Saturday, September 27, 2014


51
ELEVATOR
V

MK 5



  









I don’t build in order to have clients. I have clients in order to build.




The Fountainhead










Stewardess:
MADAM. I’VE ATTENDED TO YOU AS BEST AS I CAN, AND I’VE SUPPLIED EVERY WANT, BUT YOU ARE STILL UNSATISFIED. WHAT DO YOU WANT NOW?

Suffering Lady Passenger:
I WANT THE EARTH.


 


Saturday, June 31, 1936, Avondale Sun


Say I won't- why y'all scared to be different?
Say I won't- why y'all scared to be different?
Say I won't- we them outsiders, that's just how we live it
Say I won't say I won’t and I bet I will




JUNE 24, 2014: 9:29 AM
They circle the six chairs, the sacrificial anodes of copper-two preserved, velvet, thousand and fifty and fifty million.
Enslaved to ritual, bondage will cease.
Only an architect would kill himself in his work to preserve his work forever.


glossary
airtight- extremely desirable.
Anodyne- inoffensive; painkilling.
Aviators- glasses.
Galiouse- Turkish and Syrian cigar.
Iron Horse- popular movie in the Twenties.
Park Ward- coachbuilder for Rolls Royce.
With a blue flame- drunk.



relational, interdependent to an excessive degree
pagans worshipping trees
but they been cut down, see
but they’re blind to their worthless as-of-eternity

they think the answer’s an undefended three
in such similar to you and me
but it’s as-of-imaginary
to me they’re imaginary

as vanadium’s to them
that’s almost forty-one and ten
the manual tells them to begin procedure self-deception

the gun’s still smoking
they’ll never ascend
to where they did, in fact, begin





JUNE 29, 1923: 2: 44 PM
Wooden die thump a wooden board. A man sees through the darkness. And laughs He reaches into a bowl and red liquid coats his body.

Mr. Gail Wynand, a luxury hotel mogul, and Mr. Thomas Scient, the leader of a Tiberian cult which practices human sacrifice through the removal of one organ per day, starting with the gradual removal of the entire brain, over approximately seven months.



NEW YORK, NEW YORK: JUNE 29, 1923, 6:43 PM
The brass radio fills the room with “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers”. He been on and off the desk with his feet doing nothing really when the phone rings.
“Lethimin.”
The door swishes open and he secrets the Aviators with a tiny swish.
“Mr. Scient, please sit…” A proper businessman’s shake.
“Thank you, Mr. Wynand. It’s an honor.”
“Say”, Wynand says, “Have a Galouise?” The ashtray’s platinum. The sun tickles the blinds, the desk. Nineteen-twenties modern architecture and the desk weighed a fucking ton.
He did. Wynand’s green eyes held no light no soul no emotion.
“The construction of my hotel requires the relocation of the altar.”
“Yes, Mr. Wynand- I recommend a slight translation. It’s airtight.  Just fifty-one feet east… My men have further details. This will both preserve the shrine and support Sunlight- many pilgrims from considerable distances. I could persuade them to stay at Sunlight.”
The businessman leans. He twists his fingers and squishes the cigar near its used edge while his breath whites the air.
“Mr. Scient, is that all?” A line showed Wynand’s age: fifty?
Scient gives him four hundred grand. “To cover redrafting costs.” Another five hundred- “For you. My men will send you their blueprint and the full brief. It will accommodate to the last doorknob. Another five hundred g when it’s done, plus loans, if needed-“
“This hotel is to be for clients of the upper class. I don’t need any fuckers skipping about with wands and bunnies. Where’d you get blueprints?” Wynand said.
The room smells perfection and the room smells of booze, their suits creased by smoke. Scient’s tie is a thick scarlet.
Scient grins and fingers his chin. “When do you believe you will leave here?”
“Nine.” Wynand’s eyes twist green and blue. He grins.
“Mr. Wynand, you oppose the supernatural forever.” Wynand’s tie appears unworn.
He stares at him and feels the skinny sight of a pistol. worn by rain and
He tosses the money. Lights them and throws the gold-dipped match. Ashes fill the air. Within, Sunlight’s middle elevator moves… A dash of white, another, for the departed. Tea in the corner.
“Mr. Wynand, you will not step from this building.” Scient marched toward the elevator and waved to the secretary.











MAY 29, 1934
A Rolls Royce betrays moonlight. Grass near the road sleeps and wobbles.
“The ruin of the human heart is self-interest, which the American merchant calls self-service….” The radio droned. In a white room a man with a pointed hood from head to toe and in burning white and with white gloves stacked cubes of blood four rows ten high and one row eleven high and waited about a minute and ate them all but when he looked the man had no eyes or mouth or skin.




IRON STAR JUNE 30 2014 AD
Published by and for the people of Keating City
PARK PLACE TO BOARDWALK DESTROYED: ARSON? ACT OF GOD?
From Park Place St to Boardwalk St, a massive fire and many explosions occurred. The catastrophe lasted from 6: 27 to 3:51. The APD has declared an estimate of approximately 3,000 deaths and over 4,000 injuries. Over 500 perrsons have been declared missing.
Numerous celebrities died in the disaster. Gail Wynand, the man renowned for supporting visionary progressive-luxury    architects, died yesterday, June 29. Doctors proclaimed Wynand dead on the scene, at 6:44 PM. Three consecutive lightning strikes struck the Wynand Building (at the intersection of Allison Rd and Ogel Rd). Witnesses say the entire block combusted and exploded approximately 50 minutes following the lightning strikes.
“Never seen such lightning. Never seen so much on fire, so much exploding, so much blood, people everywhere dead. Then the fire crews came in, and the cops,” says Deb Amanda, a bartender working at the Sen’s Bar nearby the Wynand building. Other eyewitnesses mentioned intense darkness just before the lightning began. Telephones no longer worked, one witness who preferred to remain anonymous mentioned.  No physical damage to phone lines in the vicinity has been confirmed.
Numerous Good Samaritans helped save lives during   the explosions and lightning, and also in its aftermath. “Standing there. Standing, the lightning and the fire started in the Wynand building”, says Jose Alonso, a taxi driver. “They [injured or dead persons] were just lying there in the road”, says Alonso, saved the lives of over 15 individuals.
The NYPD announced plans to award Alonso and other local heroes, including Rex Aresh, who will star in tomorrow’s paper.                                                                                             
The NYPD is investigating   the strange occurrence. Chief Officer Rex Shera declined to comment, aside from mentioning a scheduled conference on an undecided date.
Only one man in the Wynand building, Thomas Scient, known as the leader of a cult originating in Tibet in the 1300s, survived the disaster. Witnesses say he entered the building at approximately 5:30.
The Iron Star’s staff extends their heart to anyone who has lost family or loved ones in the tragedy. If you have any information, please call (317)-587-917.

