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Prince
Local Time: 16:02
Local Date: November 2, 2010
Join Date: Apr 2002
Location: Melbourne
Posts: 999
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[continuation]
***
Confused, he stumbled out of Palmer's office, not quite sure whether to be elated or dejected upon hearing Palmer's instructions. In a stupor, he walked oblivious of his surroundings towards his apartment-a room with a bathroom adjoining it.
This would quite possibly be the most dangerous thing he had ever done. He subconsciously shook his head throughout the whole walk home. Would he, could he descend to the level of working for a criminal? Of being a criminal himself?
Looking up, he was half surprised at seeing his front door facing him. He took out his keys-the door was replete with locks- and began the process of opening the door. James' mind began to rationalise the events that had occurred only moments ago. The gangster might not even be so crooked; he might not do anything too horrible-certainly not kill anyone, and Palmer had recommended him. Palmer, at least, had his best interests in mind-James was certain of that.
-
Some few days beforehand, a similar person to James, with a similar problem and a similar question received a similar answer: to go work for a gangster.
John, however, is slightly different from James; he is more confident and optimistic-he is the type that would look on the bright side of a pay cut. Moving blindly forwards, he ignores the truth until it hits him right in the face, repeatedly, with hammer-like insistence. Perhaps, deep down, John knows what will happen-but he cannot stop looking on the bright side of his situation, however bad it may be.
John is, at present, walking quietly towards the abode of his gangster- or leader, in John's nave terminology. He looks at the sheet of paper (a rare commodity nowadays) that Palmer has given him, and checks the address. He walks towards the door, more hopeful and confident with every stride. He knocks vibrantly on the door- if he were a door to door salesman, he would be whistling right now, taking out the Hoover 5000 to show to his next avidly interested customer. No one answers. Puzzled, John knocks again-perhaps his customer isn't home yet? The door is answered by aJohn interrupts his optimistic feelings and takes one look at cold, hard, reality. Before him stands not a cheerful young man such as himself, but a very large, very strong, and very irritated underling youth? Man? Person? Choosing to settle for what appears to be the closest classification, he mentally calls the door opener "the nice person who opened the door for me."
"Hi, my name's John. I'm here to see"- John frowns and peers down again at his sheet of paper- "Marcos De Rasula?"
The underling smiles at John, feeling like a lion who has just come upon a herd of blind, deaf, and dumb gazelles. He smiles. "Right this way, John."
John walks awkwardly after the goon, careful not to step on his feet, breathe on his back, or do anything else involving his being within close proximity of the underling.
The goon opens the door to reveal John's overlord- or helpful and charismatic leader, as John has classified him-whichever way you look at it.
The gangster looks up from his desk, where a report from senior underling #1 lies, awaiting the patient eye of its reader to return to its pages. Its contents are-unpleasant, to say the least. For the gangster, however, it is quite good reading-crime is on the rise: robberies by 15%, blackmail by 10%, and protection rackets, most importantly, have skyrocketed. This gangster, however, isn't quite satisfied just yet. His next project? A daring raid on a heavily guarded military base containing a weapons stockpile so large he could buy a small island with it? The assassination of a powerful government official? No. This particular gangster is still quite weak-he will only hijack a food delivery being held in high security warehouses just outside the city. Rest assured, however, that he still dreams of the infamy attainable when responsible for an assassination or a shootout with an army.
His underlings will, of course, receive a small dividend from his profits after he sells the food on the black market-maybe a five hundred dollars or so. No, only a few hundred. Make that one hundred-our gangster is a criminal, after all. How could a self-respecting criminal not cheat his underlings?
Anyways. Let's move on with the next segment, entitled: "How John got hired."
Beloved Leader (henceforth referred to as BL): "Who are you and why are you wasting my time?"
John [cheerfully, with vigour. Remember, he's making a first impression]: "I'm John Nonesworth, Mr. Palmer sent me here because he said you needed some help. You're Mr. De Rasula, aren't you?" [taking out his hand to shake hand of the gangster]
BL [staring blankly at John, not returning handshake offer]: "Yes."
