"The Nomad"

Somewhere in a grungy bar in El Paso, Texas, our hero
stands; a fearless man, with the attributes of a Harley
Davidson motorcycle; a free spirit in the open road, taking
paths untaken, choosing roads never before chosen. Within
the bar, labeled with a blue neon sign saying "Hank's
Hangout", was a rattling Billiards table. It was thronged
with people; only two were players, but onlookers chose
to stop by and gaze as an exciting game snowballed between
the two men. One was a rough edged man in his late twenties. He
wore a black shirt signifying his passion to the loveable pioneers of Metal, "Iron Maiden", matching pants and shoes and on a nearby
seat lay a leather jacket, more than likely his. The other
was a common beer guzzling drunk you'd expect to see in a
bar, for it is the one place you may be legally drunk.

"8 ball, corner pocket'', says the man in black attire, the
game nearing its end with a clear victory "I've got 10 bucks
saying you won't be making that shot, sonny", said the large
man in biker gear and quite a lot of body hair sticking out
in places we'd rather not speak of. He wore on himself a beard, slowly graying on his face, and dumb looking expression.

With a slight shine in his eye and an inconspicuous grin the player aims carefully,
pulls back the cue, and strikes. The ball bounces off the
walls of the table, missing the pocket and racing across
the table; after several spins, it returns to the same
spot, and slowly heads for the destined hole. It goes in
slowly with a knock and leaves the table empty.

"I guess you were wrong then; those ten bucks, excluding
the 50 we bet on the game, are mine", the winning
player elegantly pronounces with a small smirk of success.

"You low-life bastard (the accent made it sound much more resembling to "Yu lo-ife" "), you must have cheated! Winning isn't
enough, you have to show off too? Here, have some of this
drink", the biker raises a chair with rage and tosses it
over to the other player from the far side of the bar. His
friends back away, not wishing to be part of the fight.

Diverting the chair with the pool cue, the player's words
through grinded teeth were "I didn't want to resort to
this, dude, but you leave me little choice", beginning to
professionally spin the cue with his hand and rotating it
quickly. He stops it and points at the furious biker.

The biker charges forward with an angry grunt. Our evil looking hero
breaks the cue in two sharp halves and points a sharp
splinter at the biker's eye. Just as he's about to ram it
through his head and make his leave with a body count, a
waitress screams at him: "No! Don't you kill anybody in
this here bar. I'll call the cops if I have to!"

Now finally upset, the slimmer of the fighters drops the
sharp wooden cue and swings his elbow back with a grin; his
left fist and the biker's right eye connect with a blunt 'thud'. The biker
drops to the hardwood floor, raising dust off of it, while
the winner steps over him to get to the waitress behind her
counter. He steps forward primly and surely.

"He'll be up and walking in an hour, now may I have a beer
Miss?" He asks politely. His eyes are tired and uncaring for whatever unethical deed he could ever do.

She takes a moment to understand the consequences, but
eventually replies: "Home's Keg or foreign?"

"Foreign", he answers quietly, "and if I may have your name
as well Miss", he adds softly.

"Emily, and here's your beer. That will be $23, 3 for the
beer and 20 for the cue", she firmly says to him, looking
at the broken stick that lay dissipated on the floor.

"Put that on my good friend's tab, the one with the puffy
right eye on the floor. I should be leaving this place
anyway; can't be in one place for too long", he sips the
beer in a hurry & a groan, and then walks to the pool table, puts on his
jacket with mild concern to the body laying before him, and proceeds to step out of the bar, not paying
attention to the waitress's angry comments about his
mother.

On the stairs out, under the scorching sun, is a small boy,
9 years old. He was sitting on the steps waiting, blocking
the exit. Trying to skip over the child, the man trips and
lets out a shout to the boy, "hey kid, do you have to be
sitting on the damn steps? People are trying to get through
and don't want to jump over you, you know!"

"Sorry Mister, I'm just waiting for my father. He said I
couldn't go in so I'm just waiting, and anywhere but on
these steps there's no shade. What would you prefer; to
skip over a kid on the stairs, or call 911 when you see him
lying passed out from heat stroke, after being kicked from
them stairs?" The child remarks with a cynical approach only suited to the bitter life experience of old men. "But he's been in there awful long now..." he adds.

The man looks at him, nearly trying to answer the
rhetorical question he was posed with a gaze of surprise.
"Well...is your dad a guy in a leather vest by any
chance...?" Fearing he may have knocked out the father of
that child.

"No Sir, My father wears a blue jeans jacket and brown pants.
I'm Chris, Chris Darnel", the boy replies with wide, glaring
eyes.

"Jack Orewel, and I don't think I saw anyone that fits that
description in the bar. Boy, are you sure he's in?" Jack
comments to the small child.

"Well, he drives a dark blue Chevrolet Caprice", Chris
answers, unsure where his father may be.

Looking onto the parking lot, behind it the busy road, Jack
saw no Caprice and could only assume the so called father
had vanished. Or the boy was lying for whatever reason; not
uncommon in the company of nine year olds. "Are you sure
boy? There isn't even a clue a Caprice was here and I bet
there won't be one passing by in a long time. I've seen
this before, but mostly in movies. I think you've been left
back kid".

"No Sir, we live all the way in Pittsburg, New Hampshire.
My father said we were only going here because he had
business here. No way he took off without me after having
driven over 2,500 miles across the conty", the child mispronounces 'country' into a babble of one word as his tongue is still tied with inexperience. Chris replies, not
suspecting his father could ever abandon him, much less
after being in his company nearly a week on the roads.

They both stare at each other; Jack's eyes are cold,
rational, and yet compassionate for the young boy who does
not know his father had made a tedious road trip only to
leave him behind. Chris looks at Jack unable to comprehend
how a father could neglect to such an extent. Orewell
shifts his eyes, nervously thinking what to tell the little
child before him. He settles for the cold and brutal truth
as he had always wanted to know it. "Look son, your father
left you here for dead because he doesn't want you; but
don't worry, I'll take you with me to him and give him a
piece of my mind about leaving behind children in another
state...alive".

Slowly realizing the truth, Chris looks ahead into the
deserted terrain. The classic image of westerns pops to
mind with a cactus and ball of dust rolling on the dirt,
blown away by the southern winds. "No, just... just take me
with you; I want to live the life of the open road".

"The best I can do kid, is to take you with me to your
parents and then drop you off there. I can't have a kid
tagging along behind me", Jack proclaims, quivering at the
idea of even traveling with the company of a child who will
more than likely disturb him most of the time. "So... let's
just do it and get it over with now. First we have to get
you a helmet, or a trash bin to wear; any old thing will
do", he continues with a small smile; the child does not
look amused. Later the two march into a store conveniently
located right by the bar. Walking in, the sales person
standing behind his wood and plastic counter reacted with
awe; he had never before seen a biker that young, as the
child was about to be.