FOR ANTITHOUGHT

They read the paper around fires and ratty dentist’s offices and they find the typo and laugh at the dead. One man’s dog needs a bath.
a.       For stepping within a mile of a man who loved his job.
They read the paper and they laugh because they don’t see
They don’t BREATHE





6:34, MAY 29, 1934
The clock stood. Had they allowed themselves to fucking reason. He flicked the pen and rotated it in his palm. He kept his office pure white, which took three full-time jobs to clean. The pens were also white. He had one other man who drafted.



Why should this seem so startling? There is only one kind of men who have never been on strike in human history…except the men who have carried the world on their shoulders, have kept it alive, have endured torture as sole payment…This is the strike of the men of the mind…This is the mind on strike.
Atlas Shrugged
AUGUST 21, 1920
He sat near the window sometimes to catch the right sort of light. His right hand formed a thick line perpendicular the foundation which would stretch fifty stories.
He imagined rain cascading over the spires and neon and argon lights, and the garages, and the gardener’s shed.
His head snapped, blood tossed the walls.



1:51 AM, SUNDAY, JUNE 29, 1924
Park Ward Rolls from the UK, spare on the right side.
Rain found no window leaks. It suffocated, thick, cool as the Baltic. Its motion would jarred her. The vehicle slowed under hands gloved, over fresh cement and asphalt. The Spirit of Ecstasy pure platinum.
 “Yes, John, it’s Sandra, for once.” She hadn’t had him in three months. He’d find some cause of avoidance. After the Iron Horse!
John opened her door, coach. It was new. The veneer to the umbrella she felt. Having used a… She gathered the dress of black chiffon attached to her body. The corners of her mouth numb- and the shoes clicked. An umbrella guided her toward the palace to man, the Sunlight Hotel. She noted the red and yellow and purple flowers and their green roots.  The walls ascended as steady glamour. They ascended through the stars.
A man in scarlet, his skin flaking and pale, his eyes a strong blue. “Could we provide you something, Mrs. Lakes?”
She strode in public, but there was no flash of cameras. The doors may have been two stories. More social lions weaved through the lobby, no touch of Hollywood, for they would not have stood for it. Gold bound every edge. Windows mounted walls. The couch a blue flame. She saw through smoke and the puff of every cigarette and every cigar. The plaques informed. A letter from Benjamin Franklin rendering electricity man’s greatest potential; an Elizabethan inkwell; a stylus from Washington. Mantes carpet on the floor, the fountainheads present, ego manifest. Lord Babbage’s third clacking computational machine, from the Industrial Revolution. She bumped a man carting handkerchiefs and cigars. She noticed then the others in the lobby.
A stuffed owl flew when lightning flashed. Her heart beat and the palace ignored them.  A great building will; a shack will bow when empty.
Storms here were rare, and this was the worst of it, they said, and they apologized.  Moving about, a man offered Blood and Sand from out East.


The room shrunk!
“The weather is horrid, Mrs. Lakes- for the last three months it has rained every day. The day the hotel opened…”
“What’s more?” The half-circle’s carved platinum hand showed the floor number.
“The day Mr. Wynand died, this storm began.” Hmm. She noticed her reflection in the shoes George just bought her for their second.  No one offered to wipe them of water!
Shake of thunder. She gripped a thin gold banister. “I presume you would not prefer the stairs? The maintenance should be fine, if you wouldn’t mind it.”
“Of course. Fifty-one floors is too much to walk”- A bolt shatters the mirrors. She screams. Theelectricitywelledwithinher
IntenseheatMrsLakesjerkedfromexistence.



THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1934
It was the five hundred and tenth alteration to the draft that day; in the bathroom in the lobby and the presidential suite’s bedsheets and.
He imagined how air would blow the just under the comforter bedsheet into the air if a throned spirit threw it upward and a hooded figure in white emerged and strangled THE NAKED MAN of twenty and his mind became the white of the sheet and also because that white. A hand and a half. <SKULL>
He thought of how the droplets walked down the frosted glass pane when he flicked water against them, in the shower.
He craved saffron. His name was <<< MR. GEORGE R. T. A. SAFFREY>>> and he was the architect of the Sunlight Hotel until he shot a bullet through his temple and spent the next five or so years in an asylum by which the hotel had been redesigned to include an additional balcony from the presidential suite which already had three of them and it also ruined the entire fucking exterior. He considered this marching in the dark.
The hooded figure convulses in the sheets, and becomes the sheets, and moves no longer.
He opens the door.




