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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - Moments of The Demon |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 935 days Last activity: 935 days |
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| I'm trying out a new style here:
Silence. Somewhat, really, it's more like a low stillness punctuated by a distant roar from the automobiles of the night. But, for simplicity's sake, we'll call it silence. Darkness. Stillness. The ground is wet. Evening dew, glistens in the lull of the amber streetlamps. The air thick with the smells of fuel and the ocean. A low breeze ruffles the cuffs of my pants and attempts to rustle through my short hair. It's cold; I should have worn more than just my business suit. The steel is frozen to my grip, hanging precariously next to me, a small bit of steam rising from the barrel. I'm frozen to my stance, staring off into the distance. The cold and others are leaving. Walking to their cars. The gun drops with a loud clatter and the stillness returns. Darkness. The ground is both cold and warm, different portions of wet. My black suit hides the blood, as does the trickle of moisture slicked on the pavement. Breathing is ragged, the air slices through each breath. Rolling onto my back is painful, but I can't stand the thought of going on my stomach. I reach for the gun again. It's still warm, slightly, all but one round in the magazine. The cars have left, drove past me long ago, nary a smirk in my direction. They're sick. Leaving me like this. My phone rings. "Hello?" "Where are you?" "Dreaming." "We've got a fix on your phone, ten minutes." "That may be too long." A painful deep breath and I lurch forward. I'm sitting in a pool of my own. And quite frustrated. Not with the impending, but the fact that my own car is several feet away and that all I did was stand there. My phone rings again. "You're taking too long," the voice is sharp and tactful. "I'm sorry, I still have business to complete. Mind taking care of the dry cleaning?" My breathing begins to slow, stabilizes a bit, my hands begin to shake, it's hard to hold the phone to my ear. "Can we end this, please, my night minutes don't start for another hour?" "You're a funny man. Now, do us all a favor, and don't make us go back." "I wouldn't dream of it. Tell ya what, I'll go meet you." I hang up. Well, more like drop the phone and kick it away from me. Bloody thing, I don't really need it anyway. It just gets me into trouble. And nights starting at 9PM? What is that? My voice is faltering, vision starting to blur. I can hear a car, distant and rushing. Last ounce of gathering strength, I grab the phone and chuck it over the dock. The car stops near me, a man rushes out and clutches onto the hole in my chest, "Heh, you've only been nicked." "You have" a pause "an odd definition of 'nicked'," I pull up on his body, dragging myself toward his car, "now, let's get those fuckers." "Oh, no, you're going to a hospital." He rounds the car and sits at the driver's seat staring into the barrel of my gun, "drive or die, we know I'll live to see either." He's quiet throughout the ride, watching me out of the corner of his eye, staining his seats, dripping everywhere, the gun steady on him. His lips part, he's thinking about something. "That thing you're thinking of doing? Don't. I'll come back for you. You knew this was going to happen at some point. This whole thing. They want me one way or another. And you, you're just a tool. You'll have to disappear too. My hand or yours, doesn't matter to me." He begins to slow down, I holster my weapon and pull him close, "Get lost. Permanently. And if you tell anyone about anything, I'll find you." While we were commuting, my assistant was busy drudging the dock, looking for my phone. He cleaned up the blood. My car was detailed and returned to its garage. He picked up rounds and took care of witnesses. The night remained still, and he followed. It was quiet and dark still when he approached, meticulous in his ventures. He cleaned up the blood trickling down my body, and helped me to the ground. His skilled hands worked in the wound, no anesthetic, sutures applied, gauze packed and a dressing tightly wound around my chest. He pulled two pouches of my blood out of his messenger bag. "I'm sure you've lost more, but I was only carrying two." Quick stab into my arm, and a bit of pressure. "Here," a small container of orange juice and an oatmeal cookie, "take this to help your body a bit. I'm sure you're not resting tonight." I shake my head. He empties the pouches, removes them and places them back into his messenger bag along with the remains of his cleaning operation. He extracts another pouch, a fresh change of clothing. "Sir, are you alright to proceed?" I nod. He inspects my gun and replacing the missing bullet in the magazine. "I'll take care of Walter." I nod again, and he helps me back to my feet. A slight dizzy feeling, but the warmth is returning. There's a slight limp to my step. He drops a hand on my shoulder, pushes a set of keys into my hands and points to the waiting SUV. "How," I start, my breath feeling odd running through my lungs, cookie still in my teeth, "how are you getting back?" He smirks at me, "I'm not going back, Sir." "Ah." * - * - * - * Amazing what orange juice and a few minutes sitting in a car does. Untouchable was often used to describe me. I was a scary entity to most. Some speculated that I wasn't human. Wish it were that easy. Just finding a competent assistant is mostly my secret. And intense Buddhist meditation that summer after college. Well, year after college, but time seems to escape you when you're just barely awake. There was a huge price on my head. Always has been, but this one was big. They wanted me to suffer, to die slowly and coldly far away from the nearest health facility. It would have worked, had I been any other man. I was set up by my very own employers. I'm sure it was worth millions, possibly billions, to someone. They should have stayed, ensured it was truly done. I'm sure they