"Kid's first lid, eh? I'll give you a special deal; $350
and it's yours", the pleasant person tries to help. Jack
responds "Yeah, I'll take it. I'm just going out of the
Ginmill and about to go a long way on the I. Here's 50
bucks and I'll be taking that".

"You're the kid's father?" The seller begins to question.
He didn't yet comprehend Jack's response.

"No, I'm just driving him to New Hampshire as a favor",
Jack replies while pushing away the money and grasping the
small helmet below his armpit. The stunned salesman frowns
and twitches his eyebrows, thinking he must have missed
something in that last sentence, but before he could ask a
thing the eerie traveler had walked out of the store. A
shocked store clerk then looks at the counter to see the
fragment of the money he had requested; his nostrils flare
and eyes widen at once. Knowing he had lost about $300 and
didn't even notice it.

Meanwhile Jack stands beside Chris who is looking at a
single shoe left on the sandy road. He shyly speaks up,
"Who the hell leaves behind one shoe? If you're going to
leave shoes, you might as well leave a pair". Jack nods in
consent saying to Chris that the phrase "Hobos on wheels"
comes to mind (Shopping cart wheels that is), with the
image of the lone shoe by a biker bar in the very edge of
nowhere and between nothing. The two get distracted from
the lone sneaker as a stranger in a brand new Chrysler C300
waves for them to help him park in a tight space. Jack waves
back and approaches, he tells Chris to get on the
motorcycle, get his helmet on and be ready to go in a
hurry. Chris is excited and blurts out to Jack as he's
leaving, "Cool! You ride a bike! I've got a bike too,
just... not as big". Jack comes near the small parking
space and waves at the driver to go back saying, "You've
got lots of room, go back, go back!" The driver backs up
the large vehicle as Jack shouts out again, "Good, good".
He presses the gas pedal a little harder thinking he has
room, encouraged by the young man's shouts. The driver then
feels the impact as his expensive car is smashed into the
front bumper of a large H2 Hummer which doesn't have as
much as a scratch on it. The driver gets out of his car,
running to the back to inspect the damage. He yells at the
top of his lungs, "What... what the fuck did you just
do?!".

Jack calmly licks his upper lip and blurts out, "Yeah...
about that... I really have to go now,
see-ya!" Jack guns it back to his bike, wears his helmet
sideways, pulls on the throttle and drives away. At that
very moment the store clerk walks out looking for Jack.
Running out of the store he expects to bump into the
traveler who is coming back to give the rest of the money
with an apology for forgetting but as the door slams open
there is only dust on the driveway and a chopper in the
distance, with two helmets, a crashed Chrysler... and a
shoe.

Day 1 on the road- Texas

The newly forged twosome is sitting at a crowded diner in
Balmorhea, Reeves County. Jack is looking at Chris, not
knowing where to take the conversation next; usually the
topics would be beer, women and cars. However this time it
would prove hard as his new mate was a below drinking, below hooker age, and didn't know much about cars, except color. Chris
looks up from the old stained, but white, table and dares
to say the words first, "So... how old are you?". Jack
seems delighted not having to think much for the reply and
answers, "twenty nine, and you're like what, nine? At
best". Chris replies slowly as if fishing for more topics,
"Yup".

He gets a bright look on his face as he finds more things
to say, rushing into them all at once, "What do you do for
a living? How long? Do you even like it? Do you have any
friends? A girlfriend? Do you own a gun? Can I have a
beer?"

Jack tries to take it all in the thirty seconds he got. He
waves over to the waitress to come over and in the same
time replies to Chris, "I bet on things, do odd jobs of
different ways, I make enough money to get by. I've been
doing it for nearly 10 years and yes, I like it. I had
friends, once. Well actually it was just one guy but he...
passed away. I had a girlfriend but that ended on the wrong
side and I'd rather not speak of it. I don't own a gun
and... HELL no!"

The waitress finally comes over and speaks to them, "Hello,
I'm Edna and I'll be with you today. What can I get you
two?"

Jack replies, "I'll take a cheeseburger and a beer of
whatever you have. The kid will have the same only with
a..."

"Beer!" Chris abruptly interferes. Jack gazes at him and is
quick to correct him with a sigh, "By beer, he meant Coke.
However by beer I meant... beer".

Chris looks frustrated at the failed yet heroic attempt at
underage drinking. The waitress stares at the two with an
eerie look on her face. She walks away with the order notes
in her hand. Seven minutes later she delivers them their
food. They both start eating with hungry, blood thirsty
eyes. Chris begins to question Jack again, "So, what sort
of engine you got on your bike?"

Jack looks up as he bites off a piece of the meat and
cheese. He swallows and answers, "Twin cam, 1450 cc,
internal gerotor which is more efficient, maintains a
higher pressure and larger volume. Silent chain, Bathtub
shaped and no spark wasted. Neat eh?"

The kid looks at Orewell for a brief moment, says nothing
and returns to chewing on his meal.

Chris looks suspiciously at Jack and asks softly, "Why are you a biker?"

Jack thinks for a minute to find the right answer and finally gets it out, "Had a rough life, kid. Kind of like what you're going through now, only I didn't have a stranger bring me home, I roamed outside and learned the ways of the outside. Besides, I'm not good for any of those office jobs, too locked up, I need freedom".

Quietly they pay their
bill and leave just to get back on the road. They go to a
Motel later that night and get some sleep although
interrupted frequently by the constant noise of rodents and
insects which seemed to infest the whole building. Jack
falls asleep at 2 AM after 2 hours of many bathroom trips
induced by the aforementioned cheeseburger.

Day 2 on the road- Arkansas, land of no teeth

We survived.

Day 3 on the road- Missouri and Illinois

Jack and Chris travel inside of the city of Saint Louis.
They take a small side road to find any place where they
can eat and leave as soon as possible. On their way they
pass a kindergarten; Jack is reminded of his childhood and
certain phrases from his own past come rushing into his
mind as he's passing it by, seeing all the children running
to the fence to admire the rumble of the mighty engine (a
twin cam engine I remind you).

1985 - Jack's mother: "You're father and I are getting a
divorce Jack. He wants to meet other people and mommy
already has. You'll live with both of us, two weeks at a
time".

1989- Jack's father: "Son, you're mother died in a car
crash last night. There's no point hiding it and no point
in crying over it, let the past stay in the past".