SUNDAY, 2: 43 AM, JUNE 29, 2014
Once enslaved to substance, bondage will end.
the motions of liquid pierce you.
the mustang stumbles at thirty. engine whines.the lightning jolts mary.
you skid. You see the trees near and try roll off the road.
em screams wet dots on your shoulder em screams
the lights purple, you do a line two hands long
nothing works. the wind throws the car against a tree which falls and your skull burns. you dip into the hole and you see your face shattered glass down bush’s throat. he spit blood. his head dents the roof.
they’re gates; he could see hardly through the rain, his thoughts. gun weighted his right side. kick down gates. It started all an hour ago, sir!
he saw it. he only saw moonlight walk there. the tower emerged under miles of vine and ivy. the car’s totaled. if he had the car- he pulled the maglite from his backpack. lightning. rain sucked oxygen. the car destroyed. he his neck bled and his arm bent. lightning throws his pulse. he was deaf? the storm choked him against a wall of water. he sist under the tree.          he awoke wetter shaking. water reached his knees. he left his pants shoes and socks.
he pushed through the vines and reached a swimming pool. at least five years. Sunlight waited; the main stood on the other side. He didn’t need a grand entrance he needed in!
Red light flooded the boiler room. Heaves and tugs of behemoth machine.
Does the telephone still work, Sam?  white flash from a solitary blade. grass covers the road, and vegetation covers every building.
his clothes weighed a hundred pounds, and he was a lightning rod. walk run you look wet
seen through his mind’s fog, vines crushed the gardener’s shed. he would sleep in the penthouse. water sloshed against his calves.
lightning.  pull off your shirt and breathe through it. he took it off and wrung it out and put it back on. machinery snaps and bangs, red glowing.
It’s crashed, you see, it’s hit the bottom, and they were inside, sir,
His eyes began to adjust. He threw the broken flashlight. This room beat the hotel’s heart. Sorted pots, pipes, gauges, catwalks secured the room. He noticed the smell of warm metal and burned flesh. The lightning had reached the lobby. He just needed to wait out for six, get Jse up here, run throu gh the rest of it. Nobody even know he’d here. Ford out.
The Goliath pillars ignored theoretical limits. They touched the fifty-first floor.  The remnants of a great hotel abandoned but incorrupt? A patch of wind stroked his hair.
He could breathe. Maybe his clothes would dry. Valuables filled the palace. An index of the stock index on June 29, 1924 lay on the front desk. Forty right there, once the market clears.
He’d never been in an old elevator, and besides, he could take the penthouse, two grand then, free now. Twenty-seven a night future. The lift     rejoiced. His lungs relaxed. The chairs around the tables, the couches thick and smoky, and the generator humming still.
Since Wynand, they said it hadn’t stopped storming. His ears leaked rain. The chairs clean, the couches clean and tear-free, the carpet spotless, with no sign of a vacuum.
He brushed against the elevator door. pick the middle one of the five. the middle one’s never down for repair.
The doors open and you step inside. Notice the tasdf to top dial with fifty floors. An arrow hand appears drops down the floors.
You look out before the doors shut. A thinned presence holds the smoking room, with brown hair.
an electric crevasse sharps and splits. still got the eagle.
what nigga got them fingers in and out? of a plane? 
you hit the floor, dip with a mokga haven’t dipped in days that snuff. you stand at the top of the shaft and fall
fifty-
one
floors and impaled by a cow catcher.  you cling against the banisters- they collapse. see the face of a fresh draft, see an architect’s eyes, see the blood toss the walls. gravity flips twice and blood everywhere aths dots dot’s. where are you? the elevator boils. you’re in the milky way. a time bomb detonates. you’re seeing planes on the dash. you’re seeing planes and they crash into
 towers.i know there are no no nk takes new york the beautiful and burns. “get in” it falls upright. Nigga you you in rev qerjhio erse. your knowledge melts. Triple hell. a feminine hand extends to you.
you take it. a black hole destroys you; your eyes roll to darkness. you raise the gun to your head and fire. you laugh because it’s useless. sit down and scream in the lobby fetal position. none of t qwjerkl; all notice, because you’ve never left. the elevator’s always been on floor fifty-one.

somebody with a red tie willed another to pieces they saw him saw him a prayer and lightning surged. windows shattered he fell. through and rose to the fifty second.
The shudder of chill and the warmed breath of invention that smelled like green.



THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1934
The pull of mediocrity anodyne but to him, vapor sweats the edges, and he sees the white sheet punched by air rise into a hooded figure in the presidential suite.
his shoes meet thick carpet. his breath slows. opens a door and walks into the maintenance room. he switches a lever and walks through the door frame. he closes it. he walks across the carpet saddened by the neglect. they had robbed him of everything. He feels the middle elevator and pushes the button. The doors open. He pushes number fifty-one.
Only an architect would kill himself in his work to preserve his work forever.

An architect lusting recognition achieved it on June 29, 1924. He devoted his life to his masterwork- in the afterlife.
An addict achieved satisfaction- on June 29, 2014. He devoted his afterlife to preserving another’s perfection.
Progress and faith merge.



Smile of farewell. Once, they had been a promise, and from the midst of the stagnant sloth around they were vanishing quietly into a veil of fog, with the faint breath of a glow behind them, with a few lights like a her she had looked to them for proof that another kind of men existed. Now she knew that they were tombstones, slender obelisks soaring in memory of the men who had been destroyed for having them, they were the frozen shape of the silent cry that the reward of achievement was martyrdom.
The Fountainhead (p. 821, edited)

X greater than or equal to 51



The air conditioning off, he collapsed.
A line stretched, another, they blurred. He slept and woke. The blueprints, schematics rose. He slept and woke.
They’ll never care about you. Just your mind, your work
He would maintain it forever.
Heflipped thedesk- the chair and glass clapped. He palmed his scalp and knelt then collapsed ringing in his ears ringing in his ears glass. Shards of glass. SPLICE 24.99
“Mr. Leofold?” he closed his eyes no one there
The message unified, his guilt doubled yet freed and his walk freed- His crucificiton defined salvation. The music beat and the light beats,
The music stopped. Wasn’t that, can you-
The faces denied him to the effect of inherited hatred and inexistence, every person or group an island.
Her, her  face fell into his mind
he stroked the hair the strands of  slit velvet and her eyes red and shattered.