had instructions otherwise. Allow me to see it finish alone. In the dewy cold of the night, deep in the docks of New York. In an odd fashion, it was a single shot fired from both parties involved. One from my gun; I hit the driver of the first car. One from theirs, straight through the thin layer of body armor under my suit, through a rib, through a lung, just barely past my spine, out the other layer of body armor and out into the river. Brandon, my assistant, found it later that week. He also took care of the crime scene. Well, there is no crime scene now. At least not there. They are smug, though, sitting in their warehouse, thinking they've off'd the Demon. Sure, they lost one of their own, but that's more money for them. The drinks are flowing, loosening them up for me. I'll let them have their fun for a bit, my body needs to recover anyway. I don't really know where Brandon is right now, and I really don't care. Walter? He'll be "taken care of" at some point this week. I really don't care for the man at all. He was my old assistant. Man I found a couple years back, way before Brandon. He kept tabs on me. Didn't like what I did, but didn't complain to anyone. He started slipping recently. Don't know if he had a hand in this, but I didn't care. Brandon could take care of himself, and I trusted him to do his thing, whatever that was. I grew tired of waiting, and there was already a compromise in my body armor. But, I had resurrected somehow and it was time to make a guest appearance. My movement was slowed, and I had only fifteen rounds to take out seven people. They were armed too, but impaired. * - * - * - * "Your tea, Sir, one sugar cube, medium hot, darjeeling today," Brandon set it lightly on the glass desk. He stood by, staring at me, searching for my thoughts. I sighed heavily, leaning back in my Aeron chair, gazing over the Manhattan skyline. He shifts slightly. I know he wants to check on the sutures and stitches. His PDA beeps in his pocket. A few taps, he dismisses himself and disappears into the building somewhere. An email arrives, a news feed aggregate from the local news agencies. "Seven found dead in a warehouse on the lower east side...Mafia connections suspected, more likely to be another hit by the Demon." A knock on the door, "Sir, you have a three o'clock with Dr. Sherman this afternoon. I'm sure she'll notice if you don't let me look at it first." I glance up at him and wave him in. He's concerned, not so much for my health. His well-being is my well-being. But, he's more concerned for his handy work. He's too over-qualified to be a personal assistant. But, he's more than that. * - * - * - * It's oddly warm for a winter afternoon in the city. Leaves are gone, and the cold is just whipping around looking for things to chill. Brandon is off finding me some kind of food. I'm waiting for a phone call. I've canceled my meetings for the day, left the Vice President in charge of operations while I take a mid-afternoon sabbatical. Brandon returns, a hot dog in one gloved hand and a bottle of chilled water in the other. He's cradling my cell phone on his forearm and his PDA on the other arm. I reach for the hot dog and my cell phone. "On hold," he whispers and settles down next to me. It's been a sleepy month. The wounds have healed without a scar; Brandon beams at his work. Walter is a blur of a memory. The Demon disappeared for the same month that I chose to take time off to focus on my company. Not that one person out of millions in New York is any more significant. It's hard keeping this going. Well, not really. I've avoided phone calls from certain people over the month. Brandon answers them all. But, not this one. * - * - * - * "What makes you special, Demon? You, you come back from the dead, you kill those that anger you, you kill for payment, you're like, unstoppable." "The word is untouchable." "So, what? It's my turn now? You think you're just gonna walk outta here? That it's gonna be easy? I'll pay you double whatever they're givin' you." He's uneasy. He fidgets. It's getting annoying. But, he's calm, oddly. "It's not about the money." "Then what, Demon? You like doing this?" He's sweating. "I hate scum." I cringe, hating to sound cliché. * - * - * - * "Mr. Dwiers, Special Agent Ford to see you." Brandon places my tea on my desk. "He's in the executive atrium overlooking the lobby. Would you like me to notify legal?" "No, thanks." Agent Ford is a weathered man, hardened by years of military service, service to his country. He's wearing a dark suit and sporting a cold stare that could rival an ice storm. He's composed in the conference room, but restless underneath. Brandon walks in and hands me a slim tablet PC. I read the contents and slide it over to Agent Ford. "Agent Donald Ford, graduated top of your class from Quantico, specializing in organized crime, served with the Marines for ten years, released on an honorable discharge for extreme valor in a time of war. Two kids, one in college, the other in high school. Loving wife, also works for 'the Man', she's with the New York Department of Justice. Also says you stole a small trinket in sixth grade and turned yourself in. Guilt gets to you, doesn't it?" "Impressive, Mr. Dwiers. I didn't peg you for a man with this kind of access." He feigned not being fazed. I pulled the tablet back, sitting across from him. "Is there a reason to this visit, Agent, or am I just impressive in my reality?" He hated the banter, but I relished in it. He visited once a month, sometimes twice. Always unannounced, always at different times. Always trying to catch me off-guard. Brandon always knew where he was. Every moment of every day. It was scary only if you let it get to you. The life summary was always the same, and every now and then, we added something. More personal. Things we couldn't find on any database. We wanted him to know that the tables were turned, and he was the target, not us. I poured him a glass of water. He never wanted it, but I liked the sound and enjoyed watching the water pour. "You like the water, don't you, Agent? Trip to Tahoe last week