1993 - Jack's father: "You're on your own now kid, I'm off
to Ohio on a job. You know how the house runs, I'll leave
you a little money to get by. See-ya".

1995 - Jack's shrink: "There's something wrong Jack, you
know there is; the constant phobias and apathy, the
conniptions whenever something goes wrong... it has to
stop. I'm sending you to an expert. You can choose not to
go, but I'd recommend against that".

2000 - Jack's bank representative: "Sir, I'm afraid we're
going to have to confiscate nearly all of your possessions.
You haven't paid any taxes in 7 years''.

He shakes his head to clear off the worst thoughts he'd had
in years and thinks to himself, "I remember those days when
I was that young, the innocence that accompanies it,
knowing nothing is wrong in your world and nothing can be
wrong, knowing everyone you meet is good and being
sheltered from the troubles of this world. Before you had
to worry about friends, teachers, homework... and way
before you had to think about relationships or finding work
to support yourself, at that age you're just a kid living
happily ever after with your parents. But no, we give our
children all that confidence only to it smash later on.

If only we could all just stay in that point of life,
before we know how evil the world around us really is;
without people kidnapping children to have their way with
them; without terrorism bombing all around us; without the
carelessness of some people. And I guess without people
driving by and thinking of their own pitiful childhood".

Jack keeps thinking when Chris pulls on his shirt, "Jack!
A tree! Move!"
Looking back to the road Jack sees an oak tree facing him
and approaching rapidly. He swerves to avoid it and lets
out a sigh of relief. They get past the obstacle in one
piece and drive on. Later on the road a red Porsche Cayman
S appears, driven by two young attractive women. They drive
alongside the motorcycle and wave hello. Jack lifts up the
wind shield of his helmet and smiles back with a wink, the
girls rev the engine and giggle. Chris does the same and
the girls look at each other in slight shock and take the
next turn out. Jack turns to Chris with a holler, "You blew
it!"

The two continue to drive when Chris asks Jack why he heard
lots of noise right before he walked out of the bar the day
they met. Jack tries to explain knowing the child knows he
was probably in a fight.

Jack answered, "See Chris, there are two types of people,
the attacker and the defender, much like in nature with
animals like the bull vs. the cougar. In nature the bull
doesn't attack often; he attacks when he's fighting another
male for a female, or when he is really pissed off. On the
other hand the cougar is born pissed off; they constantly
fight and never solve anything in any way of peace. They
have claws and teeth and eat flesh to satisfy themselves.
The bull however is a vegetarian and only has those
menacing horns to defend himself. Now think what would
happen if the cougar were to approach and piss off the
bull. As you must see the bull would ram him in a glorious
but predictable battle. I'd say the bull would win though
being injured he would never quit. So what you heard in the
bar was basically... a bull and a cougar."

Chris replied "Well I just thought it was a fight between a
couple drunks in the bar, but when you put like that,
whoa..."

Eventually night came along and they had to check into any
cheap motel they could find, but Jack seemed to have
misplaced his wallet and couldn't pay.

The owner says, "Look here you two, either you fork out $20
or you're sleeping somewhere else'', while knocking on the
glass behind his counter. Orewell and Darnel look at each
other, Chris looks down and says, "I didn't want to do
this, but if I have to". Chris pulls up his shirt revealing
his chest to the owner. The owner isn't impressed and says:
"What's that supposed to be?" Chris looks over at Jack and
says with an innocent grin, "It worked in 'Serving Sara'".
Jack slaps his own forehead lightly as if a great sign of
stupidity (or innocence) had occurred before him. The two
leave the reception office while Jack mumbles, "Ass..."

Later on they stand quietly outside of room 17; after
making sure the room was empty Jack attempts to pick the
lock while Chris is looking out for people. Jack looks up
at Chris for a moment and says: "I don't know what I'm
doing. I could be locking it even more, ok?"
Chris gives him angry look as to express the feeling of
"What the fuck are you doing then?". A couple moments later
the door clicks and squeaks open. They walk in and see there
is one bed, they again look exchange glances and sigh, moments later
Chris climbs into bed as Jack tries to lean out on a couch. Jack soon falls off the couch
chair and gets back on. He eventually falls asleep.

Day 4 on the road- Indiana

Our heroes now make their way through the state of Indiana.
While in the midst of the state, Jack seemed to make some
wrong turns and wound up in a cemetery. He gets off the
bike and told the young boy to wait for a few minutes until
he gets back. Jack slowly steps through the graves, some
unmarked, some marked, some surrounded by weeping
relatives, some gathering dust and spider cobs all alone.
Such a grave was the one that belonged to a certain Gregg
Cliffe, one who had died on Christmas day the last year.
Seems the holidays weren't too kind to him. Jack faces the
grave and pulls up a medal that was around his neck. He
starts talking silently to the grave:

"Look... I know I promised to give you this back when I
borrowed it 16 months ago, but I never knew you would...
you know. I'm sorry I wasn't there, but I want you to know
it could have happened to anyone, and you set an example
that modern medicine still can't be the cure to everything.
I know I never said this sort of things back when you were
alive but I suppose I never felt the need to, and now...
now it's too late to pour my heart out, but fuck it, you're
dead, you can't stop me. You probably don't know this
because I never talked about it, but you were most likely
the only friend I ever had that I could trust with my
secrets, and indeed you knew my darkest secrets and I rest
assured that you took them to your grave with you as I will
with yours. It shouldn't have happened to you, if anyone
deserved such a punishment like that it's me; you had a
family and everything. God is cruel having done this to
them and to you; it should have happened to me; I am a
Godless, shameless whore and I'm not afraid to admit it,
heh. I keep thinking about how it happened and it never
makes sense to me. I've looked through every angle and it's
still not right. You know what they say; 'only the good die
young'. But as some band said very well in their song:
"No more tears Amigo". That's all I've got to really say.
That and, hang in there buddy, the first 40 years suck,
then you have eternity to get used to it". Jack lays down
the medal on the tombstone and slowly walks away to the
bike. On his way back he is reminded of the words of John
Milton, "Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads
up to light". It's been sort of a rough year for him. Right
before he leaves the gates he has a flashback of another
person that was in his life for a while but also left; a
woman named Becky. He shook his head to get rid of the
thought before he really started thinking about it. He gets
on the bike and starts the engine. He turns to Chris: "I had
some business to take care of, hope you didn't wait too
long". Chris shakes his head in a "no" kind of gesture. They drive off
and away.

