way-of-thinking, was to curl into the fetal position, and hope for mercy. As the steps neared, my body jolted.
It was in this nervous and uncontrollably shaky state that I realized playing dead was no more a ward against the bear than fleeing, so I rose and continued on.
After walking for what seemed like hours, but was rather more like two minutes, I found a cabin. Racing to it's door, and opening it, heart-pounding, I stepped inside. My fear level, though still very present, shrank, and I could semi-relax.
In my brief moment of relief, I heard a thunder-like sound from outside. Opening the door, and glancing out revealed the cause: a polar bear. Still large in it's inherently scary nature, it was charging the cabin full-speed. I bolted for the opposite wall of expected impact, and stood in anticipation. In my frantic state, I took many quick looks around. What I saw, though not being connected to any past events, had set myself up for the moments to come, allowing the exclusion of ignorance. Laying around the cabin were boxes of rifle, and flare-gun ammunition; empty. Too, a case for a rifle lay open, and strewn out upon the flooring.
From outside, and in triumphantly rapid succession, I heard gunshots. The sound of a large animal crying out filled the cabin, and the shots continued repeatedly. Only until whoever the shooter was had run out of ammo did the gun-shots cease.
When both shots and bear-sounds were no longer audible in the cabin, I slowly eased the front-door open. Peering outside, I saw the riflemen.
"Come out." He said, or rather yelled, so his voice was able to be heard clearly through the blizzard. Though I took very little notice, the man sounded familiar.
As my body exited the wooden oasis, I was able to spot the bear. Laying in pain, on his back, bloody holes peppered throughout his torso and shoulder muscles, he wheezed. Such a beast does not fall with ease.
"They're on their way." Yelled the man, as he loaded his rifle.
Looking up to the sky, I saw a lit flare shining bright, even through the harsh conditions.
"We're safe?" I asked loudly
"I... You're safe." He replied in a reassuring tone.
Confused, yet relieved, I watched the man, who, at this moment I noticed was wearing the same outfit as my self, walk over to the large bear, put the barrel of the gun against it's skull, and pull the trigger.
Blood erupted from the entry wound, and as I witnessed the gun fire, and the bullet penetrate the bear, I felt a tidal wave of relief swamp my body's nerves. And then, I felt a sudden and irresistible urge to lie on my back, and fall asleep. In the middle of a blizzard, I found myself napping, and the fellow comrade who had laid the creature to rest took almost no notice. He just walked on.
What seemed like a few minutes passed, and I was, for at least 10 minutes or so, asleep. I awoke to find myself entirely covered, from head to toe, in a reasonably thick layer of snow, but nothing I could not simply brush off. Coughing and brushing down my suit proceeded, as did the weary glances in all directions. My bearings had not yet been reestablished.
As my peaks in all directions concluded, I noticed several key figures missing: The helpful ally, the dead bear, and any sort of weaponry. One thing remained, however, and that was the cabin. Seeing as it was a partial safe-haven earlier, I figured I would explore it once again.
Walking inside, and to the surprise of myself, or anyone had they been placed inside my shoes, lay a closed gun-crate, many boxes of ammunition, both of the rifle and flare-types, and not a sign of tampering.
I grabbed everything in sight.
In a terrifying state of panic and anxiety, I rushed outdoors and chose a spot to the side of the cabin, hiding stealthily behind some brush and logs. That's when, as mind-shattering as it was for me to absorb and comprehend, I saw myself running from the depths of the forest, and into the cabin, with the bear in a frenzy behind. As the bear charged the cabin, I popped out, and firing off a signal flare, I too grabbed the rifle I had discovered earlier, and aimed steadfast towards the animal. The air filled with the cracking sound of gun-fire.
My nose begins to feel as though it were running, and I could tell it was rather chilled. Yet, to be honest, the rest of me was warm, so I lowered the mask I had equipped to insulate my frigid face. After the masks' warmth took hold, I fell to my back and into the snow. Sinking a couple inches, I felt an intense relaxation wash over me.
As a second coat, or perhaps a blanket, the snow that conformed to my body around me too kept myself safe from the piercing cold. As enjoyable as it was, and as deeply as I wished to stay, I could not. With a worrying noise being emitted from north of me, animal-like in it's ferocity, I felt a burst of desired adrenaline. Too, resting helped bounce me back to what was, while not peak condition, a large improvement, and allowed for my attempted escape.
Walking slowly, but not slow enough as to allow close following from the creature, I came to a wall of stone. Cornered would be a fine word, yet not one I had wanted to admit in such a fear-filled time. The noise, not having faltered in it's terrifying nature, came ever closer to my location.
As illogical panic swept over my body, and the scrambling for anything useful in my pack proceeded, I found a worthwhile tool. Gripping my flare gun, which had been handed to me by a nearby residential ranger of the lands I'm roaming, I aimed upwards. My finger yanked the trigger back, but to my dissatisfaction, nothing came of it.
The flare gun had no ammo, nor was I handed any to begin with, all the while, the dangerous beast was still nearing. Silhouette's are oftentimes more horrifying than the thing bringing upon their formation, but such thoughts only present themselves in hind-sight.
Crackle after crackle whispered danger into my ear loudly, and as the beast stomped, I remembered the noise of crunching snow from before this moment; how lovely it once was. Now, seeing as I lack the desire to check my watch, the heinous footsteps remain the only measure of time until my demise.
I can't run well; my snow shoes cannot stay atop such fluffy and soft snow. Too, the rocky wall obstructing my path doesn't allow much free space to roam.
Soon, and to my unfortunate luck, appeared the creature. A polar bear, larger than a normal sized vehicle, was walking towards me. A moment later the monster was no more than 20 feet away when a large pile of snow fell on top of and completely surrounded me. Frantically shoving the snow away, as to allow further vision of the beast, I finally created a large enough hole to peak: Nothing.
I cleared away, and brushed off the rest of the snow, and to my surprise, there was no bear around. It must have only been 4 seconds between the time I last saw him, and the moment I peered back to his location. No beast could escape that quickly. The first thought, however irrational, was of a vanishing act, but such things are not possible...
I sat for many moments in confusion, understandably for anyone who witnessed a disappearing act unlike any in the world, but a feeling of desire for movement overcame me, and so I stood. Something compelled me to not sit still, perhaps survival instincts, and so I began walking in a randomly decided direction. Though moving was not a large challenge, sight was.
The snow blotched out the view of my surroundings, and then, extremely upsetting as it was, the sound of heavy foot-steps reentered my radius of hearing. Someone once told me, and though their name escapes my conscious mind, I appreciate, that odd occurrences are abundant in the territory with which I currently reside. Spontaneous disappearance's have been rumored, which I can be witness to, and other happenings, though too I cannot recall, have occurred as well.
While the steps, never nostalgic in their heart-wrenching eerieness, became, yet again, my countdown to the end. It's at that point that my trip became a true regret. So distant was this land, and as harsh as I had been warned it was, I ventured onward.
Money is nice, which too was a defining word I would have used for this trip had it not been interrupted by a mammoth-sized polar bear. But money allows perks... The reasoning for my presence was pure curiosity, and too linked directly to the size of my bank account. Not having a family can lead you to odd places.
"Odd" is a rather suiting name for a massive polar bear, though I sense a lack of peril with such a title, so perhaps "dangerously odd" is more suiting; for Death and I have never brushed shoulders in such a direct manner.
I'm not cornered this time, at least not in the sense that one direction is blocked from further passage, but I cannot run; not now that he is so near. My only hope, because this is all I could muster in a survivalist way-of-thinking, was to curl into the fetal position, and hope for mercy. As the steps neared, my body jolted.
It was in this nervous and uncontrollably shaky state that I realized playing dead was no more a ward against the bear than fleeing, so I rose and continued on.
After walking for what seemed like hours, but was rather more like two minutes, I found a cabin. Racing to it's door, and opening it, heart-pounding, I stepped inside. My fear level, though still very present, shrank, and I could semi-relax.
In my brief moment of relief, I heard a thunder-like sound from outside. Opening the door, and glancing out revealed the cause: a polar bear. Still large in it's inherently scary nature, it was charging the cabin full-speed. I bolted for the opposite wall of expected impact, and stood in anticipation. In my frantic state, I took many quick looks around. What I saw, though not being connected to any past events, had set myself up for the moments to come, allowing the exclusion of ignorance. Laying around the cabin were boxes of rifle, and flare-gun ammunition; empty. Too, a case for a rifle lay open, and strewn out upon the flooring.