Soundtrack
Kickstarts(Bar 9 Remix)- Example. Speculative connotations.
6 Foot 7 Foot- Lil Wayne.


Saturday, February 8, 2014

Friday, December 20, 2013

Hitman For Hire, With Extensions

Hitman for Hire, Draft IV

          (Note: throughout the story, the author uses fragments, cut-off sentences, and rambling thoughts to shed light upon the main character's inner thoughts. The author is fully aware of proper punctuation, grammar, sentence structure, etc. He just finds it unimportant and obstructive in delivering the story to the intended degree. Also, expletives are used to convey dialect, emotion, and inner thoughts, while maintaining school-appropriateness. Also, Sean talks and/or thinks to himself in various tenses and as if he was talking outside of himself, to Sean. Such was not intended to confuse the reader, but to add to the insanity of the events unfolding.)

          Inexplicably fast, blurring, fading, distorting. Visions of gore and ecstasy leap across the man's eyes. Like a movie's credits, he knows those responsible for the making; exists, no longer..

          The man received a blow, form the man above and it would soon end, and... Sean fell over onto the ground: half from disgust and terror, half from the forceful impact. It rattled the windows, knocked people off their feet, and popped a tire.

          He knew not how this man died. He strolled from the building, the alleged headquarters of some gang or something. Perhaps that had been his mistake. And then the man's intestines ruptured under the storm of ecstatic, enveloping violence. Some sort of weapon must have been involved, Sean reasoned.

          Inexcusable! Murder, how cowardly to kill a man like that! Red shot over the streets, filling the cracks of the sidewalk, and of Sean's tormented soul. It spewed faster than a fire hydrant, or a volcano.

          Flying viscera assualted Sean. He blacked out... Too much to bear, to take in...
          "Sean? What is it?"

          "Dreams, honey. Just... That's it", he stammered. Sleeping with the woman of your dreams can do that sometimes, he noted.

          His wife was trying to help. He knew it, ever since they met. But he just needed some time to think.

          "I just forgot that... To take my pills last night." Another lie. In fact, he overdosed... But still, that had to be better than murder, either way. He rolled over, dismissively, and tried to sleep.











Sean loved control. For all around him, seemed orderly and logical; and he worked to make things that way.

Work. Where he felt most in power... Not too high-up, although he would've loved that. Mainly, he wasn't too far down, with the rookies. The newbs. The ones who stumbled through life without any control, or any power.

He threw the finishing touches on the last confirmation report of the day, and printed it out. All 56 pages. With every word he wrote, for every word, power dripped off the pages- in his own way. With an indistinguishably sartorial taste.

Mentally forced off that terrible dream- nightmare- and--

Sean ran in the army for several years. Working as a sniper, he considered tattooing all the men he killed-until he had too many to fit on.
With every shot, it seemed there was some more... Something... Not real. Some way he was controlling everything; who and what saw the light and who never saw it coming, and who lived to the next day, unscathed.

There was something he dimly remembered about... information. He had been held at gunpoint, and water boarded, and... Little glimpses of it all, sounds and feelings and shocks. They seemed as if all there was of him, for all else was spinning out, faster than the semi, faster than... He had to tell them something, and he did.


Was it because he was a sniper?

The growing fears, the children, ...


The boss wanted him. Shit, he hoped it was good...

          "Sean, were sorry, but we just don't have any room these days. It's hard for all of us in these troubling times. You are one of our most prized employees", his boss started--


          "Laid off,  my ass. Fuck you and this whole fucking company. Expletive off." Sean raged from the kitschy, professional room, breaking both the door handle and his chair in his wake of fury.

          He threw away that tie, that expletive tie. He just lost his expletive job. They called it being laid off. No, he was expletive fired. Everybody was these days. Hell, if they gave an damn about me, I would still be there. Right now, making a few bucks an hour, filing papers or something.

He usually wasn't like this. What happened?






Him and Daphne had lots of talks... but not like that. What else to do, in the midst of the fire enveloping their otherwise potentially rocky marriage?

Nights under the covers... It was what Sean remembered most. Not talking, but doing it.

"Sean, have you thought about.... Where we're going, in the future?" Seemed like she always started things. Not that he minded, exactly; he spent enough time leading things, leading people, firing those below him, firing---
She didn't need to know right away. What good would it do?

Power.

"I see a distant future, an uncatchable destiny, in which we grow old together, and all our kids care for us, and the sun never grows old." That didn't sound like him. It was something he heard somewhere; people in this part of town, they never talked like that.

She gave him one of those come-hither looks. Of undulating lust and boredom; the kind played out in movies and books and it all, but never successfully. Never successfully. He lost his job, but... That wasn't everything.





         










How was he going to feed them? All the kids?

          Coming back, slowly, but harshly. The day he played flag football with Thomas... The green grass... That energetic youth he passed onto his son... They would never play again, or even make it to the next day. Expletive. Unless he could save the job...
          For a while----
          The markings on the floor, the blood stains. The Skulls Were Here. The kids were taken----

          He blacked out. Did Daphne know? Daphne must have known. She must be knowing... The kids?

          He was on the floor, with the bottle of Jim Bean...

          He was in bed. He had been dreaming, about the kids. Not about the job...

          "Sean, honey, after you lost.. Your job, have you started looking for... another one?"
          The pauses. She knew the pauses; pauses, where one knew nothing, and then one remembered. Pauses. "Yes. I may have found one, girl. Downtown. I'm working on an interview; I just need to think it out. It's the little things, that keep you from getting a job. Or keeping one. You know?"

          "Yeah. Hey, I think one of the girls said she wanted you to come shop with her... Some father-daughter time. I would... Appreciate it..." She dropped off the sentence in one of those come-hither looks; the reason he married her, back then, so long ago. Three, three years. When the world was young, and anything was possible. When he worked at Best Plumbing and the pay wasn't too good. But it was better than the dreams... And having no money, and wondering where to dig the next paycheck out from.