Day 5 on the road- Ohio

The two are sitting at yet another small diner to get some
food. This time Chris gathers up courage and asks Jack
about his former girlfriend he refuses to talk about. Jack
tells him no, but Chris persists and continues to ask until
eventually Jack couldn't even enjoy a bite of his meal so he
caves in and agrees to tell Chris about it,

"Alright already, I'll tell you if you promise to shut up
the rest of the way. It was 5 years ago, her name was Becky.
I was madly in love but it took me three months to get her
to agree to date me, I guess I pressured her too much and
it didn't work. I did everything I could; I gave her more
than I could afford; I did every romantic gesture in and
out of the book, but nothing worked. Two weeks later she
gave the old line of "we have to talk" and told me it was
over. I know that was a long time ago but it's just the
sort of times when you know that kind of person will just
never come around ever again. There, you happy now? I'm
miserable, thanks a lot, let's just finish this god awful
food and get out". Jack is angry, and not even the manager will dare approach him about the place's food comment, not now. Nobody wants his ass kicked on the job.

Day 6 on the road- New York

Chris threw up from the food. He'll live.

Day 7 on the road- New Hampshire

The two finally reach Pittsburg at about noon. Jack follows
the kid's directions through the city and reaches his home.
They get off the bike and Jack knocks firmly on the door.
He gets no answer, so he knocks again. No answer. He knocks
one more time as hard as he can, the door opens quietly.
Jack looks in, the home is rusted and dirty, empty of any
furniture. He looks back with a gaze of utter shock and
finds to his surprise, that Chris is gone. He looks
everywhere around, but he can't find him. Soon after he
realizes this all may have been some psychotic personal
journey to understand he had to face his past some day.

The scene rapidly changes to a bar in New York City. Jack
is talking to two other guys who seem fascinated by what
he's saying. They ask him, "Wow, is that really what
happened?"
Jack replies with a knowing grin, "No, not at all. I
dropped the kid off at the Police Department and his father
showed up shortly saying Chris got away from the car while
refueling. It could have happened to anyone".

Two men at bar, "So why did you tell us this long ass
story?"
Jack, "Well, it sure made a better story, didn't it?"

Didn't it now?

Epilogue:

Jack eventually made home in Indiana, as a motorcycle sails-person. Chris was never spotted again although he grew to be a successful comic in New Hampshire.
Becky had a nice life although packed with trouble and misfortune.
The guy who got smacked in the bar lived. He just had to come to terms with the fact bar fights don't always end on his side.
Emily did take the money from the guy's tab.
The tree in Missouri was cut down, being a menace to drivers.

Author's comments:
All reference of the movie "Serving Sara" belong to "Paramount studios". All reference of "Iron Maiden" belongs to their "Phantom Entertainment" company. Rights to this short story and the contents of this user page belong to Dan "Phantom" S. (notarized)
Lastly, I hope you enjoyed this story, derived mostly from the basic idea of a road nomad, like "I.M"s song, "The Nomad". Titles are not copyrighted, contents are, and only regarding music.

The End.

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Most Evil...No, really. (some ass I wanted to embarrass, photoshop at will.

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ALive and well, will be back, eventually, hold out.

Also, any fucking moron is welcomed to leave some lame shit insult so I can ruin you with my comebacks.

Assholes.

Updated: 02/29/08 11:23 AM 30 comments | Log in to comment! | Share this!

Can someone explain to me what the hell is up with Germans? I just talked to one on ICQ, someone who insisted on talking to me despite the fact I don't know German. I'm not that fucking lovely, I started off with a couple cute quotes for jokes, but then I resorted to using an online German translator to speak to the guy, who turned out to be an idiot. The following is our actual conversation with added translation wherever possible:

hu05E6llenhund (14:36):
sers ------------------(don't know what that means)
Phantom (14:37):
Look man, I only speak 2 languages, English and bad English.
hu05E6llenhund (14:38):
servus was geht -----------------(that either)
Phantom (14:38):
English motherfucker, do you speak it?.
hu05E6llenhund (14:39):
sers
Phantom (14:39):
Meaning...
Fuck, let me find my german translator
Phantom (14:40):
Sprichst du Englisch (Do you speak English)
hu05E6llenhund (14:40):
was ---------------------(which)
neeeeeeeeeee --------------(guessing here..."no")
hu05E6llenhund (14:41):
warum --(why)--(He is seriously asking me why I want to know if he speaks English. Fucking idiot)
hallllllllllloooooooooooooooooooo --(hello)--(like you didn't guess)
Phantom (14:42):
Was? ---(what)
Ich spreche nicht Deutsches. Keine Weise in der Hölle. --(I don't speak English, no way in hell)
hu05E6llenhund (14:42):
na guuuuut (well well)
Phantom (14:43):
Ich komme aus Israel, du weiß, wollten die Land Deutschen nie existieren. --(I come from Israel, you know, the country Germans never wanted to exist).
hu05E6llenhund (14:44):
nix ---------(nothing)
Phantom (14:44):
Etwas ------------- (something)
hu05E6llenhund (14:45):
was isssss -----------(which is)
Phantom (14:47):
Welches ist, warum du sprechend mit jemand bist, das nicht deine Gottfluchsprache spricht. ----(Which is, why are you speaking to someone who doesn't even understand your god damn language)
hu05E6llenhund (14:47):
by by ---(bye bye)-(like...lol)
Phantom (14:47):
cya...dumbass.
hu05E6llenhund (14:47):
waswilst etz ---(unknown)
Phantom (14:48):
whatever.
h%u05E6llenhund %u200E(14:52):
lass mich ----(unknown again)
Phantom %u200E(14:53):
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME. I DON'T SPEAK FUCKING GERMAN.
h%u05E6llenhund %u200E(14:53):
leck my am arsch scheiss sepp ----(something about ass and shit)
Phantom %u200E(14:54):
Fuck you, you fucking ass biting Nazi...
h%u05E6llenhund %u200E(14:54):
scheiss depp ich l%u05E6sch dich etz --------(again with the ass and shit)
Phantom %u200E(14:55):
Even the translator didn't understand that, either you are speaking a weird new language or your German is as good as my Chinese.

And that was the last I heard of him...Germans, go figure. Any help here?

Updated: 11/13/07 8:03 AM 16 comments | Log in to comment! | Share this!

I'm back on my anti-aggression meds as well as Prozac, I don't like what I've become without them....Oh well.

