The Headhunter - Writers Forum

Svalbard · 05-06-2007, 11:04 AM

John Clapham, ace detective, and all round action hero, walked down the dimly lit street briskly. He smiled to himself at the thought. His square jaw with a permanent twelve o clock shadow, could have come straight out of one of those pulp crime novels, that are found at all airports. The top button of his crumpled shirt was open and the paisley tie, an artefact from the early nineties, was pulled down. John's eyes, ever alert, scanned the dark alleyways as he walked past them. The smile began to fade from his face as he recalled the reason for his presence here in the slums of the city.
In his left hand he held a piece of paper. A simple note with only four words written on it.

MEET ME. ASHBRICK. HEADHUNTER.

Ashbrick Road, home of prostitutes, pimps, junkies and now the most notorious killer of the last decade. The detective, thought briefly about why he was following the instructions on the note without any backup. Pride, was the only answer he could come up with. The murderer known as the Headhunter, had being on a killing spree now for the last five months. Thirteen victims had falling foul to him, their decapitated bodies found dumped in the streets of the city. Fully clothed, the victims were not missing any valuables upon their persons, only their heads. All of them were young white males in their early thirties, all professional and successful businessmen.

John felt the first spatter of rain on his head and silently cursed. His mack was back at the precinct. He had left it there, the humidity in the city was stifling and the weather forecasters had predicted no rain. Damned phoneys, thought Clapham. A figure lurched in front of him and he reached instinctively for his gun. But the figure, a drunk, just staggered past the cop. What the hell was he doing here! The thought ran through the mind of the detective again.

"I should be in the bar downing a scotch," he muttered to himself.

The detritus of humanity lay all about him on the street. This was the forgotten side of the prosperous city, the place where the darkness resided. As his eyes grew accustomed to the weak light, he saw that the alleys were teeming with life. Small groups of people, huddled in pitiful circles and he could now here the low drone of their voices.
The Damned, the word came unbidden to his mind. Suddenly, John Clapham did not want to be here. His earlier visions of himelf being feted for capturing the Headhunter now seemed like folly.
It was at that moment that he looked up and saw the figure standing beneath the neon light of a tattoo parlour. A whisp of smoke rose up above the head of the man and John saw the brief flare of a cigarette.
He slowed his pace, all his instincts were telling him to go back. There was danger ahead, fear tinged the air. The figure seemed to shimmer in and out of the light. A trick of the flickering neon light, thought John, licking at his dry lips.

He was still walking forward.

Darkness fell behind the detective as he moved on. The figure under the light dropped the cigarette and turned to face John Clapham.

He was smiling, yellow teeth bared in a feral grin.
"Welcome," the Headhunter said.

Lyonidus · 05-06-2007, 03:25 PM

Hey svalbard, i enjoyed this story so let me get the cons out of the way before i begin prasing you.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Svalbard

Thirteen victims had falling foul to him,

I didnt get this bit, i think it has to be revised.

their decapitated bodies found dumped in the streets of the city. Fully clothed, the victims were not missing any valuables upon their persons, only their heads. All of them were young white males in their early thirties, all professional and successful businessmen.

I liked this information but would like it delivered in a more succinct manner, something where i just hear the details, and also, i think the decapitated bits and the heads make it a bit cliche.

.

And there we have it, my suggestions, but anyway, like i said, i really enjoyed this story, it drew me in and i wanted to keep reading to discover the ending, i definitely see a full story coming out of this one if you want to continue it as i think it would make it more powerful.

Really though, there is alot of promise here, and you obviously have talent so on the whole is it a success.

Congratulations.

I salute you.

Azmakna · 05-06-2007, 03:46 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Svalbard

John Clapham, ace detective, and all round action hero, walked down the dimly lit street briskly. He smiled to himself at the thought. His square jaw with a permanent twelve o clock shadow, could have come straight out of one of those pulp crime novels, that are found at all airports. The top button of his crumpled shirt was open and the paisley tie, an artefact from the early nineties, was pulled down. John's eyes, ever alert, scanned the dark alleyways as he walked past them. The smile began to fade from his face as he recalled the reason for his presence here in the slums of the city.
In his left hand he held a piece of paper. A simple note with only four words written on it.

i know what you are trying to achieve here, but it pulled me up straight away. i'd put this after 'walked' is it permanent or does he not bother to shave? makes it sound like he never lets go of the paper

MEET ME. ASHBRICK. HEADHUNTER.