From outside, and in triumphantly rapid succession, I heard gunshots. The sound of a large animal crying out filled the cabin, and the shots continued repeatedly. Only until whoever the shooter was had run out of ammo did the gun-shots cease.
When both shots and bear-sounds were no longer audible in the cabin, I slowly eased the front-door open. Peering outside, I saw the riflemen.
"Come out." He said, or rather yelled, so his voice was able to be heard clearly through the blizzard. Though I took very little notice, the man sounded familiar.
As my body exited the wooden oasis, I was able to spot the bear. Laying in pain, on his back, bloody holes peppered throughout his torso and shoulder muscles, he wheezed. Such a beast does not fall with ease.
"They're on their way." Yelled the man, as he loaded his rifle.
Looking up to the sky, I saw a lit flare shining bright, even through the harsh conditions.
"We're safe?" I asked loudly
"I... You're safe." He replied in a reassuring tone.
Confused, yet relieved, I watched the man, who, at this moment I noticed was wearing the same outfit as my self, walk over to the large bear, put the barrel of the gun against it's skull, and pull the trigger.
Blood erupted from the entry wound, and as I witnessed the gun fire, and the bullet penetrate the bear, I felt a tidal wave of relief swamp my body's nerves. And then, I felt a sudden and irresistible urge to lie on my back, and fall asleep. In the middle of a blizzard, I found myself napping, and the fellow comrade who had laid the creature to rest took almost no notice. He just walked on.
What seemed like a few minutes passed, and I was, for at least 10 minutes or so, asleep. I awoke to find myself entirely covered, from head to toe, in a reasonably thick layer of snow, but nothing I could not simply brush off. Coughing and brushing down my suit proceeded, as did the weary glances in all directions. My bearings had not yet been reestablished.
As my peaks in all directions concluded, I noticed several key figures missing: The helpful ally, the dead bear, and any sort of weaponry. One thing remained, however, and that was the cabin. Seeing as it was a partial safe-haven earlier, I figured I would explore it once again.
Walking inside, and to the surprise of myself, or anyone had they been placed inside my shoes, lay a closed gun-crate, many boxes of ammunition, both of the rifle and flare-types, and not a sign of tampering.
I grabbed everything in sight.
In a terrifying state of panic and anxiety, I rushed outdoors and chose a spot to the side of the cabin, hiding stealthily behind some brush and logs. That's when, as mind-shattering as it was for me to absorb and comprehend, I saw myself running from the depths of the forest, and into the cabin, with the bear in a frenzy behind. As the bear charged the cabin, I popped out, and firing off a signal flare, I too grabbed the rifle I had discovered earlier, and aimed steadfast towards the animal. The air filled with the cracking sound of gun-fire.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
An Eye for an Eye
?:
Damp streets form the gutters of our society. Suited men stroll the corrupted ruins, enforcing lawful recreation; god complexes in hand, not afraid to unleash gifted wrath upon the scum.
The people sleep; the honest ones. Those who live life with a decent heart are not out. Villainy is out. Wasted life patterns the brick covered alley-ways. The pure do not take such risks. It is the evil that rule, the evil that consume the largest portion of the populous in dark times.
Accomplishments be damned, a sinner shall end as the rest. The good shall die; the sinners shall die. Not one excludes this inevitable conclusion, though one tends to remain in existence longer. Religion, cherished by many, is the loophole to such a bleak end. I am not the religious-type.
It's roughly 12:30 am. A middle-aged man wanders the docks. Fisherman busy with late night cargo; oblivious to the creature.
I spot a bottle. Clenched hand tightening the drunken hold. I am reminded of a pheasant; that which controls not it's own fate. The cross-hairs of my sight align; my index finger firmly grips a metaphorical trigger.
The lowly creature flails. His funeral is short-lived; not a soul in sight. Lungs beginning to fill with water, movement ceasing moments later... The face of an alcoholic ripples 'neath the town lake. Calm as a man can be, stoicism at it's best, I walk away.
A blind man doesn't an evil man make. Yet an evil man truly is blind. Blissful be the ones with sight; restraint. Waste deserves not pity.
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I am what I fight. To refuse acknowledgement of such is to be brimming with hypocrisy. I am a smoker who says never to smoke. A drinker who preaches never to drink. But I don't smoke; don't drink.
My art does not halt. Not one day of the year do I falter in performance or consistency. As a hermit, not one will recognize my flesh. As an artistic endeavor, I shall have my masterpiece.
Officer Richard Pettinger:
Steam settles aloft the town-lake. As I saunter the walk-way parallel the town's body of water, morning eases it's way upon Brastol. Beams of light penetrate the distant tree-topped hills and I stare, mesmerized, able to handle the suns rays for a moment, looking away only when my eyes cannot bear the intensity. I am pleased with my surroundings.
Britain was lovely. I enjoyed the people, the culture, but things here are relaxed. I've come to love the hampered quality of life, for it's not such a great loss. Busy was my past-life; I am peaceful in my current state. No hustle, no demand. Work has never been so serene.
My rifle is shouldered; never fired a shot since canceling my British citizenship. I enjoy the harmony; enjoyed.
Two months after being stationed in Brastol, murders have been popping up. No lead, no evidence. As of now, the killings are being set aside; nothing can be done.
Seems whoever the bastard is, wants to make my job easier. There's a twisted irony to the whole ordeal. God damn the sins of such a reclusive butcher.
Brick-layered streets, the fresh air; everything is pleasant. Though the quality of my home may be lessened, I revel in the lavishes this town has to offer.
Wood and brick make up the structure of your average building; arched doorways to lead inside. Glass guards the interior from thievery, though a persistent evil could pierce such fortitude's.
Despite the minimal security, low-rate crimes are rare. Common is a day of non-action, allowing me to dedicate my time to venturing the towns streets, or diving into short-handed investigations.
A detective status will get you places in Britain. Here, it's a transparent title. I'm a foot-soldier, not an investigator. I don't mind; merely puts me a step ahead.
?:
Post-apocalypse, things will change...
I sit on one of the many rusted benches looking out upon the dock, the water. Red coats make an officer all too recognizable; I spot one from the corner of my eye. He passes behind. Seems in awe of the world around him; he takes no notice of me.
I am seated aside one other man. Throwing feed to the pigeons, he too seems oblivious of my presence. I don't stare; peripherals. A middle-aged, medium-income man. He is quite handsome; good with the tramps that find residence here. I know him.
He bears a knife on his belt, right-side.
Despite the looks, he finds pleasure in forcing sexual acts upon women. Entrapment via his charm; looks. Once secluded, his knife becomes his greatest tool in manipulation. 'Tis not enough for a women to perform the act out of willingness, he demands torture; pain.
Blows to the face of nearly every women who's explored his sleep-room would say he's a ruthless one, yet not a soul will testify. Too scared are the commoners, the reasonable flesh and bones.
A man gets off with torture, rape. Regret is scarce in such a damned fool.
I sit next to a man with a knife on the right side of his belt. That man sits next to a man with a knife on the left side of his belt. This debaucher doesn't have the advantage; neither did the women.
Officer Richard Pettinger:
Dark corners have always housed the heathens of society. In the dark, ignorance and free-will thrive; in the light, these things are met with due justice.
All crime will find prejudice in a good officer, but thievery is a particular irritant for me. I take issue with this idea of self-worth, where one creature views himself as deserving of others' earned items. Realistically, stealing isn't a harsh violation, but I still find myself tracking down the thieving villains of society.
As the sun begins to hide its' face, I'm making progress through my final patrol route; day-dreaming and sight-seeing as one would expect.
Stores pertaining to the inner parts of town line their gardens placed out front with white picket fences, which have always attracted me. The flowers inside the fenced areas are nice, but that white picket fence is what catches my eye. When the sun sets, the orange, blues, greens, and yellows all settle wondrously atop the blank canvas. Colors meld in a sort of painted manner, and the next day, the paper shall be clear for another spattering.
Blinded by the beauty around me, some might suspect I lack attention to the outer-world. Mistakes are made when assumptions find a crafter.
To my left, across the street from such a lovely store-front, a helpless women has found herself in the cross-hairs of a thief. Pleasure in a job is rarely found.
I made haste to the scene, halting the criminal in his tracks. The woman ran off, and in the direction of her fleeing, I again heard a cry for help. A second enemy lunged from the shadows, intent on completing the job. My morale sank. I couldn't handle two men.
Kicking and screaming that women put up a great fight, but the second man stabbed her in the upper part of her torso. As she dropped, the man scrambled, grabbing any valuables he could. An innocent women sought home; found death.