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"Killers"

"What have I become doc? This...this can't be right, what I do just doesn't make sense. It's against every law of man and god alike to be in my line of work. But despite all of our talks it's still what I do and what I'll keep doing for as long as I can. It's just that sort of job; it clings on to you and the money draws you in. It's simple really; you kill without leaving a trace and get paid insane amounts of money for it, but it just feels wrong", says a Mr. Scott Jameson to his psychologist who he affectionately called Doc; a Dr. Cooper who had been treating Scott for years and knew about his interesting line of work, but made a professional promise not to tell authorities about this knowing upsetting a professional killer would surely be his last act on earth. Dr. Cooper had been a good doctor to Scott, he always helped him solve his problems and his guilty conscience about the crimes he had committed. "I mean, take my last case for example. It was just so hard emotionally. He was this sweet guy, but his wife hired me for his colossal life insurance. It was supposed to be an accident but as I got closer to him I realized he was just too nice. I broke. I told him I was there to kill him. He took it calmly, clearly expecting his darling wife to pull this off again; seemingly I wasn't the first, go figure. And Hugh just accepted it, and I shot him. I shot a nice innocent guy for those dirty 50 thousand his wife assured me. I don't know if I can do this job much longer, Doc. I mean, the pay is good, but all those lonely nights knowing when I die I'll just be surrounded by people I've killed in one way or another, it's too much. Help me Doc, I'm lost here..."

Well it was then that Doc...I mean Cooper, had realized this was a classic case of problematic self-image, exceeding parental expectations and some amount of greed that when triggered knew no boundaries. Cooper had advised Scott before, but this time he was just as lost. How would you help a diabetic who works as the product tester for a candy company? It's just...Insane. Cooper looks at the watch nervously, hoping the session would come to an end before he would have given any advice, to no avail.
"Well, for one I really think you should get a normal job and stop killing people for a living Scott, it will really help your condition", Fredrick Cooper said to his patient, sitting in the leather chair across from him in his small office in a massive building in New York City. The office, while small, was well furnished. It contained a desk, a wooden closet at the right side of the office and the chairs patients would sit on.

"But Doc, you don't get it. I don't have... skills per say, my only talent is that I have a hawk's accuracy while using my Remington sniper rifle, but other than that I'm useless. I can't go to a normal minimum pay job after living the luxurious lives only mobsters and famous pricks get to have. It would kill me, and how do you expect me to pay for everything on such a low pay? By the time I work my way up the social scale at whatever office job I do get I'll be dead. I can't quit, but something has to be done or I'll end up shooting myself at this rate". Scott says anxiously to his doctor, he was breathing heavily and his eyes raced across the room, looking for something to fix on but his shrink. The tears were slowly building up. The mere thought of a future so empty and shallow, denied of privileges like money and the excitement of his unordinary job was hard to manage. Scott had always been so obsessive about his future, ever since his childhood when he was pushed to succeed in whatever he did.

"Well Scott, I'd really like to discourage you from doing that because death solves nothing", Cooper said knowing fully death would have happily solved a lot of his problems back in the day. Fredrick's mind wondered off to his teen age years, at 52, he was by no means young and his days of youth were substantially different than the next couple generations, like Scott's. While looking at his little notepad with neat hand writing he remembers his days at school in his native country of Hungary where his surname was originally Czobor but when arriving to America in his late twenties he had changed it to Cooper. The Dr remembers his days at the locals school, where he was beaten over the back of his hand with a metal ruler to improve his form of writing, because it was sloppy. Therefore he was taught to write neatly but he still had emotional and some physical scars of the events. In those death by choice was reserved only to sick elderly; never in his life did he imagine that by the time he would have become an adult suicide would be such a growing fad. Czobor notices the awkwardness of the long silence he had just caused and speaks, "but if you try making it more formal and have less commitment and attachment to your clients then I'm sure it will provide some relief".

Scott thinks this over. Would more formal work truly make him feel better, he doesn't know but he sure will try. He nodded and started to speak, "You're...." Just then the small wooden plated alarm clock sitting on the shelf starts ringing its tune of bleeps. The tune was one Scott could point out exactly, it was 'swan lake' by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. A favorite amongst many shrinks, for whatever reason it may be.

Scott left the safety of the office of his long time shrink, but when nearing the exit of the building he heard another loud bleep sound, this time coming from the road. He walked outside and saw his car, a BMW 6 series Coupé, being towed away by a pickup with a lever stuck on its back with a dirty sign on the side proclaiming that "Rob's Towing service" is the best there is. Scott wasn't as confident of that as he was chasing the pickup along the road trying to catch up, and more so, to get his vehicle back. He had no such luck. It was late and obviously whatever he tried to do would be to no avail. He gave up and waved at a cab; it doesn't stop. Nor do the next 5 that followed it. "Well", he said with an audible sigh, "it's going to be a long walk home..." Scott added gloomily to himself as he walked down the street. It began to rain as it would through most of October. The sour faced hit-man looked up, raised one eyebrow and said, "Good one, really..."

* * *

The next morning Jameson was already at Rob's confiscating lot asking why in Hell's name was his car towed out of fifty cars surrounding the area. He had the pleasure of getting a response from the almighty Rob himself, who told him that it was a police order and that a policeman had left him a number to call to, and that with his approval he can have his car back. Scott couldn't help but gasp a bit for air when he found out that his car was towed on command, and by a cop's one no less. He grabbed the little note on which the phone number was scribbled on and pulled out his cell phone in a professional move which scared Rob to think it was a gun. This was New York after all. Scott looks at Rob with a sarcastic gaze. Jameson called the number and received an answer; "It's you".
"Yeah, it's me, and who are you supposed to be?" Scott spoke seriously.

"You don't know me, but I know you, which means something's wrong here, doesn't it," the voice over the phone laughed for a second and stopped, "I have a job for you. Are you willing?" Scott paused for a second, this would be a difficult situation, an unknown voice over his phone has already taken control of his car and now assigns him to a job? This is by far the most versatile job Scott ever experienced.

"Well since you have my car I don't suppose I have a lot of choice now, do I? But first get me my car back or no deal my friend", Scott was now understanding something bad was going on. It was the first time in ten years of work that someone has managed to corner him like this. His heart was beating loudly.

"Put Rob on", the voice calmly added. Scott followed the instructions and handed the phone to Rob who was standing in a small closed booth in front of him. Rob answered with a typical 'Hello', nods for a bit, and then hands the phone back.

"Alright, your car will be free in moments, but in return you should meet me in exactly one week in the local park at midnight. I'll be on the third bench on the right side. We'll talk then". The phone made its dialing tone indicating that the freaky voice had hung up.

Scott put the phone away and was deep in thought about the man who just called. He then turned to rob and asked, "Well? Are you getting my car or what?" Rob was startled by the tone of Scott's voice and left the small closed booth to get the car. Scott yelled to him as he walked away, "If there's a scratch on it I'll shove your head so far up your ass you'll be able to see your own bowel movements".