          The bile was rising up in his throat again... It stung, every word, and hearing one was just more.

          He said something; he didn't remember what. Those eyes... That body, and the way she sat, and the way she stood. She was. She was, and people knew, and she was good in bed, far as he knew.

          And he had plenty of people, with which to compare.

          Did she know that? He was keeping secrets from this woman. Secrets, little things, and if he never saw her again, she would.. never know. Until she did.















          Late, very late, when he found it.  That was all he remembered.
          The gun perched under the yellowing cabinet. It seemed a dream,         when he pulled it out with wavering arms. He had no inkling how it          ended up there, who put it there, why they...

          He considered selling the gun- The thought flashed through his exhausted, overheating brain. Just like looking for the sign for a strip club in Las Vegas. Seeing the Newton shootings, and the Boston explosions, and other tragedies... Gun control might have saved the lives of a few of those people. He couldn't live with himself, just giving a gun away. Maybe somebody would be killed with it, or...

          He needed a job, anyway.

          But he couldn't get one.
          So he could rig up his own. Hitman for Hire. Has a nice ring to it-----




"Sir, I know I will pay it all next month. I just lost my job, and I'm looking into other... Other employment opportunities", Sean forced out.

          "Well, we are very good friends, Sean. Friends do friends favors, as they like to say up in B-Town. But I need some money from you before then, soon, or some stuff. I take anything- it all works for money, these days. Just gotta go poppin' tags, you know what I droppin'?"

          George was too nice. Tell yourself that, Sean. Once the whole expletive gang of expletive from this side leave, George still going to be there. Most landlords would evict people like you, Sean. But- you're not feline' the vibe. The wire between him and the world was stretching, tearing, fading. Rapidly, he saw, and soon all would be gone.

          The vision... He couldn't kill somebody! He was godamn religious! At least, he was a while ago. That was before the church kicked him out, when he couldn't tithe.

And there was a sense of power, of playing God, which arose from the whole event; as if he decided who lived to see the next day, and who would never again see the light.

Never again.

He reached for the whisky again. Tonight, he was famous. Tonight, he ruled the world.

Now that the landlord knew Sean was looking for business, it was only a matter of time. Soon, the phone would be ringing off the hook with jobs.

Yet again, his hand reached for the vodka... Or, the champagne, or the beer... As dazed visions of what-could-be's danced in his mind, his soul. Cars, women, better guns, better booze, bett--
Could he work drunk?
He would just have to see--

"I hear you are... Looking for work." The phone crackled with uncertainty, balancing on the edge of life itself, as Sean decided. Yes or no... Now...
"Of what kind?"

"I have been sent.. By the.. Lord." (By Lord, he was referring to George, the landlord.)

This man knew where he lived, Sean realized. That was dangerous. But what wasn't?

"Yes, I would be interested."

"Then I can deposit the cash? Half before, half after. We... may become ... connected. I have many enemies, you see..."

The conversation seemed to drag on, and with every moment, Sean felt something coming. Some foreshadowing, of what was to come.


And then , he was there.

 The man drives by in the white truck, with a red mustache, and orangy- hair. Shoot his tires, if possible, and then the head. Avoid killing civilians, at all costs. Kill any civilians, no pay after. No pay.

As he pulled the trigger on the tire, the semi swooned to the left before skidding and flipping, killing several dozen bystanders. A huge fireball arose from the wreckage, burning what remained. A fire now dominated the little street corner, as people ran away. This was big. Damn, this was big, and he was out a lot of money, and probably some jobs.

Yet the lure of control was too much.. He knew he couldn't stop. He couldn't. So---

He was drunk. That's why everything got so fucked up. But it was so fun...

The memory of it all swarmed through his mind, growing, festering into blind and oblivious action. The man who started it all, laying him off. Sam would regret the whole damn thing- if he lived. And he wasn't going to.

Sam sat in his chair in the maroon office, drinking Starbucks coffee and working on something on his laptop. It was nice, and shiny, and it caught his eye. Blinding him, from seeing the target himself for a moment of the terror, when he pulled the trigger.
Did it work? It had to. It had to.

At once, almost after ages, Samuel Jackson jerked out of his chair before falling on the ground in a disheveled slump, as if still thinking about driving the damn truck for eternity come.


BREAKING NEWS. A large number of everyday civilians may be at risk- listen closely. Warning: younger viewers may find the following images and other content offensive. Please use discretion with viewing.

Over the last three days, three people have been murdered, with no visible motive. The first victim was Samuel Jackson, a truck driver who mostly did local jobs. The second, the next day, was Jose Guadelupe, an ex-convict and head of a small street gang. The third, was the CEO of Best Plumbing, E. J. Cornette. Let's see what the police have to say.

It was a nice, nice article, he realized. Problem was, two of those people were still alive. He had seen them...

Was someone tipping him off?
He had to go see.

George would be in his little apartment, Sean knew. All he had to do, was wait until the right time. When George came down the little, grungy hallway, it would all be done. It would all be done---

George was there.

Now, he wasn't.

At first, just a man with dreams and hopes and sins and it all. The next, he was convulsing in pain, as the bullet penetrated the back of his thick skull and came out the next, with a loud scream of air and blood filling the walls. It echoed down. People screamed a lot, here, and got in fights, but... This was different. This was different. People would come running, and find Sean. They would. He had to run...

On to the next job.

Was George to blame? He would never know. But, no one else had access to his room. NO one else could have put that gun in there. No one else could have turned him in to the black market, to hang him up and spread him out as the birds picked him and---

He ran down the hallway, with heavy, burdening truth and lies and the absence of some and everything all.