-An awkward pause ensues, as the metaphorical tumbleweed drifts past-
BL: "Very well then. I have arranged todeliver a shipment of food to the city. I'll need your help topick it up. Do you understand?"
John: "Thats great! Not only am getting money to leave this city, but Im helping it, too!"
-Another silence ensues, as the metaphorical clock strikes twelve.-
BL: "Yeswellyou can go now. Be back here tomorrow-I will give more details as to the plan I have for this rai-delivery."
John: "Err.. very nice meeting you."
-Yet another pause in conversation occurs, as the metaphorical author searches vainly for another description of silence.-
[BLs eyes meet the goons and gesture frantically towards the door; John is staring in confusion at BL, wondering why his eyes are moving like that. Goon understands instantaneously, steps in front of John menacingly, lurching over him like a giant over an ant].
Goon: "Lets go."
[Goon and John walk out of the door.]
John: "Hes umnot quite there, is he? A bitstrange, I mean?"
[Goon staring in disbelief, relieved that the door is in front of them; John takes a step out-Goon slams door quickly]
And so, John, Protector of the Food, Defender of the Hungry, walked proudly home, readying himself for the day ahead.
--
One day later, James Leicestervild has met his new overlord-and was much the worse for it. His task is to protect a stolen food shipment from rival criminals in the area. He has been given a rusted rifle that can barely be loaded, let alone fired in order to do so. Consoling himself with the fact that he had at least not been ordered to kill anyone, he took his rifle and stumbled towards the warehouse where the food was kept. His assignment-to be a gate guard. His other colleagues, as the gangster had mockingly called them, were awaiting his arrival with interest.
There were four of them, to be more specific; each had been a criminal for some time now, now hardened by what he had been forced to do. Perhaps at first they had felt pangs of guilt when they had first killed a person-but the sensation had dulled over time, becoming more faint with every bullet fired from their weapons, with every slash of their knives, with every punch of their hands. All that remained was an unconscious feeling that something was wrong-but they could not remember what, exactly, it was. Amazingly enough, all of them looked quite similar to each other-unshaved, tired, hungry. If despair and an inner sort of fury were looks, these mens faces would have been the perfect depiction of them.
When will the gate decoy come? Asked Michael in a hollow voice.
According to Luke, today, in the afternoon. Answered Mark.
Where is Luke, anyway? Said Paul.
Patrolling the outside of the warehouse. More like the outside of the city, if you ask me, though. Went out a good half an hour ago.
The empty conversation stopped for a moment, as the three simultaneously realised how tired they truly were. Not only physical tired, but also tired of their existence, of their everyday personal hell. They mentally cringed away from the thought.
Did you hear-
What happene-
A single, loud shot interrupts them deflecting off an outer wall of the corrugated metal warehouse, indicating that Luke was making his way back from his patrol. The trio pick up their weapons and take up their positions in readiness for the arrival of their superior. He walks through the door, tired, and with him walks an unfamiliar face that every single man who has met him will remember for the rest of his life. The decoy, the three think. They mentally mark him as a dead man walking, perhaps pitying more than their other victims-he, after all, was on their side.
Everyone, this is James. Hes our gate guard.
The man introduced as James smiles enthusiastically.
Hi, names Jo-
James, your post is at the gate we came from. Ill tell you when youre relieved. Mark, go with him.
Perplexed, James walks towards the gate, taking out his rifle and holding it by the handle, face downwards.
'James' is some moron working for another criminal. He cant even keep a false name for more than two minutes, it seems. Mark is a bit more intelligent. Worked here for a while, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move, it would seem. Kill them both when they reach the gate.
Is this the end of John Nonesworth, you wonder? No; it seems that even Deaths hand recoiled from John.