* * *

The following day, after the car/phone incident, an image was watched from a tall building's view onto Central park. There a young boy of 8 and his parents walked playfully through the paths. The boy was playing with a ball and laughing; his mother, a blonde with curly hair and a slim figure, was playing along to amuse the boy, and the father, a strict yet gentle type, was walking behind them watching with a grin. Then all of the sudden a small splatter of blood shot off of the father's neck and onto the pavement. The boy and his mother looked back to see what had happened and rushed to aid the fallen father. He was dead. A gun shot through his neck had collapsed his trachea, better known as the wind pipe. Blood flowed out consistently and created a rather large blob in the center of the sidewalk. The mother cried for help while the boy tried to block the bullet entrance wound with his hand, but it was not enough. The boy was stunned and didn't know what else to do. A crowd gathered around with sounds of awe and surprise. They pointed at the body but did nothing to help. The mother had by now encouraged someone into dialing 911 for her and reported the whole incident.

- Scott woke up in a cold sweat, his breathing heavy. The room was without light, and he rummaged through the night stand by him to find the night lamp and turn it on. He had now realized it was only a dream, a dream about an experience he had been through when he was eight years old. His father was brutally murdered at Central park. He shook off the pestering thought and got out of bed; he had no work planned for today, and Scott had 6 days before he must meet the strange man who took his car hostage momentarily. He decided to reminisce today; the troubled hero got dressed and headed off to Central Park.

Jameson was sitting on a bench in the park, a couple yards away from where his father was killed, professionally apparently. On the pavement was a stain of dry blood no one ever bothered to clean out. It was a smaller stain than it was in the moment, time had worn out and it got smaller and dirtier, but the memory was still strong and vivid. His father was an executive manager for a small produce company; it wasn't a big firm but more of a 'pop's and mom's' sort of stores. The company had earned a great deal of money and was thinking of expanding from their old style into a 'buy it while it's still here' conglomerate that made everything overly expensive just to buff up the executive's payroll. His father was opposed to such a change thinking it would alter the company into something it was not. Other executives thought he was a waste of time now that he was no longer a yes-man and had his own opinion. Firing him would be impossible because of all the seniority he had gained in the company, but to get a killer to do their job for them wasn't out of the question, and so they did. Or at least that was something Scott was sure of.

Scott decided it was too late and that he must return now before he brought back other memories, ones that hurt even more. He was walking away from the park when a police car pulled by the side of the road. Scott thought he had no time to deal with trouble from the police as he was always suspected of the crimes he had committed, only never proven guilty of it. You know the great rules of America, innocent until proven guilty. He turned to walk the other way, but the car followed him. When he got deeper into the park, the cops climbed out of the car and began a foot pursuit. Jameson was running as fast as he could, but the cops were never too far behind, but eventually he took a couple lucky turns and managed to outmaneuver the pudgy officers. He went back home, a small 2 room apartment he didn't care much for because he was hardly ever there. It had a couch, a couple of chairs and a small 16 inch television. But it was enough for him. He went to bed.

2 days later, 11:03 PM. NYC Court of Law. Trial number 22084, the case of Alberto Rivas VS. Officer Roger Barnes. The charge; excessive use of force.

Judge Peter called out, "May the defendant rise". Roger stood up silently, "How do you plea Mr. Barnes?"

"Not guilty, your honor", Roger said, maintaining his poker face, serious.

"Does the defendant's advocate have anything to say?"

"Yes your honor, I would like to make it very clear to the jury before us that the charge my client is accused off is an entire exaggeration. Yes, Officer Barnes did use his weapon on Mr. Rivas here, but it should be noted that there is also a standing law suit against Mr. Rivas for trying to rape a woman when Officer Barnes found him and shot him in the knee caps to put a stop to that vile crime", Roger's lawyer spoke firmly and with confidence.

"Alright, does the Prosecutor have anything to say?" The judge turned to the other side of the hall. A lawyer in a grey suit stood up and began to talk.

"Yes, your honor. I would like to say that while my client is charged with an offense at current time that does not excuse Officer Barnes from taking responsibility for his actions. He shot my client in both of his knees seriously wounding him. This is why he is here today on a wheelchair and will not have his own trial take place until he is off pain medication and able to defend himself. What Officer Barnes has done is really assault disguised by his cop uniform. As a cop he should be aware that there are laws that say he can't fire away at any suspect at will. A warning has to come before the gunfire; a warning my client never got to hear".

The Judge is considering both sides and turns back to the defense side suggesting it's their turn.

Roger's lawyer stands, up but just then so does Roger. He orders his lawyer to sit down, "Your honor, let me bring to your attention several things. One is that it's true, I didn't warn Mr. Rivas that I was about to fire but it should also be noted that if I had waited another moment before taking action, Miss. Elis here would be traumatized for the very rest of her life because of Rivas' asinine actions".

"Stop that language at once or you'll be held in contempt Officer Barnes", Peter Taylor, better known as the case's judge, said to Roger with a tone of anger in his voice.

"No", Roger disputed.

"What I did was what I signed up to do. I stopped a crime from happening; I saved a life; I did what none of you pretentious pricks in suits would ever do; I risked the fact of getting shot myself to help Cheryl Elis who's sitting here today. If I had given him his fucking warning in that open alley I could have been just as dead as Cheryl could have been moments later not to mention violated. I didn't give him the pleasure of being able to shoot me, instead I blew off his knees so that he was unable to attack me or Miss. Elis, just what I and the entire police force is here to do. And that's all I have to say", Roger sat back down.

The judge was angry. He held him in contempt, the jury excused to make their verdict, and either way Barnes would spend 2 nights in jail at a bail price set at $1000.

The jury stepped out about twenty minutes later, making their verdict clear; not guilty. Barnes was still escorted to lock up for the next two nights, thankfully not too long. He had an appointment, at exactly midnight, in 4 days, on the third bench in the local park.

4 days later.

11:43 PM, the local park named after Steven Samuel. Scott slowly approached the area in total darkness. The place was abandoned of any life, but for the sounds of wild life swarming on the innocent grounds of the park. Jameson was thinking to himself, "If this was a movie, the camera would focus on my foot, putting out a cigarette. But I don't smoke". Jameson sat down on the third bench as he had been ordered to. It was cold, his breath turned to vapor with every sigh and yawn he let out.

Jameson was early, one thing that could always be said about professional killers. They are a lot of things, but never late. Scott noticed the dim lights of residential homes about a quarter of a mile away. He wasn't pleased with the fact he could be seen, but he accepted that his appointment had more information about him than he should have, and for now he must follow directions.

