Kulikovia
19-06-2008, 15:54
It's a quiet morning. The sun is fighting its' way past the chilled morning air. There's not a stir save an automobile slowing to a halt in front of a red bricked house in a small, tight knit neighborhood. The driver sits for a moment, hands tightly clasped onto the steering wheel, sweaty with anticipation. This residents are either still asleep or in the drowsy throws of the early morning routine. Steel workers, factory assemblymen, mostly blue collared guys just trying to mak ends meet and return to their families at the end of a long shift. Only a few cars line the streets, some Model T's and other assorted automobiles.
The window is cracked slightly, letting in the chilled air. He brings his hands in close, interlocking the fingers and blowing warm air into the tangled web. It's the early months of Winter, still transitioning from Fall with a predominate amount of leaves, lost from their homes, scattered across yards and the street, brushing across the pavement, scratching their way. His eyes slowly and methodically sweep across his plain of view, observing a slumbering neighborhood, not a soul to be seen nor heard.
A quick glance at his watch reveals that the time has come. You can do this, you have to do this. They trust him to do this. It's the last thing between him and everything he dreamed of having. You see, in this world, one must take what he wants. There's no free hand outs, except for bums on the street corner. He was far from a bum. he is a trusted associate that is so close to being a part of something. I must do this. He gently opened the door and swung out his legs. His shoes are highly polished black leather. He takes great pride in his shoes, spending great amounts of time and energy in the pursuit of that perfect gloss. He was a firm believer in firt impressions. That unspoken first encounter, as you're walking up to someone. Your clothes, the shine of your shoes, your hair, that confident and firm handshake, telegraph the kind of person you either are or want them to think you are. He made them think he was dependable, now he had to prove he is dependable.
The low chain fence is more for show than anything else, hardly a deterrent. In the middle of the small yard is a baseball. It didn't concern him, he knew the kid was across town with his mother and new father. He pauses in front of the door, taking that last breath before the big plunge.
A firm rap on the door, but not knocking it down.
"Gimme a second!" a voice bellows from the gut of the house, drawing closer. The door adjares open slightly, a beedy, bloodshot eye blinks, "Frank?...Frank Mercer!"
The door swings open, revealing a thin man in a blue bathrobe and slippers. His hair is matted from a pillow.
"Hello, Roman" Frank smiles, "Can I come in?"
"Of course, how the Hell are ya?" Roman sweeps his hand, inviting him into the house. "You wanna a cup of coffee?"
"Sure" Frank replies, entering the den as Roman off shoot into the kitchen. The den is simple enough, pleasant but not over the top.
There's the clutter of dishes, the closing of a cupboard and a few moments later, Roman reappears with two cups. He sets one down in front of Mercer on the coffee table and sits opposite him, taking a quick sip, eager to play catch-up.
"How's everything with ya?" Roman asks, leaning back comfortably. Mercer takes a seat, neglecting to take his hat off.
"Good...Good" Frank picks up the cup and gauges the strength and hottness of the coffee, Roman always knew how to make a good cup. The warmth running down his throat releaved him from the cold.
"What brings you to my house? It's been too long"
"Scarlet"
The smile drains off his lips and though Frank can't see it, he knows the hairs are at attention on the back of Roman's neck. A word that he knew would register in just the right way, the way he needed.
"Scarlet?" Roman blinks wildly, "But..."
Frank produces a Colt .45 from beneath his coat and takes out the magazine and places it onto the couch. He pulls the slide to the rear and a lone bullet catapults from the chamber like an acrobat in front of a nervous and breath-taken crowd. It sommersaults in the air and bounces off the coffee table and onto the carpeting. It finally comes to a halt next to Frank's shoe.
"W-What's going on?" Roman is visibly disturbed and nervous.
Frank doesn't reply but instead leans forwrad, picking up the lone bullet, "I brought one bullet today...Just one"
"Please! Please don't do this!" Roman pleads, "What do you want to know?!"
Frank angles the Colt downwards and drops the round back into the chamber. He releases the slide and it snaps forward. That sudden metallic snap sneds Roman's shoulder upwards in fright.
"If this is about The Nose, don't worry! I didn't say anything, tell Santini that. I'm not the onw who did it!"
His mouth is moving, but Frank doesn't hear anything. He trained himself not to, to hear no pleads or prayers. Roman is arching back, hands outwards, frantically pleading for mercy. Frank takes off his hat and places it on the coffee table and stands up.