From the side I heard a yell. "I'll seize this klepto, you go for the other!" A helpful citizen was he for his gracious offer, one I took him up on. Throwing the first man to the stranger, I quickly made my way to his thieving twin. Slamming his figure to the ground, I knew he'd been vanquished. Hauling that husk of a human being to the initial scene, I was met with shocking results.
Huddled up like a dieing animal, eyes closed, was the first criminal. I tied the partners hands, then checked the first man for a pulse. He was alive; unconscious.
?:
The gullibility of some people has me in awe. Today an officer expected a helpful gesture from a ruthless stranger, one he received in a not-so-ideal manner.
I offered assistance in the capture of two thieves, stating I'd hold one while the officer chased after and caught the second. Perhaps my wording was off, for I held not the first man for more than 10 seconds. Gripped in my hands, I could sense his fear. Neither myself nor he had liked the situation at present.
Moments after receival, I knocked the man out of consciousness and strolled from the scene.
A hidden face can be tracked by no soul, but a soul can be tracked by a hidden face. So is the case of Richard Pettinger; a man I've stalked for years.
The world has had murderers from the beginning of time. Our only means of prevention is the elimination of such creatures. Destroy the bastards; save the kind.
No matter our resistance; murderers still crawl from the womb's of man. Futile as it may seem, elimination remains our only prevention. Murderers will fall, by ones, by fives, by hundreds.
Richard Pettinger:
Covering up an error can demand patience. Finding a man unconscious is not fortunate; wait until he comes to, and all mistakes find obliteration.
A slap on the wrist is as severe a punishment as I'd receive for such a misjudgement of character, but I see no point in the hassle. Lately, a lot of pressure has been put on the shoulders of my union, in regards to the murders. People want results; answers.
We tell them we have leads. Truth be told, we lack an ongoing investigation into any of the murders; the ones we can link. The would-be mouse has become a bird; always out of the cat's reach. We, I, am the cat.
A recent letter has been recovered by our Lieutenant; from the killer. No demands.
Letter #1:
Dear Gentlemen,
Seems you've a case on your hands; cases.
Let's be blunt with each other; I appreciate your work. You all seem great. Though why the slacking? Has your job become so care-free that you blind yourself to the evil around? I believe so.
This letter is merely a prologue for things to come; proof of authenticity.
I will murder five men tomorrow. Their bodies will be displayed in a manner with which you can only dream up at this point. After your approval, we will talk.
Sincerely,
?
?:
One would imagine the slaughter of five men a challenging feat to stomach. Some say morals would affect the task, that no moral human being would ever commit as heinous an act; such words are spoken in ignorance.
I've a new letter being written. It's not complete, as time remains an ally.
Letter #2:
Dear Comrades,
I am in joy of your approval. The verification process is entirely complete, and I can remain safe in the knowledge of your stern attitude towards my end of the conversation from this moment onward.
Do you remember two thief's you seized no more than three days ago? I know you're still detaining both, and both I shall require. How does an old-fashion e...
?:
As stated, the letter needs work. When it's finished, I only need wait for my response to the first inquire.
Richard Pettinger:
Tomorrow, five men will be murdered. No location; no leads. I feel a fool for being toyed with in such a humiliating manner. Because, as far as things go with my group, we've not been able to narrow down any possible targets.
In all likelihood, the ones killed will be criminals themselves. However, we can't pinpoint which people will die.
?:
Murdering a rapist is a fine act indeed. A commemorable slaying shall it be deemed, but hardly as honorable a task as the slaughter of one who ends life. Seems entirely contradictory that a murderer ends the sprees of murderers, but just cause has never been so great.
Some say that the only decent reason to end the life of a human is to save the lives of others; I think not. The torture of any creature is irresponsible, humans included. To hurt a human, is to beg for that pain yourself; pleading for death. Though the harming of any other creature too finds no worthy cause.
How often we find ourselves concluding the lives of various other creatures, only for us to be set upon a higher pedestal. We're of no more worth than a deer; perhaps less so. Animals symbolize innocence; humans symbolize ruin.
I've witnessed great paintings and hardly a flaw could be found on such magnificent work. If a flaw were made, the artist would seek to exclude or eliminate it. For mankind, I am the artist.
Tonight, five men die. I suppose one could say they're already dead. I've not yet ripped the life from them, but then I also have. It's already done, even though it's not. Inevitable has always been a nice word.
Light has faded from the town-scape; even the sun hides it's face. Those who want to witness and catch the act, will not. Those who do not, will not. Only upon completion, will those who seek so desperately the horror of my act, find the gore.
With a knife hidden in my right hand, another in my left, and 3 on the back of my belt, I stroll into the town jail.
Richard Pettinger:
I just concluded a town meeting. My lieutenant ordered I give a speech to the people, and the murderer. The entire talk revolved around the 5 murders discovered early this morning; delivered as promised. The speech allowed a chance to tell the murderer of our belief in his capabilities and authenticity, while too calming the people of Brastol.
Last night, somehow, the murderer wandered into the town-jail. With a knife, he butchered 5 men in the most grotesque manner any of the officers had ever witnessed. All 5 men were cut at the stomach, with entrails pulled out; blood was everywhere. The intestines were then used to wrap around the mens' necks.
All 5 men were found sitting upright on the beds we allow them, arms drooped to the side. Entrails wrapped around the necks, with the non-tied end pulled up and pressed high on the wall. Then, a knife was pierced through it and the wood of the walls to hold things tight. A noose for each man, fashioned in the most horrifying manner conceivable.
The town seemed pleased with the answers I handed out today. Lieing through ones teeth is not a difficult task. I now see how government figures can pull off such things with ease.
That meeting has now made me the icon of the 'investigation,' in the public eye. They seem to like my appearance and the way I speak, so to them, I am their link to the inside.
Despite my stand-up performance, I've been feeling rather poor lately. Most other officers are handling the situation very well, but I just can't. I came here to relax, and I received that luxury for only 2 months... Here's to hoping this next letter devises some sort of conclusion.
?:
The second letter has been complete since this morning. I finished it's construction after the final execution and plan on bringing it by the lieutenants house later tonight.
Richard Pettinger:
Last night, as many of us had hoped, a letter was left by the Lieutenants home; from the murderer. It reads:
Dear Comrades,
I am in joy of your approval. The verification process is entirely complete, and I can remain safe in the knowledge of your stern attitude towards my end of the conversation from this moment onward.
Do you remember two thief's you seized no more than three days ago? I know you're still detaining both, and both I shall require. How does an old-fashion execution sound to you?
I demand both men be taken to the central area of town and hung in public. One man is purely a thief, the other is a murderer. You will put out a paper, head-lines reading "PUBLIC EXECUTION," and stating the reasons for which both men shall be killed. Do not worsen the counts; thievery and murder, that is all.
A crowd will form as is usual, and the crowd will stay. The set will be in the middle, and the crowd will circle around in all three-hundred and sixty degrees. No officer shall be present if he or she opposes the execution in any manner.
If everything is performed as stated, I will show up. Instead of two executions, there will be three.
I demand the place be searched by your only investigative officer: Richard Pettinger, for bombs and any sort of hidden assassinatory items. Any other officers who do not protest the event may be present and participate in or watch over the executions. People will crowd around viciously an hour or thirty minutes before the men even approach the stage, and when they do arrive, they will be brought through the crowd and placed upon the execution platform.
All present officers will survey the crowd for protesters and these people will be told to leave immediately; to not return for fear of arrest. No exceptions.
Nooses will be placed around both thieves necks before I appear. There will be a rope that, when pulled, drops the floor-boards beneath the three of us, and we shall die.
I will go up on-stage, uninterrupted, and place the third noose placed around my neck. The rope that will release us all to our deaths will be placed within reach of the third noose; my noose.
If you try to deceive me, I will know. Anything done incorrectly will result in my absence.
Sunday.
Sincerely,
?
Richard Pettinger:
I'm quite glad with this most recent letter. I've not a problem putting these three men to death at all. It'd be a pleasure to rid the world of such bastards.
I think something must have clicked in the murderers mind; he just wants to be put out of his misery. Glad he mustered the courage.
We've scheduled a union meeting tonight at the lieutenant's home. It's up to us whether we accept or decline the offer. Until then, I'm going to try and relax, maybe take a walk around the town.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun is shining bright today, with only random clouds passing by to block the rays here and there. Rain hasn't poured in days, thus the streets are dry and quite lovely. Peacefully making my way through the corridors of lined houses I find myself wandering closer and closer to the stores in town.