11:58 PM. A dark silhouette slowly walked to the arranged location at the park. It dropped a cigarette. Scott looked at the character's foot as it extinguished the smoke, inside cynically asking himself where the cameras were. He stood up, his hand fastened to the simple 9 millimeter he carried with him in questionable situations.

The silhouette speaks in a firm yet quiet voice, "You Jameson?"

"Depends who's asking, are you the bastard who had my car towed?" Scott asked. In his mind he had already released the safety on his pistol and fired 3 shots at the unknown intruder and left for home. But it was not all that simple now.

The silhouette spoke again, "That would be me. But before you have the temptation to shoot me now and end this bizarre incident, know that I'm rigged to a button that will send a GPS included message to the police about my death. No hiding place exists for a quarter of a mile and the nearest patrol car is only a couple hundred yards away. Sure you'd take that risk? Eh killer?"

Scott's hand pulled away from the pistol as he began to smile. He was pleased his new employer, while not the most hesitative, was clever. In his line of work he had met people of the most extreme of variations. Some he claimed to be so much like the missing link they proved Charles Darwin's theory all the more true. Scott sat down on the bench and gestured with his hand for the silhouette to sit down as well with a simple tap on the wooden panels. It did. The conversation began.

"So, I have job for you, you'll do it, and you won't be paid any money. Any questions?" Barnes said calmly.

"Yes, why should I do it if I'm not paid anything?" Scott replied. Swallow his spit, he dreaded the answer; it could be anything.

Barnes grinned through the misty light of the pale moon, "because I happen to have contacts in the police, and if I say the word, you'll be arrested, and you know how unpleasant that is, don't you?"

Jameson clenched his jaw, he didn't like being cornered.

"You have one week. Here is all the information you'll need: Work place, address, phone number and photo. It can look any way you want; accident, cold blooded murder, professional hit, your choice, but she has to go".

"She? What could you have so bad against a woman? What'd she do, steal your tampons?" Scott inquired.

"Funny, but just get it done", Barnes stood up and moved to leave. He stopped momentarily, speaking with his back to Scott, "You have one week to complete the job and another to meet me here, this day, this time, again". Roger left the park.

Scott briefly looked at the photo. It was of a young woman. She was 25 years old according to the record of information Barnes gave him. She looked different to him. His life had always been a rollercoaster of women, but they are all sleazy and cheap. All with no self respect, making it easier to leave them. Scott had never felt love; he dismissed that emotion as one only weak people experienced. His life perspective was unlike most men. His trauma at a young age had left him changed, and he could no longer feel. Not love, nor sorrow, nor any other human sensation. He was hollow. But it was that day and on that moment, when he gazed at the photo of his upcoming victim, that the walls of the castle he had built around his heart since childhood felt its first crack in the wall.

Scott hated this feeling. He tries to shake it off; he closed the folder and went home, needing sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

October 30th, 4:15 AM.

Scott woke up, squinting his eyes as he turned on the night lamp at his side. He was not sleepy, unable to sleep through any part of the night. Never before had a job truly scared him like this, but this time something felt very off to him. He decided it was time to begin his research work on his victim. He drove to the address he's been given. It was a medium sized apartment building in the city. His victim lived on the 8th floor, thus looking inside the apartment wasn't possible unless he was to commandeer an apartment from the 8th floor of the adjacent building, and that was, quite frankly, too cliché for him. He waited until she left the building, which she eventually did at about 7:30 AM. He followed her to the work place; it was a law firm in which she worked as an assistant. It was too early now, but later today he'd come in and try and find out more about her. He stayed in the car, taking a nap slouched behind the steering wheel.

Jameson woke up at 12:00 AM. He had a plan set up. It would be rather improvised, but he knew he had the skill to pull it off. The plan was simple and unfolded quickly. Jameson walked into the building, and discreetly located the victim. He saw the office of the lawyer she 'assisted'. He attempted to walk right past her and headed towards the office, but she stopped him, "Sir, you can't go in there, do you have an appointment?"

"Sure, I do... but this is urgent. I'll just walk right in, don't bother", Scott said calmly, much to the dismay of the assistant. She tried to say something else, but Scott had already walked into the office and shut the door. Inside were two men. One behind a fancy Mahogany desk had an expensive haircut and small glasses in a nearly invisible black frame. He looked at Scott suspiciously, asking, "Ever heard of knocking?" The other man, probably the client, a middle aged man with a small bald spot in the back of his head, was wearing a blank white collar shirt and was now looking at Scott as well. Scott wasn't intimidated and said, "Your secretary let me in. She seems very...drowsy. Maybe she isn't cut out for the day shift. I'm actually a Dr. specializing in sleeping disorders and she seemed to just be one of those cases where if people are forced to work during the day they are totally useless but at night they thrive at work. Just something to consider, I'll come back whenever". Scott left the office and headed back down, smiling to the assistant looking at him strangely from behind her desk.

"Stage one complete. Now, we wait". Scott pondered to himself.

2 days later, 1:00 AM, Arendt & Medernach Law firm, in NYC. The building was surprisingly open because the firm offered around the clock service.

Scott walked into the building in casual clothes, came up to a very sleepy assistant, and started talking to her, "Miss, I'm with the post office. There has been an express package sent to this office, but I'm afraid regulations say that we are only allowed to drive the package to destination, we can't deliver per say, so you'll have to come down with me and pick it up", Scott hoped the pitiful excuse would work.

"What? What sort of lame ass regulation is that?" The sleepy assistant woke up and asked.

"I just follow the rules Miss. Now would you? Please?" Scott's tone was relaxing; it reassured her that she was not in any danger by him. She was wrong.

She dragged her feet to the lift with Scott; she decided to be nice and tell him her name, "Karen Barnes".

"Scott Jameson", Scott answered back in a bit of a rush, immediately unsure of his answer. He remained confident of it, however, safe in the knowledge she wouldn't live to use it against him.

They went down to the ground floor, the security officer at the desk in the entrance long asleep; his face had now taken the print of his mobile metal detector he used as a pillow. It would look really stupid in the morning. Scott reminded himself to come and witness that.

The two exited the building as Scott guided her to his BMW. Karen was sleepy, but still noticed something was fishy, "Post office uses Coupe BMW's to transport packages now?"

Scott smiled, having already prepared his answer the previous night, "Well when we say express we mean it. Packages have to get to places on time. I agree, an empty bus would hold more, but go slower". Scott shrugged, suggesting he had no clearer explanation for Karen. She was too tired to argue. Scott opened the passenger door and reached in. After a few moans of effort, he claimed he was too wide to reach the floor of the car, where the package had fallen and she needed to take it.

