The Job - Prolouge
Well all, I have returned. Not to be conceited, but my skills have improved since my last story. This is just the prolouge to a series I hope to put alot of entries into. No adult stuff in this part, sorry guys, so no worries. I just want to have a clean intro to what I hope will become an addictive series. Enjoy.
The cherry red rays of sunset light caught the smoke in the air perfectly, painting a picture of beauty and radiance through the air off the sleazy hotel room. A single, yellow light bulb swayed on its chain from the ceiling, vibrations of what sounded like a party upstairs causing its motion to remain constant. A pull-cord dangled from the device's base, drawing little circles in the smoke of the room. The set up of the room was what anyone would expect to find in a hotel that charged only twenty dollars a night. A single bed covered in sheets that reeked of countless bodily fluids, some human and some not. A television sat on a table which had only three corners, one looking as if its corner had been blasted off some form of shotgun. To further show that past situation was an array of holes in the wall that the table was against. Of course the television only picked up one station, and even that came in full of static. A table sat in the middle of a room, a chair pulled up to it while a bible and an ash tray sat on its surface. The ash tray was over flowed with the remains of cigarettes used as a source to try and calm their past owner down. However nothing could calm him at this moment in time.
Indeed this was the perfect place for one to hide out. Hell they didn't even ask for identification at the front door. Cold hard cash with a small tip was enough to earn the name "Smith" in this place. It's just a small time hotel in a big time city trying to stay alive in a corporate world that is ruled by electronics and computers. Everyone has a story. This was the kind of place one expected crooked politicians to take their hookers of the night for a quick pleasure. The halls stunk of vomit while the man at the front desk had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a semi-automatic pistol in the other. Why is it that all the small time places carry guns? Perhaps it is because they expect to be robbed and want to be prepared.
The "Mr. Smith" of room 13 tonight was actually Thomas Johnson, the man who once had the "American Dream Life". He had a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a nice wife and a nice car. A nice job helped put his nice kid into a nice school that was secluded from the world of drugs and sex. He went to a nice church every Sunday with his family and listened to the preacher tell them of God's wrath to those who sinned. Not that Thomas had to worry about sins. He had a nice life after all. Still, everyone has a story.
Slowly he pushed the long dead butt of his cigarette into the growing mound, ignoring the putrid scent of the chemicals in the filters burning beneath the heat of what had once been his attempt to calm nerves. How could he calm down with what he was about to do? It seemed nearly impossible to him. It was ironic how quickly things could turn around. One moment a man could have everything he had hoped for and live a decent life, not harming anyone and minding his own business. The next, he was one of those people you hear about on the news, a man who gets pictures shown of him on the news with wild exaggerations of being "heavily armed and dangerous". Since when did a rifle that had to be five decades old and a pistol bought three years ago for home protection become "heavily armed and dangerous"? People these days.
Then it came, the ominous sound that everyone waits for during the action movies, the sound of a gun being readied for firing. The human mind can be easily amused. Just the thought of explosives can excite anyone, but most choose not to consciously admit it. Truly, next time you are watching a fireworks show notice how tense everyone is before it starts and how awed they are when it begins. You all know what I am talking about. You feel sad when that show of light, colors, and force is over. You're guilty of the pleasures that come from and explosion, whether it be from the safety of your lawn chair or from holding a handle as a hot projectile soars down a metal tube.
The party upstairs had picked up. The sounds of feet could be heard through the ceiling as the speakers thumped a heavy rock song. Cheers and cries rang through the barrier of wood and dry wall. Slowly "Mr. Smith" rose to his feet and grabbed the old rifle from the bed. It was time for him to go and finish what he had come to do. As he shouldered the weapon and thrust the pistol into his pants before pulling on the coat a thought ran through his head. It hadn't been too long ago when he was one who would never dream of causing pain to anyone. Now look at him. It was true, everyone has a story.
A sigh passed the man's lips. For a moment, as his hand rested upon the rusted knob of the door, his determination wavered. Could he truly do this? Could he truly go out and kill another man? Of course he could. Humans were capable of anything, and killing was most certainly one of them. He had his reasons, just as everyone had their reasons for anything they did. It was necessary he do this for never could he rest until he had. With that thought, he opened the door and stepped out.