Ashbrick Road, home of prostitutes, pimps, junkies and now the most notorious killer of the last decade. The detective, thought briefly about why he was following the instructions on the note without any backup. Pride, was the only answer he could come up with. The murderer known as the Headhunter, had being on a killing spree now for the last five months. Thirteen victims had falling foul to him, their decapitated bodies found dumped in the streets of the city. Fully clothed, the victims were not missing any valuables upon their persons, only their heads. All of them were young white males in their early thirties, all professional and successful businessmen.

feels like a shortcut. been superfluous

John felt the first spatter of rain on his head and silently cursed. His mack was back at the precinct. He had left it there, the humidity in the city was stifling and the weather forecasters had predicted no rain. Damned phoneys, thought Clapham. A figure lurched in front of him and he reached instinctively for his gun. But the figure, a drunk, just staggered past the cop. What the hell was he doing here! The thought ran through the mind of the detective again.

is this needed? you step back from the narative here

"I should be in the bar downing a scotch," he muttered to himself.

The detritus of humanity lay all about him on the street. This was the forgotten side of the prosperous city, the place where the darkness resided. As his eyes grew accustomed to the weak light, he saw that the alleys were teeming with life. Small groups of people, huddled in pitiful circles and he could now here the low drone of their voices.
The Damned, the word came unbidden to his mind. Suddenly, John Clapham did not want to be here. His earlier visions of himelf being feted for capturing the Headhunter now seemed like folly.

It was at that moment that he looked up and saw the figure standing beneath the neon light of a tattoo parlour. A whisp of smoke rose up above the head of the man and John saw the brief flare of a cigarette.
He slowed his pace, all his instincts were telling him to go back. There was danger ahead, fear tinged the air. The figure seemed to shimmer in and out of the light. A trick of the flickering neon light, thought John, licking at his dry lips.

he is brave enough to go there and yet the flare of a cigarette made him want to leave?

He was still walking forward.

Darkness fell behind the detective as he moved on. The figure under the light dropped the cigarette and turned to face John Clapham.

He was smiling, yellow teeth bared in a feral grin.
"Welcome," the Headhunter said.

nice beginning. i'd like to read some more.

Svalbard · 05-06-2007, 03:52 PM

Thank you both for the input. It is always good to recieve constructive feedback. The piece is a short story I wrote on another site. It was only after I finished that I realised I might have hit on a larger story. Trying to work out a larger plotline at the moment.

Svalbard · 07-01-2007, 06:55 PM

I've done a bit more on the story. I am still unsure of the direction and will more than likely re-visit this piece.

“Well..” The word hung in the air between the heavy breaths of the two thugs and pitiful moans of the man strapped to the chair. Agent Keogh waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he sighed and gently reached for his side-arm. His eyes held a hard edge as he approached the captive man, whose skin was beginning to turn purple from the beating he had just received.

“You leave me with little choice,” Keogh said and his hand swept forward, the gun pointed directly at the captive’s face. The two heavies looked at each other and stepped back.
“You’re a cop,” the man gasped, his eyes clouded over with pain.
“True and you are a low-life scumbag who will not be missed.”
The bullet punched through the man’s head, killing him instantly. Keogh looked over at the two heavies.

“Find his partner and bring him here. I think you will find him more co-operative after he sees this,” he ordered them.
Once they were gone and he was alone with the dead man, Keogh holstered his weapon. The room he was in, was bare, except for the chair and it’s dead occupant. The walls of the decrepit room were stained and dampness pervaded the air of the room. The building was long disused, it would be months, years even before the body was discovered. Agent Keogh was a man of simple values and taste.

You were either a good guy or a bad guy. There was no middle ground for him. Break the law, suffer the consequences. He kept his informants and muscle on a tight string. They knew what would happen if they crossed him. He gave the body one more look and walked from the room.
His men would find who they were looking for and bring him here. He would talk and give up the information on the missing girls. Keogh would then go and get them. What would it matter if the sick bastards keeping them were killed in the rescue? Nothing, just a few less criminals on the street, ran the thoughts of Keogh as left the building.

His cell phone rang as walked out onto darkened street. Furtive looks were cast in his direction, fearful looks.
“Keogh,” he answered.
“Where the hell are you,” the voice on the other side growled. It was Madder, his boss.
“On the kidnapping case, somewhere downtown,” he replied.
“Get back to the office. We have a big one brewing,” Madder said.
“The Headhunter.”
“Yeah and a missing cop. So get you ass back here pronto.”
Keogh hung up without replying. He was smiling. Time to hunt this bastard down as well as the others.