Karen was exhausted, but willing to dive into the car. Just as she climbed in it struck her, "What package?" Scott leapt in and gagged her with a cloth doused in Chloroform. She had been through too much to resist and fell asleep quickly. Scott was relieved; stage two was complete.

Jameson tied up Karen, her hands bound tightly to her back, her legs to each other. He blind folded her and gagged her mouth with an S&M like red ball attached to a rubber strap (surprisingly much more effective in gagging than any Hollywood description using duct tape or a sock...). Scott put her on the floor of the car before returning to the desk Karen was behind, and leaving a note to her boss saying she had left because of an emergency and wouldn't be back for days. That should remove suspicion off of him for about a week or so before the cops caught on.

Scott drove off to his home. No one was up at this time to see him, and those who were up must have done their own crimes at some point. Scott lay Karen down on the couch; he would tend to her in the morning.

November 2nd, 7:47 AM. Karen woke up. She was trying to shout and move around, but fell off the couch and hit her head on the floor. She groaned in pain and continued trying to break free and scream.

Scott was awoken by the yells, and calmly approached his living room. Karen spotted him with a pistol in his hand and stopped making sounds. She was sweating, her breath almost stopped, and she closed her eyes.

Scott saw her fear and began talking to her, "Miss, I'm going to explain everything to you, but first I need you not to scream when I take off the gag. Besides annoying me, screaming isn't going to do anything anyway; this building is old and the walls are thick. No one who isn't inside here will ever hear you; it will only piss me off. You do not want to do that".

Karen looked at Scott silently and nodded.

Scott approached and removed the gag from her mouth. Immediately Karen began shouting for help in the most annoying and loudest pitch Scott had ever heard. Scott put the gag back on, "Alright, I get the point. Now you'll just have to listen to me gagged".

"I tell all my victims the truth before shooting them. As for you, someone hired me to kill you; he's a cop. That may sound familiar to you, and whoever it is, I hope you haunt him, but I still have to kill you". Scott finished and aimed the pistol; he switched off the safety and placed his finger on the trigger. He fired... she was dead.

Or at least that is what would have happened if Scott's phone hadn't rung that very moment; Scott put the gun down and checked the phone. Karen's heart was pounding quickly like that of a whore stuck in church, or that of someone who had just won the lottery and raced across the house to celebrate. The pressure was enormous. Scott checked his phone; the colorful screen put out a message saying, "Event Reminder: Doc." Scott came back to her seconds later, picked up his gun, switched the safety back on and said, "You're lucky, I have places to go. I'll be back in about an hour," Scott turned to leave, but made one final remark to Karen, "Don't go anywhere", with a grin. Karen hums through her gag, "Not funny".

Scott enters his Dr.'s office. It's 8:30 AM.
"Hey Doc, what's up?" Scott casually asked as he sat down.

"Well, actually I've bee-". Cooper was interrupted.

"Doc, I have to tell you something. I'm kind of in the midst of a job right now. Right now there's a beautiful woman in my house tied up to a chair that I have to kill. I know it sounds dreamy but..." Scott paused to think, "...but it's so wrong. Some cop threatened me into doing this job because if I don't he'll turn me in. In all my years in this profession I've never been cornered like this and it makes me feel like something is wrong."

"Well, do you even know why he asked you to kill her? Maybe you should hear her side of this first. Perhaps he's an asshole and you are better off not doing it". Doc said, trying to help Scott.

"No, I don't know her. All I know is that if I don't do it I'm in for a world of shit. What do you suggest I do Doc?" Scott dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed them as if when he opened them none of this would happen.

"For starters, I think you should listen to her side. After that if you feel she is better than you thought and you cannot...fulfill the job, then you let her go. Tell her she has to run away, run away somewhere far and no one loses. The cop won't know she's alive, and you will know she isn't dead".

"You're right Doc, I should do that". Scott stood up and headed for the door.

"Hey, you still have 48 minutes on my payroll", Cooper added.

"Keep it. Buy yourself something nice for a change, you look like a bum". Scott commented and exited the office. Cooper was taken aback with that shocking remark and started examining his clothes carefully.

Scott's place, 9:17 AM.
Scott returned to his home. As soon as he opened the door Karen pounced on him from the side with the chair tied to her back. She tries to run to the exit, but Scott grabbed her by the leg and pulled her back in.

The two struggled vigorously, Karen fighting and kicking for her life, the chair still tied to her back forcing her to bend somewhat to walk, and the S&M gag still on her mouth. Scott decided he'd had enough tomfoolery and wheeled her in from the ground and closed the door. He then proceeded to pull out his pistol once more, a Bul Cherokee with a black body and a slick sliver painted barrel. It held 17 rounds, which were 16 more than it took to scare the absolute shit out of poor Karen. She gave in, sobbing momentarily. Scott was trying to breathe normally after the incident, ordering Karen to sit back in her place. He was strangely obsessed with neatness and order. If something was out of place, he'd threaten it back to where it belonged. And when Scott threatened, objects obeyed.

"Look, I just went to see my Doctor. He said I should listen to what you have to say before I kill you". Karen began to nod aggressively. Scott stopped it by aiming the gun higher and to her head, "But after that little attack I don't think I should take that risk. What do you say, Mrs. Barnes?"

Karen raised her eyebrow to Scott. She hummed to him, suggesting he removed her gag. Scott noticed quickly. He said to her that if she screamed again he'd replace the gag with the 108 millimeter barrel of his handgun. She nodded in agreement. Scott removed the gag.

Karen asked him, "I just want to know how you know me and who sent you".

"Fine. I was hired to kill you by someone unknown, with considerable influence in the police force, and a grudge against you. I never saw his face that well. He gave the info about you; work place, name, the lot. You're just another job out of hundreds that pass on daily in this city", Scott answered and slowly lowered the gun.

"Police force? But the only person I've ever met who's all that is my husband. Well, I mean my ex... but we're not divorced yet, we're just sepe-", Scott interrupted her, saying, "Spare me, I know how marriages end".

"So, your husband, or 'ex' sent me to kill you, any idea why?" Scott now switched the Cherokee's safety back on and placed it on the shabby wooden desk to his left.

Updated: 10/30/07 2:50 PM 5 comments | Log in to comment! | Share this!

My entire fucking Firefox crashed and lost every single bookmark I had, which is about 30 or so bookmarks. How fucking gay is that? Now I'm utterly screwed if I found stuff I like and don't remember how I found them.

Buggery. (However not all is lost since I kept text URL's on a notepad on my desktop).

Also, like new banner? XD (It's a spoof of Denvish's).

Updated: 10/20/07 9:24 AM 6 comments | Log in to comment! | Share this!