Instantly Tom was met with a wall of scents. Gas, rotting garbage, cheap perfume, exhaust fumes, and many more smells assaulted his nose. He was not a man from the city, and he had yet to grow accustomed to these scents. The urge to gag rose up in his throat, but somehow he managed to suppress it. His eyes looked around the darkening parking lot, soon finding the rental car he had purchased with cash. Needless to say, anything you buy with cash in the city is bound to be rundown, decrepit, and barely suitable for the job it was intended to do. However he only needed it for one more drive after all. Any killer with a lick of sense knows not to drive the same car to and from the killing. But you all knew that now didn't you?
Upon opening the door and slamming it shut, the mirror on the side of the vehicle fell off. Instantly it shattered upon the stained tar. For a moment Tom simply gazed at the broken shard of glass. Some would consider that a sign of bad luck, but no longer did he believe in superstitious things. To him, there was no God, luck, or fate. The world was a cold place to him and no longer did he trust it. Roughly he slammed the key into its slot and started the engine after several tries. With that, he backed up and began the drive to the event that would step him over the line, the line between honest, tax-paying citizen and cold-blooded killer.
Soon he came to the spot that he had picked out days before. It was an abandoned apartment building, one that has an evicted sign plastered over the front across crime scene tape. However a side fire escape proved to be the proper way for Tom to enter the building. After parking the car in an alley, he turned it off. Leaving the keys in, he slowly exited with his weapons in tow. He didn't even bother to lock the doors, wanting the vehicle to be stolen after all. In a few weeks his old neighbor would be getting a letter demanding money for compensation for the car. He never really did like his neighbor.
Slinging his rifle over his shoulder once more, he jumped up and grabbed the cold, iron ladder. He began to pull himself up before walking up the fire escaping as silently as he could manage. The metal bolts and jointed cried out slightly beneath his feet, but the sounds of the street masked those sounds. As he turned to start up another flight of the metal stairs, he was met face to face with a black alley cat. The cat hissed at him before he shooed it off. His heart was beating wildling within his chest. That was two signs of bad luck, but Tom wasn't a superstitious man.
Soon he came to the level with the broken window. It was perfect. There was a window at the other wall that gave him a clear view of the executive building at the other side. If his time was correction, which he knew it was, he had about five minutes to set up. Quickly he hopped over the window sill and was once more met with that damn cat. It rubbed up against his leg slightly, letting loose loud purrs. He gave out a hiss to scare the creature away but it only looked up at him as if he was some sort of idiot. With a roll of his eyes, Tom decided the cat would not hurt anything and began to set up.
There he was. That bastard was walking out of the building surrounded by his coworkers, acting as if he was king shit of Crap Island. Slowly Tom brought the rifle up to his shoulder, gazing through the old scope. His hands began to shake slightly, damn nerves. He waited calmly, lining up the perfect shot that would kill his mark. As he thought about the act he was about to commit, he began to shake more. He had to do this quick before the shaking became uncontrollable. With a grunt and a squeeze of the trigger, the gun let loose its projectile with a loud crack.
No dice. The bullet caused the marble of a nearby pillar to explode forth. He knew he should have spent more time adjusting the scope of the gun. Quickly he threw the rifle onto the floor and began to run for the window. Already people were screaming and sirens were growing louder from the distance. He jumped over the window sill and began to dash down the stairs. As soon as he came to the ladder, he leaped down to the ground below.
Once his feet made contact with the ground, he began to run the opposite way in which he had come. The sirens were growing louder and it was then that Tom made perhaps one of the biggest mistakes someone running in a dark alley. He turned his head to look behind him. Luckily the police had no located the direction of the shot yet. A wave of relief swept through Tom as he turned his head to once more watch where he was going. However he was met with a metal bar of another fire escape ladder right to his skull. His feet were brought out from underneath him and his back slammed into the ground. Slowly the world swirled into blackness as he lost consciousness.
Maybe Tom should be a superstitious man?