rmmstnr
The Seeker
- 36
- Posts
- 15
- Years
- The Brilliant Stars Above
- Seen Jan 23, 2012
I was thinking of just leaving this as a stand alone little quip, but maybe I'll add more if the inspiration comes in. I had an idea of building a full story around it (even made an outline in my head), but I tend not to do well with those, so I'll just keep it in mind for the time being. Hopefully it will be swiftly deleted depending on the negative feedback or lack of postive stuff, so waddaya think?
He tried not to move. He tried not to breathe. He tried to stop his heart from hammering in his chest, desperately willing every bit of his body to just be still. He was coming. There would only be one chance to do this right, any mistake would likely end up in Jesse's own death. Footsteps. Soft, muffled. Jesse readied himself in the darkness, pressed against the cold, hard, uncaring wall, beside the steel dumpster. Echoes of horns sounded off in the distance, the blade-thin sliver of moon was nearly completely obscured by clouds as black as smoke, making the alley almost ethereal in quality. The only light came from a dim arc-sodium streetlamp far out of the alley and across the street, throwing soft flickering shadows that danced across the way like prancing devils. Jesse slowly extracted his knife from it's holster, grimacing at the dull feel of his carefully prepared implement through tight rubber gloves. How he hated to wear gloves, did Michelangelo or who-ever paint the Sistine Chapel wearing goddam oven mitts? Did a safecracker ever work with catcher's gloves? Damn right they didn't.
He tried not to move. He tried not to breathe. He tried to stop his heart from hammering in his chest, desperately willing every bit of his body to just be still. He was coming. There would only be one chance to do this right, any mistake would likely end up in Jesse's own death. Footsteps. Soft, muffled. Jesse readied himself in the darkness, pressed against the cold, hard, uncaring wall, beside the steel dumpster. Echoes of horns sounded off in the distance, the blade-thin sliver of moon was nearly completely obscured by clouds as black as smoke, making the alley almost ethereal in quality. The only light came from a dim arc-sodium streetlamp far out of the alley and across the street, throwing soft flickering shadows that danced across the way like prancing devils. Jesse slowly extracted his knife from it's holster, grimacing at the dull feel of his carefully prepared implement through tight rubber gloves. How he hated to wear gloves, did Michelangelo or who-ever paint the Sistine Chapel wearing goddam oven mitts? Did a safecracker ever work with catcher's gloves? Damn right they didn't.
The shuffling stopped. Jesse tensed up, suddenly sickly aware of the scent which emanated from his excited body, the smell of adrenaline rushing through an animal. He could smell the mark as well, heavy aftershave and cologne, a whiff of perspiration. He was twenty feet away, judging from the sound of his breathing and his scent gently wafting Jesse's way thanks to a near indetectable breeze. Thought's flashed through Jesse's head, trying to figure out why the mark had stopped. Jesse was completely obscured from view, and even otherwise it was too dark to be seen in the shadow of the dumpster. The mark coughed, hocked, and spat, then continued towards his fate. Like a pig to the slaughter Jesse thought, reminding him of the term dehumanizing; what amateurs did to help get their job done. Hacks, he thought. If only he had the luxury of staring deeply into the mark's eyes, seeing not rage, but stupid bewilderment as the stare went blank and soulless... But this was a job, and jobs are done correctly.
The mark passed, and Jesse slowly stood up on tip-toe, silently making his way. In a fluid set of motions that seemed to take a lifetime or more, Jesse thrust his knee into the small of the mark's back, covering his mouth, cradling the chin and pulling upward. Liking the added grip of the rubber on skin, Jesse pulled upward harder still on the mark's face with his right hand, falling forward with his knee still planted in the mark's spine. His left hand, lightning quick, swiftly pulled the blade across the neck, applying as much force as possible. The blade sank deep, the hilt dragged across skin, the steel across bone. A burbling gush of claret came forth, the remnants of a scream hissing and spitting through the crimson tide. Another glub of spent breath and blood as the two landed upon the ground, Jesse's position perfectly unaltered. Upon the instant of impact, Jesse gave one last monumental tug, yielding a muffled crack like tinder snapped within cloth. The left hand continued its counter-clockwise arcing motion, flinging gore from his tool. It had taken all of three seconds.
Carefully standing up, limbs akimbo, Jesse examined himself for blood. Just as planned, he was clean with the exception of the fingers of his right glove. The throbbing of excitement in his head subsiding, he wiped his knife on the mark, and pulled out the corpse's pockets. He pocketed the wallet, leaving the keys and change on the damp pavement. Still holding the cutter in one hand he pulled his left glove off of his hand and around the knife. He followed suit with the other glove, turning his accessory into a clean rubber-wrapped package that fit easily into his pocket. He had no need for money; the wallet and its contents would soon be burned like the gloves. Slowly making his way away from the scene, he mused to himself how the cops would be looking for a petty thief rather than a pro. It would be daybreak before anybody would find the mayor-elect's rotting corpse in the alley. Relishing a cool shower after this bout of commission, Jesse slowly disappeared into the mist of a muggy city night.