As I walk to the front of the shops, I'm caught a bit off-guard. Many of the white picket-fences have dulled to a dusty grey. Persistent shop-keeps still maintain their canvas', but the town has eased it's way into a dull and dreary hole.
No one will look you in the eye, and people keep mostly to themselves. It too seems some citizens will walk quickly to their destination for fear of assault or harassment. Paranoia has set in.
Saturday
Richard Pettinger:
As could have been expected, my union and fellow officers agreed to the murderers proposition. Last night, papers with the demanded head-line were created and today are being handed out rapidly. No one in town will be oblivious to the going-on's tomorrow.
Many of the people have already received the head-line. All seem shocked; I smile. My understanding of this whole ordeal is greater than that of the masses, if not all my peers. It's simple for some, complex for others. One analogy comes to mind for such an event, and the man behind this madness... Sacrificing ones self, despite the abomination of a human as he is, brings upon me visions of Jesus and his tale of sacrificial success for the world.
This whole goddamn execution scene has a purpose; one I can respect. The murderer... He's created an air of cease-fire. It's not a practice in power, it's a chance at peace.
The would-be criminals are now in hibernation, too fearful of elimination. But with the fear of elimination comes prevention. He's put a halt to vandalism, thievery, assault... murder.
Sunday
?:
When they see my mug, they won't understand. The fuse shall be lit, and their awe will be followed by scheduled execution.
My hand firmly gripped around the lifeline of three men, and I'll pull. I'll pull, and I'll fall. I wonder if I'll hear the cry of the others.
When the noose finally slips beyond my nose; I'll know. I'm quite certain of my understanding.
When I take my position I'll look around the crowd, eye-balling the mass of congregated heathens. If time would allow explanation how grateful I would be, but it does not.
I've always been quite great at chess, and now my role appears the King. Pawns surround me, and my queen is oblivious. Only conceivable improvement to this analogy would be the kings suicide...
Richard Pettinger:
Justice always wins in the end. I have no doubt that had this murderous man not come forth, we would have caught him. A period of time is what seperated the two of us. Though perhaps our murderer knew his demise would come, our union just could not risk what might have been further reckless activity.
My mind can only wander as I sit, mesmerized by the sea of of gathered beings. As I ease out of my seat, a passer-by seems to recognize me. He says hi, then tells me of his stance on the execution.
This stranger is no more than 19 years of age and his opposition to the murder is strong. Discussion ensues, and I realize I've been talking to him for a good 20 minutes. Once I found an appropriate time, I tell him that he kindly needs to make his way from the mass of people; he obliges. A nice young man, I didn't even have to tell him of his impending arrest had he attempted returning.
As he left the scene, I came to the realization that my services would soon be required. Convincing myself that starting now wasn't such a terrible idea, I began my quest. Through the huddles of standing citizens, I progressed, scanning ever-closely the ground and hidden areas.
For some reason I took particular notice of the grout beneath my feet, but to my eyes, everything seemed normal, and I continued on. I remembered that, earlier in the day, I had checked the grout and bricks for any harm-inducing products; nothing was found.
I've been searching for nearly an hour, and the crowd has grown large, and restless. The once calm and collected group of citizens relinquished itself to the mass, and is now a congregated being of hate-spouting non-sense.
I saw a riot a couple years ago that I helped fend off. The people were in opposition of a slightly raised tax, and they took it up with battle. Needless to say, things devolved, and the mood became grim. At one moment, a man from the crowd burst out and stabbed a fellow officer in the chest with some sort of sharpened object, then he regained his position deep within the crowd.
Hatred boiled inside me; I wanted so painfully to torture the soul of that man, but I couldn't. Perhaps a crowd draws out the harshest of human emotion, possibly loosening yourself for profession of hate. Then, on the other hand, perhaps a crowd just brings out who you really are...
The mass grew at a quicker rate than it shrank; the exclusion of protestors quite diminished the numbers, but there was hardly a significant blow to the morale. Diligent officers scrambled to remove all those in opposition, and soon, it seemed as though every protestor had gone. To me, I would have continued on, but the lieutenant stressed we dig deeper into the crowd and survey at least once more. By the end, several more people found themselves heading home...
After finally extinguishing the protesting presence, it appeared time for the initial two criminals to be lead to the stage. From the back-end of the crowd, and as everyone split to allow passage, came the theif, and the murderer. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, they didn't seem set on escape. Rather, they seemed content and calm; accepting, though I doubt such was true for them.
As the draping of the nooses finalized, the crowd grew vicious in it's barrage of chanting. Two men stood upon a stage, in view of hundreds of citizens, their death only moments away, and they're being ridiculed. Torment has never fit so perfectly a situation. And with unease, I approached the stage myself. Now seemed as nice a time to check the quality of the ropes as any, and so I walked slowly upon the wooden planks that were used to construct the site, pulling down on each of the men's ropes, and then I got to the third. Staring me in an awkward manner was the final noose, the noose with no owner.
I looked out upon the crowd, scanning for what I hoped was the killer, but to no avail did I discover him. In my disappointed state, I caught the body of a person in the crowd, and for whatever reason, he stuck out entirely too much, like a crippled creature in a herd of his own kind, only to be the sole target of an attack, this man was an obvious attraction for me.
I hopped off the stage, and quickly brushed aside the crowd in front of me. Women, and men, all taking a step aside in politeness for me to achieve what seemed like a ridiculous goal. At the time of my strayed-pondering, I saw him. Almost silhouette-like in appearance, I approached him. I knew, at this moment of discovery, that this was the man we'd been searching for.
Before identification, something struck me in an odd manner. I couldn't conceive why he would reveal to me his appearance before the execution... And then the person in front of me, the one I had just chased, the one my force had been tracking, the murderer of many humans, the organizer of this event, and the manipulator of this town for weeks, disappeared.
In rabbid confusion and uncontrollable shakiness, I turned to the execution stand. There was a man facing the third noose. Chants of elimination ensued, and I participated. The man stood up there in an officers uniform, and peered around to the entire crowd. What officer has the audacity to rebel against the way of the law, and the job he performs?
"Hang them! Hang them!" Chanted I with furious intensity.
The second my chants were uttered, our murderer grabbed the noose and raised it above his head. Then he dropped it around his neck.
As my eyes watched the noose land atop the shoulders of the killer, my perspective changed. I was no longer in the crowd; I was on the stage. Had I not focused so gravely on the world around me, perhaps I would not have met this end, but I hardly bothered with my inner-workings. I was oblivious to myself.
One would expect confusion, but a sort of mental melding took hold of my mind for the moments to come. I just knew, somehow, what was expected of me upon this stage. I had a role, unavoidable at this point, and one that would resolve so many issues. I understood.
I cannot agree with murder, and I cannot agree with the murderer's... my, actions, but I just understand. There is right and there is wrong, and there is an area between the two of them that flourishes, but when wrong battles wrong, what comes of it? Take two wrongs, subtract one, and you are still left with the other... But now I know the answer.
Hypocrisy makes the world blind, and such a statement shall come to fruition. Eager I am not, but it's an inevitable closing. I cannot say that I slaughter hypocrites, because this is not the case, I slaughter those who do wrong. People are oblivious to so much, and eliminate themselves from any form of wrong-doing, but they are the ones that perform severe acts of inhumanity.
I may be a monster, but as too are the rest of the creatures that surround me. Even the man, the one I had ordered to leave, returned. He stood in what I could barely recognize as dumbfounded confusion. Then, and to the surprise and disgust of myself, he joined the choir of chanting ghouls. Even the protesters find no shame in hypocrisy, though this time danger awaits.
More yelling drowns my ears, and I look to my right. Here, hanging, as I told my fellow officers to do so, is the rope to drop the three of us heathens to our deaths. I grip, between my sweating palms, the rope of the utmost power in the world. As I clutch death within my hands, I follow the grouts surrounding the nearby lit-torch with my eyes. Four torches mark the corners of the stage, but one has met a saboteur.
The pulling of this rope drops not only myself, and the two criminals, it too knocks the torch on it's side, the lit flame dangerously igniting an explosion of justice.
"Murderers will fall, by ones, by fives, by hundreds." I muttered as my right arm dropped, rope in hand, and the floor below escaped my feet. In what is my final moments of life, I peer over to the torch, and it lies on the ground. If I could grin, I would.