TRAGIC MURDER OF SAMUEL JACKSON

On Tuesday evening, 4:30, Samuel Kent Jackson, the CEO of Best Plumbing, received a fatal shot to the head. Eyewitnesses described the shot as "a crack of thunder. People be runnin' left an' right an' I just be yelllin', this cracker go boomin'." A sniper is suspected to have caused the murder, with many suspects on the list. After all, Clearwater has unfortunately had its fair plague of hitmen. Police say they hope this will not be a revival of the murders, and that they will track down whoever is responsible.
Rachel Jenkins, WIIBC Affiliates

As the information is developing, due to the recent timing of the deaths, little information is available. Police are declining all interviews and declining to comment on the case so far, with all media corporations. Anyone with any information, should call the number on the screen. That's 863, 999 , 8467. Again, anyone with any information on the murder of Jose Guadelupe, E. J. Cornette, or Samuel Jackson, please call the number listed on the screen.



         


          He couldn't believe he just killed a man. Even if it was possibly his children's kidnapper... He should've just told the police... Too late now, Sean, too late. Since he was a hitman...

          To bore his mind, he tried to conjure up the conversation... Anything to escape the reality of the fresh blood spilling through the sewers, on the new BMW semi truck, and over the decaying, vinyl headquarters. All those dead people, and he had no choice. He needed the money. He needed--

          "I see that you are the man to call for... Special jobs. Of the more risky kind, per se."

          "Yes, I deal with my victims as my client wishes, regarding my clients and their wishes." A job meant money, right? He had no idea how this man knew he wanted to work as a sniper. Blood, money, like Judas Escariot... But cold, hard, dirty, fucking cash. He loved it.

          "Very well, then . I can discuss pay later. Money is of no object of me, and I pay better than anyone else you work for. Go to 422201, Turn of Plot Drive, at nine- fourty- five p.m. Wait for a man wearing a green shirt to come out-"

          The green shirt- The intestines- The eyeballs rolling down Jackson's chest, into the chest cavity, like a sinkhole--- No, Sean. Remember the conversation. It is too much now, to treat yourself like this.

          "Yes, sir. I am... Prepared. The finest of arms, I use. A modified 3000 Dragunov, with partially extended scope, an abort- grenade attachment, a gas cartridge, and the new season from Elite Arms---"

          Sean realized how absurd the whole situation was, and why it made no sense. There was no halfass reason why somebody would leave a brand-new sniper Dragunov, custom aftermarket, in his apartment without something in return.  This gun was the Bugatti of guns. The...



He could go for a fucking Bugatti sometime. 

"I trust you will not let me down, then. Such would not be good for either of us. I have very limited time, yet I will be supervising the job. I enjoy taking notes- you know, keeping the latest tactics in mind, you know. Nine hundred million to be wired to any account of your choosing, with a three- million tip to round it out. They call me Mortimer, by the way." There was no friendliness in this voice, Sean noticed. It chilled his veins, as if nails on a chalkboard played on a loop. So innocent, it all started. He just needed some money to pay the landlord.













          There was another one now. The man wore a red shirt, soon to turn even redder---

          He knew he was only being paid to kill one man, and one man only. But the next expletive came too easy. There were nine of those motherfuckers  on the floor, in a pile now. Twenty, thirty. These people, these criminals, the Skull Brothers- did they have souls?

          Did anyone give a expletive about anyone these days? Which one of these expletive killed his kids? Those markings on the floor, the blood stains... Sean had seen it all too many times in the news. It was the Skulls, always.

          Mortimer now stood in the building Sean's victims walked out from. They steel-eyed each other through the scopes of their murdering machines.

          What the fuck. Was he hearing that? Was it in his head? Dimmit.

          "To put you out of your own expletive memory... If you live after death, thank me."

          Blood rushed from Sean's arm- The man fired. It flooded, blocked out, his peripherals. His wife.. The marriage bed.... The kids...

















          "They call me Fatality. I call myself a teacher. You were disobedient, Sean, and you fell behind on your lessons." The man had this patronizing tone, like a dog teaching a human to play fetch. No, it was the other way, usually.

          This man.. Who? The fuzz- No. Not now. Expletive them all: Only God can fucking judge me now... It overtook Sean.

          "Let us say that... You leaked information. Valuable information, on the then-latest developments in sniper weaponry."

          He was hit. He was hit. Somebody wanted him dead; and it was not a policeman, and it was not a Skull, and it was not...

Who else could it be?

There was a dangerous, condescending lilt to the man's voice, Sean noted. He knew the voice. /.. In his soul, in his mind. This man knew him.

          "I have been called... Mortimer. I stole your children, Sean. If you thought you were fighting something in your head, Sean, it was really me. Perhaps I should say... I can pull some strings in places these days... I was in your regiment, Sean. Those people you told, you betrayed our country for them. Why? Was it really worth your life, whatever they gave you?"

It was rhetorical. It was rhetorical, he knew... And, Sean couldn't talk anyway. The bile was coming again.

          No- The Crims! Fuck. Even more ruthless than the Skulls, these guys prowled the streets, killing for kicks. But why was a Crim in Skull headquarters? They were archenemy gangs, too. Not just rivals.

          "I make examples of motherfuckers like you, Sean. By the way, Sean, your children are unscathed. And your wife as well, for that matter. I will release the children as soon as I release you from your---"

          Lining up the crosshairs. Almost there. One shot away- really close. Fire with one of these fuckers, Sean remembered, and everything gets fucked up.

          He pulled the trigger, not out of anger, but out of a sense of righteous justice. This man claimed to have kidnapped his children, and he shot Sean, and he blackmailed a hitman. Sure, the last might slip under the radar in most places. But this was Brooklyn, and hitmen were gods around here. Anybody who fucked with them, got stuffed with lead.

          And another one bit the dust.    

          Did this one have soul? Was he going to go to hell for this?

