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Best Seller
Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: Ohio
Gender: Male
Posts: 561
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January Thaw:The Story *Warning:Contains Raw Language*
This is the beginning portion. I didn't want to post the whole thing yet, it is over 6,000 words.
January Thaw
Come on detective, move to your left a little bit. Let me see that bald head of yours shining in the January sun. Ah, there you go that's what I like to see, right in the cross hairs. There is no way they can make my position from here,twelve hundred yards away. The melting snow is so calming, dripping on the steel gutters. My finger caresses the trigger guard, it feels so soft against my skin. A groove has been worn in the metal over the years. Sweat, time and the elements wore the finish off the wood stock, leaving grainy spots between the finished sections of wood. Detective James Archer will make a fine addition to my list of recent trophy kills. Pretty as a picture now, Detective, just hold that pose. He does. My finger pulls the trigger, squeezing the shot.
The amazing thing about head shots is how the angle of penetration determines the messiness of the exit wound. I prefer to shoot at an upward angle, the exit wound is fantastic and the blood splatter is the greatest. Covering the January snow in a crimson ink blot of patterns, it is actually quite pretty until the police butt in and clean it up.
Detective Archer receives the dark kiss from my M107 rifle. The .50 caliber bullet hits him like a sledge hammer slamming into his skull in mid-stride. A half dollar sized entrance wound sadly overshadowed by the spectacular exit wound. The papers described the scene as "ghastly". Skull fragments actually penetrated and embedded in a nearby tree. What was more important though, was the blood splatter. From the crime scene photos I obtained, it was by far my greatest work to date. Forensics were utterly clueless trying to determine how far away I was when I pulled the trigger, much less determine the vector angle of the shot.
Blood came out of his head so fast it ran in little rivers down the sidewalk and into the snow. When I saw the photographs of Detective Archer's head, I spontaneously orgasmed. He was exquisitely positioned, half in and half out of the snow. The left side of his head only had the half dollar sized hole in it but was otherwise unscathed. The right side, however was demolished. Shredded skin clung to shattered bone and oozing brain matter. Both of his eyes had popped out of their sockets from the impact of the slug. Dangling from their optic nerves like obscene yo-yos, I nearly wept from the beauty of it all. I didn't see the beauty I could make in my life, until he moved in. His gravelly voice couldn't be ignored, such sick things he wanted me to do. He lives under the basement stair case, near the furnace. I don't know how to say his real name, so I've compromised. I just call him GOD.
"Detective Schmidt, do you have any comment on the latest broad daylight killing?" Another killing, another endless sea of faces asking questions. Detective Schmidt and the rest of the department had been bombarded with press every day after new murder. It was delightful to see how confused and misdirected they all were. The camera man had his lens so close to the detective's face I could see his pock marks, unkempt nose hairs and fear.
"At this point in the investigation, we have received a few promising tips. We don't wish to go into details at this time, for fear it will compromise our investigation." Watching the detective squirm, anyone could tell the police were utterly clueless. They have no idea it is me, so near but so far from their sight.
"We have heard a rumor that the killer has a military background and is highly trained. Can you verify that rumor for us Detective?" A young Asian woman asks him, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. Flashbulbs pop, outlining the disgust on the detective's face. One of the promising tips apparently has been leaked out sooner than even the detective has expected. I laugh to myself as he scrambles to compose himself in front of the teeming masses. Reporters are the vultures of the media world. They soar around, waiting for an official to stumble, watching as celebrities show their weak moments or just plain pick the bones clean when an average joe becomes newsworthy. I so detest the media. If ever a nuclear war would break out, cockroaches and reporters would be the only surviving life forms. I watch question after question as they are tossed up to the podium. They are no closer to knowing my business than they were two years ago when I started shooting during the day.
"Is it that time already? Thank you GOD, I wasn't paying attention. Sometimes, I think I'd just forget my ass if it wasn't attached to me." He is sure a stickler for time management. He's my driving force, urging me to get better and enjoy my work more. He is the modern Da Vinci, showing me how to paint on a much larger canvas. My brush is my rifle, so much more than just a mere weapon. It is my hand. It reaches out in smooth strokes, adding color and texture to an otherwise flat, dull life. I check through my scope to see what's on the menu. A blonde woman walking with her beau through the early afternoon sun. Two young children making a snowman, laughing and throwing snowballs. They aren't holding my attention, I need something better today. On cue, she enters my line of sight. It's one of the ballbusting reporters from the press conference. She goes to the tree where pieces of Detective Archer's skull are still embedded. Her finger traces the outline of each fragment. She studies the bark for minutes and stops suddenly. I see her black hair in my scope, nearly can count hairs on her head. Abruptly she turns from the tree and looks right down my scope. Impossible. It must be just a fluke happenstance, but her eyes don't drift from mine. I have no choice except to postpone my next masterpiece.