With my final seconds, I hear the gun-powder, which I had replaced certain lengths of grout with, explode quickly to it's destination. As agony and I met face to face, so did she introduce herself to the men and women around me... Finally, I hear the last sound. Many large, roaring explosions from all angles erupted upon my audible senses, followed by screams of terror.
My neck was supposed to break, but it hadn't... I should have died before the explosions, but I had yet to cease life. As the fifteen bombs I scattered around in my checking for terrorist devices exploded, I saw my vision fading. If I had time to cry, I would.
Damp streets form the gutters of our society. Suited men stroll the corrupted ruins, enforcing lawful recreation; god complexes in hand, not afraid to unleash gifted wrath upon the scum.
The people sleep; the honest ones. Those who live life with a decent heart are not out. Villainy is out. Wasted life patterns the brick covered alley-ways. The pure do not take such risks. It is the evil that rule, the evil that consume the largest portion of the populous in dark times.
Accomplishments be damned, a sinner shall end as the rest. The good shall die; the sinners shall die. Not one excludes this inevitable conclusion, though one tends to remain in existence longer. Religion, cherished by many, is the loophole to such a bleak end. I am not the religious-type.
It's roughly 12:30 am. A middle-aged man wanders the docks. Fisherman busy with late night cargo; oblivious to the creature.
I spot a bottle. Clenched hand tightening the drunken hold. I am reminded of a pheasant; that which controls not it's own fate. The cross-hairs of my sight align; my index finger firmly grips a metaphorical trigger.
The lowly creature flails. His funeral is short-lived; not a soul in sight. Lungs beginning to fill with water, movement ceasing moments later... The face of an alcoholic ripples 'neath the town lake. Calm as a man can be, stoicism at it's best, I walk away.
A blind man doesn't an evil man make. Yet an evil man truly is blind. Blissful be the ones with sight; restraint. Waste deserves not pity.
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I am what I fight. To refuse acknowledgement of such is to be brimming with hypocrisy. I am a smoker who says never to smoke. A drinker who preaches never to drink. But I don't smoke; don't drink.
My art does not halt. Not one day of the year do I falter in performance or consistency. As a hermit, not one will recognize my flesh. As an artistic endeavor, I shall have my masterpiece.
Officer Richard Pettinger:
Steam settles aloft the town-lake. As I saunter the walk-way parallel the town's body of water, morning eases it's way upon Brastol. Beams of light penetrate the distant tree-topped hills and I stare, mesmerized, able to handle the suns rays for a moment, looking away only when my eyes cannot bear the intensity. I am pleased with my surroundings.
Britain was lovely. I enjoyed the people, the culture, but things here are relaxed. I've come to love the hampered quality of life, for it's not such a great loss. Busy was my past-life; I am peaceful in my current state. No hustle, no demand. Work has never been so serene.
My rifle is shouldered; never fired a shot since canceling my British citizenship. I enjoy the harmony; enjoyed.
Two months after being stationed in Brastol, murders have been popping up. No lead, no evidence. As of now, the killings are being set aside; nothing can be done.
Seems whoever the bastard is, wants to make my job easier. There's a twisted irony to the whole ordeal. God damn the sins of such a reclusive butcher.
Brick-layered streets, the fresh air; everything is pleasant. Though the quality of my home may be lessened, I revel in the lavishes this town has to offer.
Wood and brick make up the structure of your average building; arched doorways to lead inside. Glass guards the interior from thievery, though a persistent evil could pierce such fortitude's.
Despite the minimal security, low-rate crimes are rare. Common is a day of non-action, allowing me to dedicate my time to venturing the towns streets, or diving into short-handed investigations.
A detective status will get you places in Britain. Here, it's a transparent title. I'm a foot-soldier, not an investigator. I don't mind; merely puts me a step ahead.
?:
Post-apocalypse, things will change...
I sit on one of the many rusted benches looking out upon the dock, the water. Red coats make an officer all too recognizable; I spot one from the corner of my eye. He passes behind. Seems in awe of the world around him; he takes no notice of me.
I am seated aside one other man. Throwing feed to the pigeons, he too seems oblivious of my presence. I don't stare; peripherals. A middle-aged, medium-income man. He is quite handsome; good with the tramps that find residence here. I know him.
He bears a knife on his belt, right-side.
Despite the looks, he finds pleasure in forcing sexual acts upon women. Entrapment via his charm; looks. Once secluded, his knife becomes his greatest tool in manipulation. 'Tis not enough for a women to perform the act out of willingness, he demands torture; pain.
Blows to the face of nearly every women who's explored his sleep-room would say he's a ruthless one, yet not a soul will testify. Too scared are the commoners, the reasonable flesh and bones.
A man gets off with torture, rape. Regret is scarce in such a damned fool.
I sit next to a man with a knife on the right side of his belt. That man sits next to a man with a knife on the left side of his belt. This debaucher doesn't have the advantage; neither did the women.
Officer Richard Pettinger:
Dark corners have always housed the heathens of society. In the dark, ignorance and free-will thrive; in the light, these things are met with due justice.
All crime will find prejudice in a good officer, but thievery is a particular irritant for me. I take issue with this idea of self-worth, where one creature views himself as deserving of others' earned items. Realistically, stealing isn't a harsh violation, but I still find myself tracking down the thieving villains of society.
As the sun begins to hide its' face, I'm making progress through my final patrol route; day-dreaming and sight-seeing as one would expect.
Stores pertaining to the inner parts of town line their gardens placed out front with white picket fences, which have always attracted me. The flowers inside the fenced areas are nice, but that white picket fence is what catches my eye. When the sun sets, the orange, blues, greens, and yellows all settle wondrously atop the blank canvas. Colors meld in a sort of painted manner, and the next day, the paper shall be clear for another spattering.
Blinded by the beauty around me, some might suspect I lack attention to the outer-world. Mistakes are made when assumptions find a crafter.
To my left, across the street from such a lovely store-front, a helpless women has found herself in the cross-hairs of a thief. Pleasure in a job is rarely found.
I made haste to the scene, halting the criminal in his tracks. The woman ran off, and in the direction of her fleeing, I again heard a cry for help. A second enemy lunged from the shadows, intent on completing the job. My morale sank. I couldn't handle two men.
Kicking and screaming that women put up a great fight, but the second man stabbed her in the upper part of her torso. As she dropped, the man scrambled, grabbing any valuables he could. An innocent women sought home; found death.
From the side I heard a yell. "I'll seize this klepto, you go for the other!" A helpful citizen was he for his gracious offer, one I took him up on. Throwing the first man to the stranger, I quickly made my way to his thieving twin. Slamming his figure to the ground, I knew he'd been vanquished. Hauling that husk of a human being to the initial scene, I was met with shocking results.
Huddled up like a dieing animal, eyes closed, was the first criminal. I tied the partners hands, then checked the first man for a pulse. He was alive; unconscious.
?:
The gullibility of some people has me in awe. Today an officer expected a helpful gesture from a ruthless stranger, one he received in a not-so-ideal manner.
I offered assistance in the capture of two thieves, stating I'd hold one while the officer chased after and caught the second. Perhaps my wording was off, for I held not the first man for more than 10 seconds. Gripped in my hands, I could sense his fear. Neither myself nor he had liked the situation at present.
Moments after receival, I knocked the man out of consciousness and strolled from the scene.
A hidden face can be tracked by no soul, but a soul can be tracked by a hidden face. So is the case of Richard Pettinger; a man I've stalked for years.
The world has had murderers from the beginning of time. Our only means of prevention is the elimination of such creatures. Destroy the bastards; save the kind.
No matter our resistance; murderers still crawl from the womb's of man. Futile as it may seem, elimination remains our only prevention. Murderers will fall, by ones, by fives, by hundreds.
Richard Pettinger:
Covering up an error can demand patience. Finding a man unconscious is not fortunate; wait until he comes to, and all mistakes find obliteration.
A slap on the wrist is as severe a punishment as I'd receive for such a misjudgement of character, but I see no point in the hassle. Lately, a lot of pressure has been put on the shoulders of my union, in regards to the murders. People want results; answers.
We tell them we have leads. Truth be told, we lack an ongoing investigation into any of the murders; the ones we can link. The would-be mouse has become a bird; always out of the cat's reach. We, I, am the cat.
A recent letter has been recovered by our Lieutenant; from the killer. No demands.
Letter #1:
Dear Gentlemen,
Seems you've a case on your hands; cases.
Let's be blunt with each other; I appreciate your work. You all seem great. Though why the slacking? Has your job become so care-free that you blind yourself to the evil around? I believe so.