A loving God must have some place to put those exiles who reject His love, souls to whom the fires of that love are pain, because they hate it. Not the time for quotes. Not the time for that quote in particular---

          Sean never meant it to end like that. He knew he was going to die any moment now. He just hoped the woman he loved would forgive him for taking this path. Family- he only cared about that, really, and maybe justice, a little.

No, but there was more. Power, was what caused all of this. Sean was power-hungry. For good or for bad, he needed that power and he used that power and he was and---

          He already pulled the trigger. But he didn't realize it, because the man was out of view. Did he run away? Did he die from the shot? Did he even hit the expletive?

          He had to whisper something now. It was the last hour. Everything came down . To this. He had to pray to somebody. No time to think about it later.

          "Help my wife and children, too. It's all my fault------"






It was a very nice article, Sean realized. A very good one, one that realized something for him. There were many snipers in Clearwater, and he would have to prove his way up the black list. These people were known on the street, for being deadly, and taking out the completion.

This hospital was nice. Little teacups and tables and, he felt like he was a king.

Taking out the completion. Sean had to watch himself.

"George, I wanted to ask you something."
"Sure, bro. Whats' up?"
"Well, I was thinkin', with me getting' a few jobs recently and all this dangerous (expletive), I thought maybe you could hook me up with a spotter. You know, somebody to watch the door for me, to keep them guys from kickin' in my skull in the middle of a job."
"Yeah... I know somebody. But.. Be careful, Sean. I've gone through these waters before, and I try to stay out of them. People drown." There was a lilt of hope and mockery in the last line, one which Sean was not oblivious to.
"Yeah.. Thanks. Let me know."
It was funny, how something would start, and then it would shoot up.

Why was he remembering this? Why did he have to remember George out of all people first---

He fell asleep again. Too much energy, he was using.

MASSIVE CRASH KILLS DOZEN, AT LANTERN ROAD AND 56TH STREET

On Thursday morning, at approximately 9:20 PM, a semi flipped after careening off the road. Dozens were killed in the crash. A fireball soon erupted, killing several more, and igniting a small section of the street intersection. All traffic stopped as firefighters and rescue workers fought the blaze. The fire has been extinguished. Police say there is no evidence that the multiple murders so far and the crash are in any way connected. Any one with information should contact the police immediately. As the story is developing, we will send you more updates, including a more comprehensive coverage, and a list of the deceased.
         

He realized it at once, with a firm, clear terrified conviction; a brief, yet chilling, realization, in the midst of growing heat. As the neurons in his brain, decided to fight, to the point of no return, and...

The next part, would come easy. It was his favorite part, when he decided to change things forever. To push one, until he never existed, and all around him, were gone. Sean was feeling that... Feeling the fading and betrayal and rumors and suspicion and...

He was out of breath. It was seconds away.

He called the number.

This car was going no where soon. Not with the cops on his tail, and too many cars on the road...

Too many cars.

Sean saw every dash of light and hue of the car, the tires, the points; as if somebody got shot at, going under the bridge--

Godzilla rose off the bridge, with a gravity-defying leap. As if on wings, shuddering, bracing for the damaging impact to follow. An ordinary suspension would shatter on impact, Sean knew. He hoped this shit was good enough...

It was the best underground tuner shop in town. It had to be good enough...

As he skidded under the underpass, the Vanquish swerved through five lanes of head-on traffic and surprised a not-too-agile semi, turning it and all of its hulking sixteen wheels upward, as if facing the sky, to ask for vengeance upon the renegade assassin.

Shit just got real.

Sean had to take this one, right up here. The Vanquish raced with a false air of invincibility, as if it was immune to a head-on crash... Which would be easy, at these speeds.

The Aston and its matte finished black design skidded to the left, sharply, directly into oncoming traffic. Cars swerved out of the way, bashing into eachother and dangertous speeds.... As the two cars fought for domination of the road. Of the city. He needed some advantage here, something else...

The M16. Reaching under the right seat, he dug out the hardy weapon and aimed it. At what?

At the car, of course... He lined up and sprayed the area near the vehicle. Other cars took fire, a few may have died... But it was better to end the lives of a few, to save the lives of many.

Shit... Police cars on his ass now.

That was a really long reaction time, he noted. What was that? Fifteen minutes? It's supposed to take three, he remembered from something.

He knew what the problem was. Sequestration.




"Roger that... Confirm."

"Yes, the suspect is driving a chrome Nissan GT-R. He is near 65 and Benford, going way over the limit. Likely intoxicated."

"Mark, activate..." He flipped the public channel off. "Let's take this son of a bitch down."

"Roadblock already locked, sir."

"Success?"

"It was evaded, sir. He ran right through a gap in the cars."

"Shit. Get all units on pursuit, now."

"Done, sir."

That was some crazy shit. Michigan never had this kind of driver, the kind who just wanted to see how far he could go.


























Was that how it all ended, then?

NO better way to cap off twenty years of hatred and grudges then watching the fucker get smashed, head-on, by a semi---

He was in the headcoming traffic now, too... He must have drifted through the lanes. THe roads seemed to cave in, under the pressure, as if both the police and the outlaws could not both fit in the world. Not even two outlaws, it seemed.

Maybe it was true. They seemed right.

Sean knew this guy.

He turned on the AR in the back, and let the bitch have it.

The car proudly wearing the sheriff badge flipped over a school bus, exploded, before it careened off the overpass, and on to the underpass. Now two roads were held up...

And counting. This wasn't for the money anymore. This wasn't just because. This was to right wrongs. Mogadishu wasn't his fault, was it...

The pill fell, into the coffee, from the ceiling tile. From the sky, it looked like. As if Sean was playing God...

And. Hose drank the booze; and, moments later, he slumped back as his head exploded. It took so little, to end everything for someone forever... Just a button or two or three...
Why did he have to keep remembering this shit he must be dreaming he wasn't remembering any of this actually happening it was in his mind---

Asleep again.....