-
So far, Jamess feet had walked him through half the city and back in his journey to the warehouse. Now, as he was actually nearing the place, his arms were tiring; his eyes were slowly and inevitably closing; he needed to sleep. The sun, too, was so overwhelmingly bright-James felt as if it were sulphuric acid hitting iron, burning his body so rapidly and yet so slowly, taking its time to wipe out every single cell of his body.
An overwhelmingly loud shot was fired; James brain, were it able to respond quickly enough, would have thought it were an artillery shell blast. Unfortunately, it had no chance do anything at all. It stopped functioning about one second after the shot, when a bullet entered through Johns head and exited through the other side, heading towards the corrugated metal walls of the warehouse that was within metres of him.
-
Ill go back on patrol.-Lukes final words. He walked silently towards the door.
As the first of the trio, Michael takes aim at John, he is suddenly distracted by the appearance of another person, walking towards the gate. He turns his riflescope back onto John. Luke, theres another guy heading towards the-
But Michael had no time to finish his sentence; it was drowned out by yet another firing of a shot, coming not from the two apparent traitors, but from the doorway. The bullet him squarely in the chest. With only a final gasp, Michael slumped backwards and was dead before he hit the floor.
-
Dear reader, you may be wondering as to what is going on, exactly. You may be confused as to what is going on in these paragraphs; what has happened to John, or Luke, or Paul? What will happen to them? Who killed James? Are there any religious connotations in the choice of names? The author could, perhaps, continue onwards here, turning this paragraph into one filled with Cluedo-esque was it Colonel Green with the candlestick in the Dining Room? sentences, but then again, he feels that the sentences here have already built up sufficient suspense (if the reader is still interesting at this point) to not do so. Rest assured, the following conclusion will respond (answer may be too strong a term) to your questions. In fact, the author will go so far as to respond to one question right now- there are no religious connotations implied in the naming of the characters. Your intricate Christianity as opposed to my novel theories are dashed, unfortunately.
-
Lukes next shot was misfired, and only hit Paul in the leg. Ironically, this shot propelled Pauls barely held rifle upwards, now aimed directly at Lukes face. Luke took the beginnings of a gasp, but afterwards he fell silent, falling backwards without so much as a blink of an eye.
-
Mark and John, meanwhile, were rushing back towards the warehouse. Mark took a sidelong glance towards the man who was walking towards the warehouse, but his eyes reached only Johns face before he collapsed onto the floor, shot in the back.
For the first time in his life, John know knew actual fear. He ran, not as he once ran as a child, towards a playground, or his family, but as only someone in utter and complete terror could run. He rushed through the door and could only glance at Paul before a shot once more disrupted the quiet of the city. It missed. James nearly collapsed behind a few crates, exhausted, scared, confused. John took out his rifle and shakily loaded it. What had happened? He had seen nearly everyone die, except Paul. Except Paul. In another first in his life, John became angry- but only temporarily. His mind soon switched into action; Paul was incapacitated, so quick movement would be needed in order to accomplish anything. He would have to come out and fire instantaneously. Steeling himself, he takes hold of his rifle and his head springs out from underneath the crates. He takes aim, closes his eyes, and fires. To his surprise, and Pauls amusement, neither sound nor bullet escapes the gun. John had, of course, forgotten to arm his rifle. Paul aimed once more- and this time he would not miss. He would not hit, either. At that moment, the second last shot of this gun battle sounded. The only sound Pauls rifle made was a sharp clang when it fell to the floor, its owner following it.
The warehouse door creaked open, as the unknown combatant came into the fray-or so he thought. He looked at John surprise-Well, we lost Luke, but on the whole, we went rather well, eh? Still stole the shipments in the end after all. Frankly, Im a little shocked you came out of this alive.
What?
Yeah-you were being used as the distraction by both sides. Did rather well, too. Managed to let Luke pick off one of them and let me clean up the other two. Although, you might want to try and arm your rifle, next time.
No, I wasnt asking that, I was asking if you could repeat what you said before that.
