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Member
Join Date: Oct 2006
Posts: 17
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YTBN: (Possible name- The Hit)
In a dark corner of the night, a man stood begging for his life and mercy from a man who could not feel, and didn’t pity anything. Blood flew from the corner of his mouth as a large board hit his face hard, nearly swinging him around in a complete three-sixty. Instead of completing the circle, the man fell short, collapsing on the floor in an unconscious heap. A long gash had ripped through the man’s cheek, caused by the nail John Oakridge had pounded into the board earlier.
John stood over the man, not smiling and not scowling, but wearing the mask that he wore for every job. His face was tight, expressionless, and warned of an impending doom for all those that dared to challenge him in a staring contest. No one ever did, because people never needed to look into his eyes to feel their own mortality looming overhead. John had an aura around him which seemed to do the job.
John was massive; a force to be reckoned with in a fist fight. He was thirty-six, and weighed two-hundred-eighty pounds of pure muscle. This in itself was impressive enough to make people’s jaws drop, but the thing that most people were thrown off by was the fact that John wore glasses. Why would a man so large and horrifying need help seeing like a wimpy mortal would? John was not ashamed of the glasses, in fact that gave him more of a reason to stare at others; he thought everyone was staring at him. They were, in fact, always staring at him, even though it wasn’t because of the glasses.
The giant man looked down at his victim and then studied the night around him. They were in an alley, shrouded in nearly complete darkness. On the right, about thirty yards or so, the alley opened onto a parking lot that served a local tavern. The only light came from a neon sign that said, “Drink at Joe’s!” That made John chuckle, which sounded like someone walking on a road of gravel.
To the left, about twenty yards, maybe twenty-five, the alley spilled onto a one-way street. A street lamp served the small road, but the alley wall blocked most of the light. Any that did manage to peak around, over, or through the wall was immediately choked off by the seemingly solid abyss of darkness in which John was standing. He inhaled. The air already held a subtle but identifiable copper taste. Blood was in the air. He bent over to make sure the man was still alive. Blood was pooling into a miniature pond, flowing from the large gash on the man’s face. He was alive, but if no one came wandering down this alley soon, the man wouldn’t stand a chance. John didn’t care what happened to the man, but the Director did, and anything the Director wanted, the Director not only got, but he found it underneath a Christmas tree wrapped in solid gold wrapping paper. Even if it was mid-June.
John, for some reason, could see perfectly within the darkness. He had never known how this was possible, but he knew -and had always known- that his odd talent must be kept a secret. If anyone knew his secret, he would be the subject of scientific research that would never end until he did. There was no true scientific explanation. When he was seventeen, he had seen a doctor and a psycologist. They had both died later the same night in horrible car accidents, after telling him there was no explanation. He had cut their brake lines. It was this strange talent that enabled John to see the couple leave the tavern through the back door. They stood on the steps for a while, holding each other close and giggling to their hearts’ content. They had had one too many drinks.
John smiled. This was perfect. He crept to the edge of the darkness, and muttered, “help!” His voice was raspy, hardly audible. It was the perfect imitation of a dying man crying out to his only chance of survival. The drunk couple didn’t hear anything over their own laughter. John coughed his fake plea of help a bit louder. They looked up.
The seeds of curiosity were planted, and John needed to get the hell out of there. He whispered again, quietly but enough for them to hear. He slowly crept farther into the shadows as they stumbled forward. Great. Perfect! John was going to be a rich man after tonight. The drunk couple would find the body and he would be paid handsomely for his work. He kept walking away from the couple, his back to his victim and in his complete joy, he fell.
It was the body that had tripped him. He felt stupid. He should have just turned around and walked calmly out of the dark alley. They would have seen him. They were too drunk. But instead, he had to slip up. The mistake was too large to go unnoticed, and John knew that even as he fell. John splashed his way into the puddle, making a lot of noise as his shirt was stained with the man’s blood. He was screwed. Now he would have to burn his clothes, and just hope that he hadn’t left anything on the body. Laying in the blood, John looked around, somewhat dazed that he had made such a horrible mistake. He had killed so many people before, and had never been put on a suspect list. This would be his undoing. But he had never been paid so much before! That was the real reason he had messed up. John had been too excited by the thought of one-hundred thousand dollars. Cash!
But now he would never have it. He had screwed up, and would probably be severely punished for the failure. Anyone who failed him in a hit was immediately the target of one. Sometimes it didn’t matter. Even if the mission was a success, you had to watch your back. He would kill anyone to keep his name free and his reputation high. After all, he was a wealthy business man, which made sense because everyone in business always turned rotten. Everyone.
John felt that this mistake would be his last, indeed it might end up being the last thing he ever did. And yet, all John could do was get up, study the couple who were squinting to see him and run. He couldn’t think straight. John’s feet were taking him someplace, and he was reluctant to follow, but knew that if he didn’t he would spend the rest of his life in prison.
He would rather run, and run he did. John was already three blocks away from that horrible alley, almost free of the grasping arms of the police force. John slowed down, breathing heavily. He was a big guy, after all. He walked a bit further, then turned to face the way he had come. As he studied the night he had escaped from, he rounded the corner, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Something was behind him. Or rather, someone. John felt hot air run down his neck, raising hairs in a nervous chill. This made his knees buckle, but he didn’t fall. Because the person hadn’t screamed or cursed when John wandered aimlessly into him, John held his breath. This wasn’t a lady walking her dog late at night. This was a man with intent to kill. His breath smelled oddly of blood, which made John’s knees tremble. He was going to die. John knew it.
Without resistance or hesitation, the man swiftly moved his hand from under the trench coat, his arm barely visible. He took hold of John’s coat and pulled him into a knife, impaling him all the way through. A puff of air escaped John, and his eyes bulged, nearly ready to explode. The man leaned in and put his lips close to John’s ear.
“That was for the priest, and your blood is for me,” the man smiled, obviously pleased with his line.
John fell to the ground, a single tear rolled down his cheek. This man had killed him because of his failure with the priest. They had found him immediately, which meant he never had a chance of escaping. The Director had wanted John dead the moment he had been assigned the job.
The murderer smiled, cupped his right hand over John’s face and his left pressed against John’s throat. The suffocation lasted about a minute, and then John was silent. The man chuckled a little, and then pulled three syringes from a bag strapped on his waist. Two were empty, one was full of a red liquid. He took an old rag from the same bag and sprayed it with the red liquid. He then smeared some of it on the wall to his left, and left some smeared on John’s knuckles. Blood was being planted. Someone was being framed.
There were two more syringes, and those were filled to capacity with John’s blood. He put those in the bag once more, along with the now empty syringe. He smiled again, and pulled his knife from John’s back. As he walked away from the lifeless form, the man threw the knife into a dumpster where it would be found easily.
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