ANOTHER SUSPECTED MURDER

Yesterday, at 5 AM, Jose Guadelupe passed away from ingesting a cyanide tablet placed in his drink of choice, which he was consuming before ingestion. Police suspect foul play, but have not ruled out the chance of suicide, given Jose may have been mentally ill at and before the time of his death.

Jose Guadelupe was the leader of a small criminal game; so small, it lacked a name. Police are investigating all possible leads into the likely murder of the hardened criminal, to prevent further tragedies.

The Clearwater News sends its regards to all those recently killed by the violent chain of events plaguing our wonderful town, of wonderful people.

For anyone with information, please contact the police, by phone or in person.  A high reward exists, for anyone with information on either Samuel Jackson's or Jose Guadelupe's death

Note: One possible stucture of the game could include Sean's lack of mental health serving as a detriment to his memory, where successfully carrying out certain objectives- i.e., a successful clean-up- would reward the player (and Sean) with a brief, yet strong, memory of something, possibly out of order of the plot, possibly as a vision of what is to come, as is with the hook of the story.

Furthermore, the potential for multiple endings stands with some reason, given I know not which I prefer, and wish to respect the ability and freedom of the gamer.


ENDING A.

(IN INTERROGATION/TORTURE CHAMBER, W/ GEORGE)

Note: this ending can only occur if, and only if, Sean does not kill George. Picture this as the worst ending, as if ending a horror movie suddenly....

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was in a room, and he heard the gun, and the Mogadishu, and blood everywhere. Blood everywhere and he was losing his breathing and he was going to pass out and he couldn't breathe like this no he couldn't breathe at all his head was in water------------------

ENDING B

ATTEMPTED MURDER IN CLEARWATER- RENEGADE SNIPER?

          On May 25, 2013, Sean Tiger Smith of our town Clearwater was shot, most likely by a sniper. He was found with several shots in his arms, as if the suspected sniper likely behind the 3 successful killings was to blame for this attempted one. Sean Smith was found on a roof top, near the alleged headquarters of the Skulls, a prominent criminal ring/gang of the local area. Why he was in the area, is not known.

Smith is currently at Methodist Hospital, in stable condition. As soon as he is most likely mentally capable and past the stage of injury-induced shock, the police plan to ask him the reason of his whereabouts, likely to snag any possible leads on the renegade sniper. This was the original ending, as well as the author's current favorite.

FOR THE SAKE OF CLARIFICATION:
ELEMENTS, IN THE ORDER IN WHICH THEY OCCURRED.

1. Sean's life is normal.
2. Loses job.
3. decides to be a sniper or decides to look for other work
4.  Tells George if he wants to be a sniper, gets hit by a bus looking for employment if looking for a normal job. Start over.
5. 1st sniper job: samuel jackson
6. Wife, Daphne, gets taken.
7. 2nd sniper job: Jose Rodriguez
8. Kids get abducted
9. 3rd sniper job (killing e.j. Cornette out of anger to kids+ wife dissparing)
10. Tries to kill George. Car bomb.
11. 50% chance George dies. 50% chance George barely lives. Probability simulator?)
12. Continue...


This car was going no where soon. Not with the cops on his tail, and too many cars on the road...

Too many cars.

Sean saw every dash of light and hue of the car, the tires, the points; as if somebody got shot at, going under the bridge--

Godzilla rose off the bridge, with a gravity-defying leap. As if on wings, shuddering, bracing for the damaging impact to follow. An ordinary suspension would shatter on impact, Sean knew. He hoped this shit was good enough...

It was the best underground tuner shop in town. It had to be good enough...

As he skidded under the underpass, the Vanquish swerved through five lanes of head-on traffic and surprised a not-too-agile semi, turning it and all of its hulking sixteen wheels upward, as if facing the sky, to ask for vengeance upon the renegade assassin.

Shit just got real.

Sean had to take this one, right up here. The Vanquish raced with a false air of invincibility, as if it was immune to a head-on crash... Which would be easy, at these speeds.

The Aston and its matte finished black design skidded to the left, sharply, directly into oncoming traffic. Cars swerved out of the way, bashing into eachother and dangertous speeds.... As the two cars fought for domination of the road. Of the city. He needed some advantage here, something else...

The M16. Reaching under the right seat, he dug out the hardy weapon and aimed it. At what?

At the car, of course... He lined up and sprayed the area near the vehicle. Other cars took fire, a few may have died... But it was better to end the lives of a few, to save the lives of many.

Shit... Police cars on his ass now.

That was a really long reaction time, he noted. What was that? Fifteen minutes? It's supposed to take three, he remembered from something.

He knew what the problem was. Sequestration.




"Roger that... Confirm."

"Yes, the suspect is driving a chrome Nissan GT-R. He is near 65 and Benford, going way over the limit. Likely intoxicated."

"Mark, activate..." He flipped the public channel off. "Let's take this son of a bitch down."

"Roadblock already locked, sir."

"Success?"

"It was evaded, sir. He ran right through a gap in the cars."

"Shit. Get all units on pursuit, now."

"Done, sir."

That was some crazy shit. Michigan never had this kind of driver, the kind who just wanted to see how far he could go.
Was that how it all ended, then?

NO better way to cap off twenty years of hatred and grudges then watching the fucker get smashed, head-on, by a semi---

He was in the head coming traffic now, too... He must have drifted through the lanes. The roads seemed to cave in, under the pressure, as if both the police and the outlaws could not both fit in the world. Not even two outlaws, it seemed.

Maybe it was true. They seemed right.

Sean knew this guy.

He turned on the AR in the back, and let the bitch have it.

The car proudly wearing the sheriff badge flipped over a school bus, exploded, before it careened off the overpass, and on to the underpass. Now two roads were held up...

And counting. This wasn't for the money anymore. This wasn't just because. This was to right wrongs. Mogadishu wasn't his fault, was it...