This letter is merely a prologue for things to come; proof of authenticity.
I will murder five men tomorrow. Their bodies will be displayed in a manner with which you can only dream up at this point. After your approval, we will talk.
Sincerely,
?
?:
One would imagine the slaughter of five men a challenging feat to stomach. Some say morals would affect the task, that no moral human being would ever commit as heinous an act; such words are spoken in ignorance.
I've a new letter being written. It's not complete, as time remains an ally.
Letter #2:
Dear Comrades,
I am in joy of your approval. The verification process is entirely complete, and I can remain safe in the knowledge of your stern attitude towards my end of the conversation from this moment onward.
Do you remember two thief's you seized no more than three days ago? I know you're still detaining both, and both I shall require. How does an old-fashion e...
?:
As stated, the letter needs work. When it's finished, I only need wait for my response to the first inquire.
Richard Pettinger:
Tomorrow, five men will be murdered. No location; no leads. I feel a fool for being toyed with in such a humiliating manner. Because, as far as things go with my group, we've not been able to narrow down any possible targets.
In all likelihood, the ones killed will be criminals themselves. However, we can't pinpoint which people will die.
?:
Murdering a rapist is a fine act indeed. A commemorable slaying shall it be deemed, but hardly as honorable a task as the slaughter of one who ends life. Seems entirely contradictory that a murderer ends the sprees of murderers, but just cause has never been so great.
Some say that the only decent reason to end the life of a human is to save the lives of others; I think not. The torture of any creature is irresponsible, humans included. To hurt a human, is to beg for that pain yourself; pleading for death. Though the harming of any other creature too finds no worthy cause.
How often we find ourselves concluding the lives of various other creatures, only for us to be set upon a higher pedestal. We're of no more worth than a deer; perhaps less so. Animals symbolize innocence; humans symbolize ruin.
I've witnessed great paintings and hardly a flaw could be found on such magnificent work. If a flaw were made, the artist would seek to exclude or eliminate it. For mankind, I am the artist.
Tonight, five men die. I suppose one could say they're already dead. I've not yet ripped the life from them, but then I also have. It's already done, even though it's not. Inevitable has always been a nice word.
Light has faded from the town-scape; even the sun hides it's face. Those who want to witness and catch the act, will not. Those who do not, will not. Only upon completion, will those who seek so desperately the horror of my act, find the gore.
With a knife hidden in my right hand, another in my left, and 3 on the back of my belt, I stroll into the town jail.
Richard Pettinger:
I just concluded a town meeting. My lieutenant ordered I give a speech to the people, and the murderer. The entire talk revolved around the 5 murders discovered early this morning; delivered as promised. The speech allowed a chance to tell the murderer of our belief in his capabilities and authenticity, while too calming the people of Brastol.
Last night, somehow, the murderer wandered into the town-jail. With a knife, he butchered 5 men in the most grotesque manner any of the officers had ever witnessed. All 5 men were cut at the stomach, with entrails pulled out; blood was everywhere. The intestines were then used to wrap around the mens' necks.
All 5 men were found sitting upright on the beds we allow them, arms drooped to the side. Entrails wrapped around the necks, with the non-tied end pulled up and pressed high on the wall. Then, a knife was pierced through it and the wood of the walls to hold things tight. A noose for each man, fashioned in the most horrifying manner conceivable.
The town seemed pleased with the answers I handed out today. Lieing through ones teeth is not a difficult task. I now see how government figures can pull off such things with ease.
That meeting has now made me the icon of the 'investigation,' in the public eye. They seem to like my appearance and the way I speak, so to them, I am their link to the inside.
Despite my stand-up performance, I've been feeling rather poor lately. Most other officers are handling the situation very well, but I just can't. I came here to relax, and I received that luxury for only 2 months... Here's to hoping this next letter devises some sort of conclusion.
?:
The second letter has been complete since this morning. I finished it's construction after the final execution and plan on bringing it by the lieutenants house later tonight.
Richard Pettinger:
Last night, as many of us had hoped, a letter was left by the Lieutenants home; from the murderer. It reads:
Dear Comrades,
I am in joy of your approval. The verification process is entirely complete, and I can remain safe in the knowledge of your stern attitude towards my end of the conversation from this moment onward.
Do you remember two thief's you seized no more than three days ago? I know you're still detaining both, and both I shall require. How does an old-fashion execution sound to you?
I demand both men be taken to the central area of town and hung in public. One man is purely a thief, the other is a murderer. You will put out a paper, head-lines reading "PUBLIC EXECUTION," and stating the reasons for which both men shall be killed. Do not worsen the counts; thievery and murder, that is all.
A crowd will form as is usual, and the crowd will stay. The set will be in the middle, and the crowd will circle around in all three-hundred and sixty degrees. No officer shall be present if he or she opposes the execution in any manner.
If everything is performed as stated, I will show up. Instead of two executions, there will be three.
I demand the place be searched by your only investigative officer: Richard Pettinger, for bombs and any sort of hidden assassinatory items. Any other officers who do not protest the event may be present and participate in or watch over the executions. People will crowd around viciously an hour or thirty minutes before the men even approach the stage, and when they do arrive, they will be brought through the crowd and placed upon the execution platform.
All present officers will survey the crowd for protesters and these people will be told to leave immediately; to not return for fear of arrest. No exceptions.
Nooses will be placed around both thieves necks before I appear. There will be a rope that, when pulled, drops the floor-boards beneath the three of us, and we shall die.
I will go up on-stage, uninterrupted, and place the third noose placed around my neck. The rope that will release us all to our deaths will be placed within reach of the third noose; my noose.
If you try to deceive me, I will know. Anything done incorrectly will result in my absence.
Sunday.
Sincerely,
?
Richard Pettinger:
I'm quite glad with this most recent letter. I've not a problem putting these three men to death at all. It'd be a pleasure to rid the world of such bastards.
I think something must have clicked in the murderers mind; he just wants to be put out of his misery. Glad he mustered the courage.
We've scheduled a union meeting tonight at the lieutenant's home. It's up to us whether we accept or decline the offer. Until then, I'm going to try and relax, maybe take a walk around the town.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun is shining bright today, with only random clouds passing by to block the rays here and there. Rain hasn't poured in days, thus the streets are dry and quite lovely. Peacefully making my way through the corridors of lined houses I find myself wandering closer and closer to the stores in town.
As I walk to the front of the shops, I'm caught a bit off-guard. Many of the white picket-fences have dulled to a dusty grey. Persistent shop-keeps still maintain their canvas', but the town has eased it's way into a dull and dreary hole.
No one will look you in the eye, and people keep mostly to themselves. It too seems some citizens will walk quickly to their destination for fear of assault or harassment. Paranoia has set in.
Saturday
Richard Pettinger:
As could have been expected, my union and fellow officers agreed to the murderers proposition. Last night, papers with the demanded head-line were created and today are being handed out rapidly. No one in town will be oblivious to the going-on's tomorrow.
Many of the people have already received the head-line. All seem shocked; I smile. My understanding of this whole ordeal is greater than that of the masses, if not all my peers. It's simple for some, complex for others. One analogy comes to mind for such an event, and the man behind this madness... Sacrificing ones self, despite the abomination of a human as he is, brings upon me visions of Jesus and his tale of sacrificial success for the world.
This whole goddamn execution scene has a purpose; one I can respect. The murderer... He's created an air of cease-fire. It's not a practice in power, it's a chance at peace.
The would-be criminals are now in hibernation, too fearful of elimination. But with the fear of elimination comes prevention. He's put a halt to vandalism, thievery, assault... murder.
Sunday
?:
When they see my mug, they won't understand. The fuse shall be lit, and their awe will be followed by scheduled execution.
My hand firmly gripped around the lifeline of three men, and I'll pull. I'll pull, and I'll fall. I wonder if I'll hear the cry of the others.
When the noose finally slips beyond my nose; I'll know. I'm quite certain of my understanding.
When I take my position I'll look around the crowd, eye-balling the mass of congregated heathens. If time would allow explanation how grateful I would be, but it does not.
I've always been quite great at chess, and now my role appears the King. Pawns surround me, and my queen is oblivious. Only conceivable improvement to this analogy would be the kings suicide...
Richard Pettinger:
Justice always wins in the end. I have no doubt that had this murderous man not come forth, we would have caught him. A period of time is what seperated the two of us. Though perhaps our murderer knew his demise would come, our union just could not risk what might have been further reckless activity.