"What did you say, GOD?" He is such a mumbler some days. "Yes, well of course I can postpone this one. Doesn't make any sense to risk all my hard work. Oh, sorry you are correct. Our hard work." As if he does anything ever. Just sits there and gives me ideas. Why don't you take a turn at cleaning the rifle then? That's what I feel like asking him somedays. I really don't want him fucking around with it though, he might accidently throw my sights off and that would be just, well...unacceptable. The female reporter is still looking in my direction. It is quite unnerving to me and worse yet, she is unnerving GOD. I don't want him to get all riled up again. The last time it happened he was awake for seventy-two hours straight, rambling on and on about how I should use hollowpoints instead of the 168 grain bullets I prefer. He is my mentor, but after seventy-two hours, I was ready to bitch slap him. Damn. Now he has started in again. Why don't you take the rifle out of the ready position? Christ, I could slap him right now. He's sitting there watching. Waiting. Judging me because I didn't take the shot when I had her in my sights, when she had her back turned to me.
I pull the gun out of the window trough I built especially for my work. I glance over the ridge, but the reporter has vanished. GOD's rambling on and on made me miss her leaving. It would have been nice to know where that snoopy bitch went. Maybe I'm being paranoid. None of the forensic examiners have even gotten close to determining the correct angle the shots are coming from. GOD was right. He said nobody would think to look here. Nobody can find you if you don't want to be found, hide in plain sight. Blah, blah, blah. Somedays I just want to punch his face until his teeth fall out. Just to stop that jaw from moving, to stop his rambling.
Ok. I'm much calmer now. I...I just walked away from him for awhile. I scooped the snow off the walk and he stayed inside, thankfully. He doesn't go outside much anymore. The cold weather is really rough on him, which makes it easier on me. The whole time I shoveled the snow, I ran the scenario in my head about that cunt reporter looking in my direction. The absolute audacity she has to snoop around one of my masterpieces. I am convinced she didn't see my perch, nobody can see it.
"What? No, I didn't fuck up GOD. That nosey bitch will come back, I can still make her famous." I hate when he starts in on me. He worries about every little detail until his head and mine nearly explode. It's a wonder I haven't put him out of my misery already. Ever since the reporter left he's been needlessly worrying about her calling the cops, worrying about her coming here, convinced that I fucked everything up. I swear I'm going to choke him in his sleep tonight, just so I don't have to hear his voice.
I keep a vigil most of the night as GOD sleeps. Nothing happens though. No reporters come, no cops nose around. I leave for a few hours at the first light of dawn to get more air fresheners. The air in here gets positively stifling in the middle of winter, there is no good way to keep it fresh and warm at the same time. I'm only gone for two hours, but by the time I get home, I can I shouldn’t have been gone that long.
GOD decided to venture outside to see for himself if my sniper perch has been compromised. I really hate when he tries to be so helpful. What if someone had seen him outside nosing around the windows? No good would have come from it all. I grab him by what's left of his hair and drag him towards the door. He flails around like a fish out of water trying to resist me. His skin is a deep red from being out in this cold, his body can't take it anymore. I just hope nobody can hear his yelps as I drag him back inside the house. After I get him to sit back in his favorite spot, I go around the front of the house to see if he fucked anything up.
Tracks run all over my front yard. Most of them are size 5's, from the young paper boy trapsing through my yard. There are some from GOD as well, in that shuffling manner that he choose to walk. There, just inside one of GOD's prints is another, smaller one. It isn't the paperboy's boot that made this track though, this has to be the reporter. The main portion of the print is narrower than any boy's boot and there is a defined heel. Even in boots women like their high heels. GOD will be so smug now, doing his, "I told you so" routine. It looks like I have some hunting to do. Only a fool waits twice for the mouse to come to the trap and still expects to catch it. Fuck. I really do hate it when he's right.
I tap into the police network using a proxy server that skips my signal off practical every cable hub in the world before tapping their mainframe. I need to find that whore reporter and end her snooping before everything thaws. What was her name again? Constance Shelby? No, that's not quite right. "What? Oh, so I transposed her first and last name? Well, then what the fuck is her last name? Kramer? How do you know? Well, yes I watch it the news too you mumbling bastard." Such a fucking cock sucking son of a bitch.
I type Shelby Kramer's name into the police system and hit enter. Immediately an address blinks on my screen. 2467 Moreland Avenue. Hmmm. She's just a few blocks from here, maybe I'll use my snowmobile. I check my watch. Only ten in the morning. Hopefully she'll still be home, I'd like to finish this before noon. No need to take my rifle, I grab my rosewood handled .44. I eject the clip and pop in a full one. I also take my serrated bowie knife. Close in operations can be messy sometimes, but this is personal now.
Last edited by Burnz : 07-18-2006 at 11:37 AM.
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