was good, wasn't it? You daughter took quite a spill off the water skis, didn't she? I hope she's alright. I'm sure the cast will come off soon." * - * - * - * - * I'm not a monster. Just very bored. And the money has escalated it to a degree no human being can handle. Ha, human doing. I may be CEO in title, but no one knows what I do. I'm a visionary. I mean, I dictate what happens to my company, but not many can even tell you what the parent company does. We know what the subsidiaries do. Mass transit, computers, software, military ventures, vehicles, retail, consulting. Brandon was a very dear assistant. Very meticulous in his work. Quite skilled. Well-funded. He even scared me sometimes. Knew what I was thinking. Told me I was predictable in my chaos. Could anticipate my needs before I knew what they were. Almost as if he controlled me. * - * - * - * - * "Guess who's back from the dead, boys?" They fumbled and scurried, startled that the Demon wasn't dead. It had been an hour. The shots rang off. Ten rounds, shells clinking on the ground floor as they ejected from the Glock. That gun was sex. Each thug acquired a single, well-placed and deadly shot. The other three bullets were misses from movement. It felt wasteful not to use the remaining bullets in the magazine, but the job was done. This one was pro-bono. Just a reminder that I remained untouchable. It was almost comical in their deaths. And quite sad, but only in their response. * - * - * - * - * The air tastes salty. It is an odd sensation on the tongue. Agent Ford walks towards me, carrying a duffel bag. We stare into the Hudson. He drops the bag and walks back to his car. Brandon recovers the bag, inspects the contents and walks back to a waiting minivan. I remain behind, staring at the waters. * - * - * - * - * Two cars. A voice, loud and demanding, thick Brooklyn accent. "Demon! You off'd Tony, so we're here to do you in." I turn and fire off a single shot before another pierces through my body. I take a step back, drop my gun arm to my side. It's dark and cold outside. They all laugh and board their cars and just sit there. I stand, feeling the wind rushing through my legs, barely moving my short hair. The gun is warm yet cold. Blood warms my body. I'm waiting. Growing restless, I just stand there, staring into the darkness. Their lights come on as I drop to my knees, then onto my chest. The ground is cold, the pain piercing. They drive past, laughing. * - * - * - * - * He laughs, "You hate scum? Ha! You. Hate. Scum. That's rich!" I sigh heavily. "Yes, Tony, I hate scum. I hate you. You and your entire organization. Everything that's bad with this planet and it's so-called civilization. I hate that." He leans back and gives me a smirk. I hate that smirk even more. My hands are restless, itching at the end of their respective arms. He kicks a bag towards me, "Take your shit, and go. You done good." "Well, Tony." "Well what?" "Grammar, you prick," and I shot him. One bullet, between the eyes, spattered all over the back wall. Over a grammatical error? Really? Was that what it came down to? * - * - * - * - * "Sir, I think it's time for a vacation." "I just came back from one. We went to Tokyo." "That was business, Sir. Every single vacation you've had since I've served under you has been business-related. Dwiers Enterprises is worldwide, Sir. There is no location on the planet that doesn't have something nearby. Not even Antarctica." "Really? We have something there?" "Yes, base station research equipment is sponsored by Dwiers Electronics." "Clear two weeks, pick a location, get me there, disconnect me from everything, and find me in two weeks." "Yes, Sir." * - * - * - * - * "Brandon? This is Dr. Phelps. I'm Mr. Dwiers' therapist." "Yes, we met briefly last week. I remember." "Are you aware that he hasn't been in to see me for the last month?" "No." * - * - * - * - * "Sir, your driver is here to take you to Dr. Phelps' office." I sighed, "I hate names that end in 's'. It makes possessive pronunciations that much more difficult." "I can find you another doctor." "No, B-ran, that's alright. She's been my therapist for a little over a decade now. I couldn't explain my issues to another person now," I take a long sip of the green tea that's cooled off too much and steeped for just too long, "and she says she's nearing a breakthrough. Like clockwork, once a week for fifteen years, and now she's near a breakthrough." "Does she know?" "No, Brandon, she couldn't. That whole rule thing I have. I like her too much." He collects my tea, knowing that the minute cringe came from the over-steeping. His fault for leaving me the teabag, I always forget its in there. He walks across my office and retrieves my sketchbook and a bottle of water. I like to draw during my sessions. Damn weekly webcomic I still update. She doesn't seem to mind. It gives me something to focus on while I'm talking. Not that open-ended shit, either. We talk. Not just me. She listens. She shares. It's weird. The water is for the tea taste. I can't fathom walking around with the over-steeped taste. "She says I'm borderline, Brandon." He wrinkles his eyebrows and stares off into space for a moment, "You already knew that, Sir. It's how you separate between yourself and the Demon." We walk to the elevator. "I know." * - * - * - * - * |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 935 days Last activity: 935 days |
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| Completely forgot I was experimenting with my writing style. | |||
Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable  Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 101 days Last activity: 101 days |
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| It is a little difficult to follow, but an interesting method. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 935 days Last activity: 935 days |
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| Probably why I didn't do anything else with it.
It jumps around too much to figure out what's going on. |
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