My mind can only wander as I sit, mesmerized by the sea of of gathered beings. As I ease out of my seat, a passer-by seems to recognize me. He says hi, then tells me of his stance on the execution.
This stranger is no more than 19 years of age and his opposition to the murder is strong. Discussion ensues, and I realize I've been talking to him for a good 20 minutes. Once I found an appropriate time, I tell him that he kindly needs to make his way from the mass of people; he obliges. A nice young man, I didn't even have to tell him of his impending arrest had he attempted returning.
As he left the scene, I came to the realization that my services would soon be required. Convincing myself that starting now wasn't such a terrible idea, I began my quest. Through the huddles of standing citizens, I progressed, scanning ever-closely the ground and hidden areas.
For some reason I took particular notice of the grout beneath my feet, but to my eyes, everything seemed normal, and I continued on. I remembered that, earlier in the day, I had checked the grout and bricks for any harm-inducing products; nothing was found.
I've been searching for nearly an hour, and the crowd has grown large, and restless. The once calm and collected group of citizens relinquished itself to the mass, and is now a congregated being of hate-spouting non-sense.
I saw a riot a couple years ago that I helped fend off. The people were in opposition of a slightly raised tax, and they took it up with battle. Needless to say, things devolved, and the mood became grim. At one moment, a man from the crowd burst out and stabbed a fellow officer in the chest with some sort of sharpened object, then he regained his position deep within the crowd.
Hatred boiled inside me; I wanted so painfully to torture the soul of that man, but I couldn't. Perhaps a crowd draws out the harshest of human emotion, possibly loosening yourself for profession of hate. Then, on the other hand, perhaps a crowd just brings out who you really are...
The mass grew at a quicker rate than it shrank; the exclusion of protestors quite diminished the numbers, but there was hardly a significant blow to the morale. Diligent officers scrambled to remove all those in opposition, and soon, it seemed as though every protestor had gone. To me, I would have continued on, but the lieutenant stressed we dig deeper into the crowd and survey at least once more. By the end, several more people found themselves heading home...
After finally extinguishing the protesting presence, it appeared time for the initial two criminals to be lead to the stage. From the back-end of the crowd, and as everyone split to allow passage, came the theif, and the murderer. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, they didn't seem set on escape. Rather, they seemed content and calm; accepting, though I doubt such was true for them.
As the draping of the nooses finalized, the crowd grew vicious in it's barrage of chanting. Two men stood upon a stage, in view of hundreds of citizens, their death only moments away, and they're being ridiculed. Torment has never fit so perfectly a situation. And with unease, I approached the stage myself. Now seemed as nice a time to check the quality of the ropes as any, and so I walked slowly upon the wooden planks that were used to construct the site, pulling down on each of the men's ropes, and then I got to the third. Staring me in an awkward manner was the final noose, the noose with no owner.
I looked out upon the crowd, scanning for what I hoped was the killer, but to no avail did I discover him. In my disappointed state, I caught the body of a person in the crowd, and for whatever reason, he stuck out entirely too much, like a crippled creature in a herd of his own kind, only to be the sole target of an attack, this man was an obvious attraction for me.
I hopped off the stage, and quickly brushed aside the crowd in front of me. Women, and men, all taking a step aside in politeness for me to achieve what seemed like a ridiculous goal. At the time of my strayed-pondering, I saw him. Almost silhouette-like in appearance, I approached him. I knew, at this moment of discovery, that this was the man we'd been searching for.
Before identification, something struck me in an odd manner. I couldn't conceive why he would reveal to me his appearance before the execution... And then the person in front of me, the one I had just chased, the one my force had been tracking, the murderer of many humans, the organizer of this event, and the manipulator of this town for weeks, disappeared.
In rabbid confusion and uncontrollable shakiness, I turned to the execution stand. There was a man facing the third noose. Chants of elimination ensued, and I participated. The man stood up there in an officers uniform, and peered around to the entire crowd. What officer has the audacity to rebel against the way of the law, and the job he performs?
"Hang them! Hang them!" Chanted I with furious intensity.
The second my chants were uttered, our murderer grabbed the noose and raised it above his head. Then he dropped it around his neck.
As my eyes watched the noose land atop the shoulders of the killer, my perspective changed. I was no longer in the crowd; I was on the stage. Had I not focused so gravely on the world around me, perhaps I would not have met this end, but I hardly bothered with my inner-workings. I was oblivious to myself.
One would expect confusion, but a sort of mental melding took hold of my mind for the moments to come. I just knew, somehow, what was expected of me upon this stage. I had a role, unavoidable at this point, and one that would resolve so many issues. I understood.
I cannot agree with murder, and I cannot agree with the murderer's... my, actions, but I just understand. There is right and there is wrong, and there is an area between the two of them that flourishes, but when wrong battles wrong, what comes of it? Take two wrongs, subtract one, and you are still left with the other... But now I know the answer.
Hypocrisy makes the world blind, and such a statement shall come to fruition. Eager I am not, but it's an inevitable closing. I cannot say that I slaughter hypocrites, because this is not the case, I slaughter those who do wrong. People are oblivious to so much, and eliminate themselves from any form of wrong-doing, but they are the ones that perform severe acts of inhumanity.
I may be a monster, but as too are the rest of the creatures that surround me. Even the man, the one I had ordered to leave, returned. He stood in what I could barely recognize as dumbfounded confusion. Then, and to the surprise and disgust of myself, he joined the choir of chanting ghouls. Even the protesters find no shame in hypocrisy, though this time danger awaits.
More yelling drowns my ears, and I look to my right. Here, hanging, as I told my fellow officers to do so, is the rope to drop the three of us heathens to our deaths. I grip, between my sweating palms, the rope of the utmost power in the world. As I clutch death within my hands, I follow the grouts surrounding the nearby lit-torch with my eyes. Four torches mark the corners of the stage, but one has met a saboteur.
The pulling of this rope drops not only myself, and the two criminals, it too knocks the torch on it's side, the lit flame dangerously igniting an explosion of justice.
"Murderers will fall, by ones, by fives, by hundreds." I muttered as my right arm dropped, rope in hand, and the floor below escaped my feet. In what is my final moments of life, I peer over to the torch, and it lies on the ground. If I could grin, I would.
With my final seconds, I hear the gun-powder, which I had replaced certain lengths of grout with, explode quickly to it's destination. As agony and I met face to face, so did she introduce herself to the men and women around me... Finally, I hear the last sound. Many large, roaring explosions from all angles erupted upon my audible senses, followed by screams of terror.
My neck was supposed to break, but it hadn't... I should have died before the explosions, but I had yet to cease life. As the fifteen bombs I scattered around in my checking for terrorist devices exploded, I saw my vision fading. If I had time to cry, I would.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
EPIC
The year is 2001; we are secretly stationed in Iraq. Blood spills like an overflowing faucet onto the hands of our leaders. Desperately do we beg to eliminate our presence overseas, but never shall such demands succeed; so we found a "wild card."
Hope has been reignited, and our savior awaits, unknowingly, for his inevitable beckon. From a small town in Iowa, an unusual case was discovered. Ottumwa is the home for our salvation.
As his phone rings, we await the answer.
"Hello?" He spoke as he brought the phone to his mouth and ear.
"Our men are being camped by Osama Bin Laden, sir." We stated carefully, yet almost desperately.
"Where is he?" Replied our king
What happened next is not accurately known, but I will tell you the tamest of explanations that have been proposed:
Our rescuer walked to his front door, and kicked it outward in an explosive display of holiness. Strolling outside nonchalantly, and away from his home, he finally found a particular spot, and stood still. Moments later his body erupted in darkness, shadows consuming his cosmetic being, and then he mounted a black drake, the likes of which the world hath never witnessed. He began his flight to Iraq.
[Military Base Posted In Iraq]
"We've got a bogey coming in hot!" Cried a private who was, at the time, monitoring the radar scanners.
"That's not a bogey, son. That would be our last hope." His Sergeant responded.
"Who? What?" Asked the private curiously.
"Darlough." At that exact moment, the moment of the Sergeants response, Darlough cratered directly into the middle of a raging battle in the inner parts of Iraq.
"Darlough!" Cried a fellow soldier on his last limb, with his near-final breath. In no hesitation, Darlough jumped out of shadow-form, and launched a massive heal towards the brave soldier, at that time his limbs were reunited with his body and back to the fight he ran.
As he continued healing, a Humvie speedily rolled up to his side. A man on the inside was screaming out of the microphone: "TERRORIST AGRRO!"
