stanza-reel

He checked his revolver

Nice, it was shiny and sleek. A very polished piece.
It looked too new and modern to judge as something evil. It Definitely did not look like a killing tool. No, not at all.

Yet, It would be used for killing.

"Hmmm, how ironic!" He said to the night sky, flinching at his loud voice. He was a nervous man. But today, after he was done, he would gain a new, revived spirit. He felt it. He would not be nervous anymore.

He walked by a gas station and wondered how the Hindu clerk was doing. How did Vishnu... or Gishnu, or whatever the hell his name could have been... feel at the moment? Was he proud of his life? Or was he regretting seeping into society's sweet stereotypical role?

No time for thinking, man! GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF MAN!

He cleared his feverish mind. At the same moment, he arrived at his destination:

A worn building, about 30 stories high, with colorful and anarchic symbols, aka graffiti, sprinkled on nearly every inch... what a pleasant sight! To add to the beauty, there were rave poster covering every centimeter. Wait, it doesn't stop there! Thousands of chewed pieces of gum littered the floor, trampled on by the hundreds of crack heads that passed on these filthy floors below.

That, my friends, is a Detroit Hotel.

And a classy one at that.

He looked up the window he would color red later that hour:

Lights are on. Good, it'll be a surprise.

He entered the building, breathing heavily, almost encouraging his asthma to act up... He entered the valley of ashes, aka lobby, and went up the stairs. They keep it ol' fashion here, he though. None of those fancy elevators here sonny.

He chuckled at his calm and pleasing thoughts.

Here we are.... Room 5J.

He knocked.... Silence....

Thud.
Then another thud. Then a squeak, a rattle, and whole river of onomatopoeia...

Then the heart wrenching slide of a lock, and door opening...

"Hey Bernie! WHAT is up? Man I haven't seen you in like wha-"

He got cut off. The bullet hole in his head distracted his thoughts. Not that he could conjure up anything in his mind at the moment except for "WHAT THE FUCK?!".

...And just like that, Bernie's ol' pal collapsed in a heap.

Bernie raided the place, ignoring the crack and heroin lying in little packets. No, Bernie was a not a sinful man. No he wasn't. He stayed clean and pure. Sometimes he needed to get his hands roughed up, but God's desire was a lot more important....

[To the reader who is reading this pathetic tale of a lone, nervous, and thoughtful individual, I just want to clear up that Bernie is NOT crazy. He is saner than me or you or the gov't will ever be... g_d speed Bernie. g_d speed.]

He found what he was looking for:

A dirty collection of photographs depicting sexual and lude acts... Yeah, that was what he wanted. Thing is his pal and a chic named Mary, aka Bernie's wife, was in that picture.

He spread the pictures around his pals body, which was stinking the god damn place up...

knock knock.

"Who's there?"

"The Police"

Before Bernie even though of saying "the police who", he was on the building fire escape. Running down the steps, Bernie's was not just nervous now. He was also having a surreal moment. One where he imagined all the infinite possibilities that could happen:

Getting caught. Escaping to new life. Getting shot down. Suicide. ETC.

Bernie was reaching the end when the fire escape collapsed. The charred and black colored metal was way to old to support Bernie's fat, ugly structure, and just gave way.

Now, this may be a bit nasty, but this is what happened... Bernie got impaled on one of jutting pieces, and the thing slid right through his left rib cage. Okay, see? That was not that bad!

As Bernie lie dying there, he realized something.

He did not deserve this. That bastard deserved to die. So did my wife and her pathetic family. Damn them all to hell. Every single one of the stupid morons.

Bernie's last few milliseconds were a bit slower to him than we might feel in this world.

He thought he experienced some guilt for half a millisecond, but threw the thought away... guilt is an emotion that slows the body to a non-acceptable mental state. The mental state is only in its prime when one does not think of his actions. He just does it. the id and ego and superego all die... and a thoughtless brute is left. But this thoughtless brute gets the job done quite well.

and revenge... is a dish best served with lead.

Bernie smiled at his words of wisdom protruding like stakes in his mind.
His life was over.

stanza-reel

The fact that I even wrote tells me i need to sleep more.. lol, there is not enough description or anything. And most things are not explained enough, or some sentences are just way to random or off topic.

Sorry, had to critisize myself, since there was no one else to do it! :p

Industrial

File-13 is the right place for this in my opinion.

It's not edgy its this illiterate. Get some more sleep and write when your better rested.

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dhyre

My only comment is that right at the beginning, where it says "shiny and sleek. A very polished piece." --- when I was reading, it threw me off right away, kind of rhymes. I like the idea but maybe you could find another way to incorporate it.

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*** correction: Writing is about individuality, breaking the rules, testing new grounds, listening to ourselves. That's why we do it, to show we are individuals, we are human and because everyone's idea deserves a chance, even if you don't think so.