"Please! This isn't you! You're not a killer! I-I don't want to die!"
Frank raises the Colt, leveling it to Roman's forehead. Tears roll down the victim's face. Staring into the eyes of your killer isn't an easy thing to do, nor vice-versa for some killers either.
A shot rings out throughout the neighborhood...
The window is cracked slightly, letting in the chilled air. He brings his hands in close, interlocking the fingers and blowing warm air into the tangled web. It's the early months of Winter, still transitioning from Fall with a predominate amount of leaves, lost from their homes, scattered across yards and the street, brushing across the pavement, scratching their way. His eyes slowly and methodically sweep across his plain of view, observing a slumbering neighborhood, not a soul to be seen nor heard.
A quick glance at his watch reveals that the time has come. You can do this, you have to do this. They trust him to do this. It's the last thing between him and everything he dreamed of having. You see, in this world, one must take what he wants. There's no free hand outs, except for bums on the street corner. He was far from a bum. he is a trusted associate that is so close to being a part of something. I must do this. He gently opened the door and swung out his legs. His shoes are highly polished black leather. He takes great pride in his shoes, spending great amounts of time and energy in the pursuit of that perfect gloss. He was a firm believer in firt impressions. That unspoken first encounter, as you're walking up to someone. Your clothes, the shine of your shoes, your hair, that confident and firm handshake, telegraph the kind of person you either are or want them to think you are. He made them think he was dependable, now he had to prove he is dependable.
The low chain fence is more for show than anything else, hardly a deterrent. In the middle of the small yard is a baseball. It didn't concern him, he knew the kid was across town with his mother and new father. He pauses in front of the door, taking that last breath before the big plunge.
A firm rap on the door, but not knocking it down.
"Gimme a second!" a voice bellows from the gut of the house, drawing closer. The door adjares open slightly, a beedy, bloodshot eye blinks, "Frank?...Frank Mercer!"
The door swings open, revealing a thin man in a blue bathrobe and slippers. His hair is matted from a pillow.
"Hello, Roman" Frank smiles, "Can I come in?"
"Of course, how the Hell are ya?" Roman sweeps his hand, inviting him into the house. "You wanna a cup of coffee?"
"Sure" Frank replies, entering the den as Roman off shoot into the kitchen. The den is simple enough, pleasant but not over the top.
There's the clutter of dishes, the closing of a cupboard and a few moments later, Roman reappears with two cups. He sets one down in front of Mercer on the coffee table and sits opposite him, taking a quick sip, eager to play catch-up.
"How's everything with ya?" Roman asks, leaning back comfortably. Mercer takes a seat, neglecting to take his hat off.
"Good...Good" Frank picks up the cup and gauges the strength and hottness of the coffee, Roman always knew how to make a good cup. The warmth running down his throat releaved him from the cold.
"What brings you to my house? It's been too long"
"Scarlet"
The smile drains off his lips and though Frank can't see it, he knows the hairs are at attention on the back of Roman's neck. A word that he knew would register in just the right way, the way he needed.
"Scarlet?" Roman blinks wildly, "But..."
Frank produces a Colt .45 from beneath his coat and takes out the magazine and places it onto the couch. He pulls the slide to the rear and a lone bullet catapults from the chamber like an acrobat in front of a nervous and breath-taken crowd. It sommersaults in the air and bounces off the coffee table and onto the carpeting. It finally comes to a halt next to Frank's shoe.
"W-What's going on?" Roman is visibly disturbed and nervous.
Frank doesn't reply but instead leans forwrad, picking up the lone bullet, "I brought one bullet today...Just one"
"Please! Please don't do this!" Roman pleads, "What do you want to know?!"
Frank angles the Colt downwards and drops the round back into the chamber. He releases the slide and it snaps forward. That sudden metallic snap sneds Roman's shoulder upwards in fright.
"If this is about The Nose, don't worry! I didn't say anything, tell Santini that. I'm not the onw who did it!"
His mouth is moving, but Frank doesn't hear anything. He trained himself not to, to hear no pleads or prayers. Roman is arching back, hands outwards, frantically pleading for mercy. Frank takes off his hat and places it on the coffee table and stands up.
"Please! This isn't you! You're not a killer! I-I don't want to die!"
Frank raises the Colt, leveling it to Roman's forehead. Tears roll down the victim's face. Staring into the eyes of your killer isn't an easy thing to do, nor vice-versa for some killers either.
A shot rings out throughout the neighborhood...