In what seemed to everyone else like slow-motion, Darlough spun around, glaring menacingly at the on-coming, terror spreading mongoloids, and jumped back into shadow-form. With a swiftly executed Mind Blast, one opponent found himself in a pool of his own brains and skull fragments. While the second was having his mind flayed to unraveling and oozing pieces of gray-matter, the third and fourth ran in fear from Darlough's psychic scream. Moments later, both were vanquished. Then, Darlough rejoined the light, and proceeded to heal his fellow raid-members.
With the Humvie still on stand-by, a cry came out from the megaphone yet again: "THEY'RE DROPPING MUSTARD GAS!"
All soldiers within the ensuing battle scrambled to Darlough. And as he stood their, tall and mighty in the golden sun, waiting for every soldier to get within radius, he grinned.
Every soldier crammed as close to Darlough as possible, and soon all of them began to cough, leaning over, dry-heaving. From high above, as if from the heavens themselves came a quake of righteousness. As the ground around the soldiers ignited, their souls relaxed. The mass dispel of all illness for every soldier was a relief, and when they went to thank him, Darlough was gone.
[Inside Osama Bin Laden's Secret Cave]
With gibberish being spoken by the hording demons of Iraq, Darlough revealed his presence. As if from a western movie, the two leaders stared each other down. Osama reached for his AK-47, and began to unload upon Darlough. Darlough, with the power of his words, cast upon himself a shield, and stood healthily in excellent form.
All the while Osama had been peppering his shield with bullets, Darlough had lay upon him a curse of pain.
Soon, every soldier from before flowed into the cave, guns held high. The cave now consisted of 3 Iraqi's: Osama, and two henchmen, as well as 25 in opposition of the terrorists; Darlough leading.
"Kill the adds." Stated Darlough as he burst into the shadows and began flaying the right henchmen's mind. Soon the adds were eliminated, and only Osama was left standing.
"DoT's." Said Darlough to his crew.
"What?" Replied a nearby soldier in confusion.
"DoT's! DoT's, MORE DOT'S" Cried Darlough as Osama charged.
The sound of shaking Earth and quivering cave walls filled the area, and bursting from the outside and into the cave, came just what the entire group needed. As one soldier left quickly, the desired replacement entered.
"GET ON HIM NOW!" Screamed Darlough to the new member.
As the American Tank rushed to Osama, the battle began.
Osama Bin Laden pulled out two swords and began slicing at the tanks plate armor, but to no avail as Darlough was keeping the tank up.
"In phase 2, I want you to nuke it. NUKE IT AS HARD AS POS-SI-BLE!" Cried Darlough from the front of the pack. "More DoT's, keep throwing DoT's!"
As phase 2 soon began, Osama went into a blind rage. All damage was increased by 50% and the battle took a turn for the worst. Along with increased damage came Osama's most powerful attack, the "Dual-Plane."
From both arms, Osama Bin Laden launched two full-sized airliners out of the cave, across the ocean and into the twin towers.
"DPS him down!" Darlough cried, struggling to keep the tank up.
In a few later minutes, Osama Bin Laden fell. Everyone sat down and relaxed, rejoicing the slaying of such a ruthless human being. Until one soldier had to open his mouth.
"So... Um... What happened to those 2 planes?" He asked retardedly.
"Fuck." Said Darlough.
And so the tale of 9/11 is so. Darlough's presence was not with those in New York, and thus the outcome was grim.
Author's Note: Throughout the fight, the whelps that were spawning periodcally never got out-of-hand.
Hope has been reignited, and our savior awaits, unknowingly, for his inevitable beckon. From a small town in Iowa, an unusual case was discovered. Ottumwa is the home for our salvation.
As his phone rings, we await the answer.
"Hello?" He spoke as he brought the phone to his mouth and ear.
"Our men are being camped by Osama Bin Laden, sir." We stated carefully, yet almost desperately.
"Where is he?" Replied our king
What happened next is not accurately known, but I will tell you the tamest of explanations that have been proposed:
Our rescuer walked to his front door, and kicked it outward in an explosive display of holiness. Strolling outside nonchalantly, and away from his home, he finally found a particular spot, and stood still. Moments later his body erupted in darkness, shadows consuming his cosmetic being, and then he mounted a black drake, the likes of which the world hath never witnessed. He began his flight to Iraq.
[Military Base Posted In Iraq]
"We've got a bogey coming in hot!" Cried a private who was, at the time, monitoring the radar scanners.
"That's not a bogey, son. That would be our last hope." His Sergeant responded.
"Who? What?" Asked the private curiously.
"Darlough." At that exact moment, the moment of the Sergeants response, Darlough cratered directly into the middle of a raging battle in the inner parts of Iraq.
"Darlough!" Cried a fellow soldier on his last limb, with his near-final breath. In no hesitation, Darlough jumped out of shadow-form, and launched a massive heal towards the brave soldier, at that time his limbs were reunited with his body and back to the fight he ran.
As he continued healing, a Humvie speedily rolled up to his side. A man on the inside was screaming out of the microphone: "TERRORIST AGRRO!"
In what seemed to everyone else like slow-motion, Darlough spun around, glaring menacingly at the on-coming, terror spreading mongoloids, and jumped back into shadow-form. With a swiftly executed Mind Blast, one opponent found himself in a pool of his own brains and skull fragments. While the second was having his mind flayed to unraveling and oozing pieces of gray-matter, the third and fourth ran in fear from Darlough's psychic scream. Moments later, both were vanquished. Then, Darlough rejoined the light, and proceeded to heal his fellow raid-members.
With the Humvie still on stand-by, a cry came out from the megaphone yet again: "THEY'RE DROPPING MUSTARD GAS!"
All soldiers within the ensuing battle scrambled to Darlough. And as he stood their, tall and mighty in the golden sun, waiting for every soldier to get within radius, he grinned.
Every soldier crammed as close to Darlough as possible, and soon all of them began to cough, leaning over, dry-heaving. From high above, as if from the heavens themselves came a quake of righteousness. As the ground around the soldiers ignited, their souls relaxed. The mass dispel of all illness for every soldier was a relief, and when they went to thank him, Darlough was gone.
[Inside Osama Bin Laden's Secret Cave]
With gibberish being spoken by the hording demons of Iraq, Darlough revealed his presence. As if from a western movie, the two leaders stared each other down. Osama reached for his AK-47, and began to unload upon Darlough. Darlough, with the power of his words, cast upon himself a shield, and stood healthily in excellent form.
All the while Osama had been peppering his shield with bullets, Darlough had lay upon him a curse of pain.
Soon, every soldier from before flowed into the cave, guns held high. The cave now consisted of 3 Iraqi's: Osama, and two henchmen, as well as 25 in opposition of the terrorists; Darlough leading.
"Kill the adds." Stated Darlough as he burst into the shadows and began flaying the right henchmen's mind. Soon the adds were eliminated, and only Osama was left standing.
"DoT's." Said Darlough to his crew.
"What?" Replied a nearby soldier in confusion.
"DoT's! DoT's, MORE DOT'S" Cried Darlough as Osama charged.
The sound of shaking Earth and quivering cave walls filled the area, and bursting from the outside and into the cave, came just what the entire group needed. As one soldier left quickly, the desired replacement entered.
"GET ON HIM NOW!" Screamed Darlough to the new member.
As the American Tank rushed to Osama, the battle began.
Osama Bin Laden pulled out two swords and began slicing at the tanks plate armor, but to no avail as Darlough was keeping the tank up.
"In phase 2, I want you to nuke it. NUKE IT AS HARD AS POS-SI-BLE!" Cried Darlough from the front of the pack. "More DoT's, keep throwing DoT's!"
As phase 2 soon began, Osama went into a blind rage. All damage was increased by 50% and the battle took a turn for the worst. Along with increased damage came Osama's most powerful attack, the "Dual-Plane."
From both arms, Osama Bin Laden launched two full-sized airliners out of the cave, across the ocean and into the twin towers.
"DPS him down!" Darlough cried, struggling to keep the tank up.
In a few later minutes, Osama Bin Laden fell. Everyone sat down and relaxed, rejoicing the slaying of such a ruthless human being. Until one soldier had to open his mouth.
"So... Um... What happened to those 2 planes?" He asked retardedly.
"Fuck." Said Darlough.
And so the tale of 9/11 is so. Darlough's presence was not with those in New York, and thus the outcome was grim.
Author's Note: Throughout the fight, the whelps that were spawning periodcally never got out-of-hand.
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