I said that we stole the food in the end anyway. Why?
John took a long, hard look at the person who had saved his life. He remembered him now; he had also opened the door for him when he had arrived at his leaders home.
Never mind.
Well, come on then. Lets go.
-
There are many words of wisdom that one hears through life-a mere few syllables that when strung together form something profoundly true. "Hell hath no fury like a halfwit scorned" is certainly not one of them. But John is no longer so much a halfwit.
-
The goon turned around and began walking out of the door, making the last-but perhaps not the biggest-mistake of his life. The clicks and sounds of a gun being armed resonate through the warehouse, echoing and bouncing off the walls. The final shot rang out, its bullet hitting the underling's neck. Before the giant of a man could collapse, his pistol, only taken out moments ago, fell to the floor.
John shakily got up, his whole body trembling. He took a few steps to the door, which to him felt like the first steps he had ever taken. He looked at the door, at the dead bodies, at the blood, at the warehouse, and took a step outside. He is walking now, one step more quickly at a time, one leg limping along from an injury not even noticed. He reaches his destination-Palmer's office. It is already dark, and Palmer's usually filled hallway is empty and desolate. Around it lie the remains of people's belongings, food scraps, a few plastic bags. He opens the door to Palmer's office, and sees nothing-the room is utterly dark.
He finds a light switch, and out of a habit not yet gone, flicks it on. His eyes shut quickly as the whole room illuminates before him. He sees nothing before him but some strange documents on Palmer's table. He picks them up and reads them, not stopping for a moment, his eyes glued in horror to the contents of the pages.
Morning arrives, and with it the sound of a door unlocking. Strange, that sound seemed so alien to him now. Everything seemed alien to him now. One-step after another sounds from the hallway. The sound f the steps become louder as their source nears the office. The steps stop dead for a moment and walk back. A closet door opens, and the sound an almost nervous rummaging pervades through the hallway. Something falls to the floor, but it is ignored. Finally, the searched for item is found and taken, and the hollow footsteps continue towards the office. Palmer steps into the office rapidly, a gun in hand, attempting to surprise anyone who was inside. He notices John and relaxes. That is, until he sees the malice and hate on the face of the no longer perfect victim. His face pales.
"Ah Hello, John, up a bit early aren't-"
"There is no way out of this place, is there? No exit visas. Nothing. All of these applications will never be filed, or given, will they?"
Palmer's mind searches desperately for an explanation; none come to mind, leaving him for the first time in his life, speechless.
-
In the South-East corner of the city are the last of our characters. They are, at present, faceless; nameless; two blank canvasses of humanity ready to be painted upon with the vibrancy colour of life. One of them coughs-her first sign of life. She is a small, sickly girl whose pale white face and tattered clothing gives an absolute impression of just how much she is deprived of everything a child should be. She holds her father's hands tightly, as they both rummage through a near empty abandoned supermarket filled with goods now useless- what use are batteries without torches or light bulbs without the electricity to let them work? They search desperately, both looking for whatever they can. They are lucky-they find a few cans of corn. Her father picks it up and they walk back home. Today, they will be going to Palmer's to ask for an application for an exit visa. Her father is sure they will be able to leave- he has a child, after all. Their solitude is interrupted by a single gunshot. The two walk onwards, ignoring the sound. Whatever happened where that shot sounded was merely a passing phase in the city; it could not affect them.
***
In most epilogues, all is revealed-the truth was out there after all, and here is where it is all told. No, we couldn't be told about the aliens that killed Mulder in the middle of episode-it had to be done right at the end, in order to draw out the non existent suspense about the staid, boring plot. That's exactly what won't be happening in this novella. In fact, you may be a bit disappointed as to what will be written here-or, as many people call it, 'unsatisfied'. There will be no happy ending to tell you about in this epilogue. For that matter, there will be no sad ending to tell you about either.
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I'm working on it. Must find some witty
quote or ironic remark or somesuch.
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