16 Feb 2013
He was bleeding! It hurt ten times as bad as any physical pain he had ever experienced and twice as bad as the pain that brought him to this god-forsaken city. A girl: loved, lost, pursued, betrayed. The emotional and the physical were always entwined: this was the basis of all art. Few understood that. Tonight, however, he would have preferred the disconnect: his despair seemed to amplify the injury.
He had spent the last of his savings two days ago, and he had been scavenging for food since. To return to a family who was already ashamed of his decisions and pursuits was too much to bear at the moment, but now it seemed the cost of his pride would be his life. Certainly he had tried to get a legitimate job, but it seemed that the economy here was in ruins. Desperate, he had turned to stealing... food at first, but then for money.
The first three buildings he tried were too secure, but he found another with an open window. Rummaging through a few offices, he found various trinkets for a local pawn shop. Later, he overheard talk in a bar about a Moonlight Auction Warehouse, and here he found the real money. Mysterious buyers paid top dollar for goods with no questions asked. It was enough to feed him and provide a hotel room. It was enough that he went back. Three nights in a row, he played cat burglar; each night promising himself it was the last time.
On the fourth, he was spotted. He thought to bribe the guard, but as he approached with money, he saw the man wasn't buying it. He put his hands up; the horror of an impending arrest with no contacts to speak of was daunting, but nothing compared to what followed.
Instead the rent-a-cop opened fire. What kind of twitchy, self-righteous mall security guard opens fire without trying to make an arrest!? Moreover, what kind of ******** lets a bleeding man drag himself out to an alleyway without calling an ambulance?
He remembered what his mother had told him: that this pursuit would be the death of him. He closed his eyes, slipping away from blood loss, convinced that she had been right.
Birds of Paradise and Prey
-
Cornelius
- Registered User
- Posts: 26
- Joined: 16 Feb 2013, 20:10
Birds of Paradise and Prey
Genuine Human
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Cornelius
- Registered User
- Posts: 26
- Joined: 16 Feb 2013, 20:10
Re: Birds of Paradise and Prey
28 Feb 2013
After the hospital had released him, he'd burned away much of his ill-gotten money resting in one of the local motels. He could walk only for brief enough periods to go to the bathroom, or meet the pizza delivery man at the door, so his nightly outings had to end. Fearful that his financial woes were only restarting, he turned his attention back to the search for a legitimate job: making calls, updating his resume (could he spin Breaking and Entering as a marketable skill?), and surfing the internet in-between.
One of the curiosities of this Moonlight Auction Warehouse was that a subset of the community seemed to sell items for less than what they could be sold for in a pawn shop. He told himself that these people were fools, and he scooped up as many items as he could that were selling at the below-market value. Today, a series of boxes arrived... a list of items let go on discount. Probably an estate sale or something.
He opened up a box marked "Ancient Relic"... probably the prop from a cult movie or something. Digging through the packing peanuts (which subsequently ended up all over his bed) he drew out a twisted mass of sculpted... something. It was polished black and probably stone, based on its weight... maybe obsidian? Still, the workmanship was beyond what he'd expected for a movie prop, and there was no studio marking anywhere. He studied and caressed every inch of the curious thing before tearing his attention away and setting it aside.
Hungry for an equally fascinating find, he next opened a box of something called "Supersoldier DNA". He wasn't sure what he would be getting here, but he ripped open the box and found two small vials of a dark red liquid... perhaps blood. He was sincerely disappointed here: what kind of Pawn Shop would buy these? He'd probably be taking a loss here.
The "Hunter's Charms" were impressively detailed little pieces of calligraphy, but he set them aside for resale (unlike the Ancient Relic, which he had decided he was keeping, along with the "DNA" which he wouldn't be able to sell). The DV Camcorders were about what he expected... but those were less for resale and more for recording inspiration: he still hoped he could make his art career take off in his abysmal city.
The next box he had purchased with the mindset that he was purchasing more movie props: "severed head". Glancing at the "Ancient Relic" on the bed next to him, however, he wasn't so confident. Hands shaking slightly with trepidation, he opened the box...
Having emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet (and the bed, trashcan... maybe a little in the box itself), and then nearly dry-heaved his stitches open, he forced himself to look in the box again. Between the genuine appearance and the genuine smell, there was no doubt that this was not a movie prop. Horror washed over him, not unlike the horror frozen into the decayed face: eye-bulging, jaw-distending terror. What was he going to do with this? What would he do if he was caught with this? He was in possession of murder evidence! In his current, wounded state, he'd be the first suspect if he called the cops.
He closed the box tightly, shoved it beneath the bed, and locked himself back in the bathroom (despite being alone in the room).
When he returned, still without answers, the last box presented itself to him ominously. Woozy and nauseated, he looked at the label: "Hunting Shotgun". Something told him that this was also not a movie prop... and to his horror he was right. What kind of city was this!? Standing there, with a illegal and untraceable shotgun in one hand, a human head rotting under his bed, and stitches from a gunshot wound ready to tear, he did what any sane human being would do.
He fainted.
After the hospital had released him, he'd burned away much of his ill-gotten money resting in one of the local motels. He could walk only for brief enough periods to go to the bathroom, or meet the pizza delivery man at the door, so his nightly outings had to end. Fearful that his financial woes were only restarting, he turned his attention back to the search for a legitimate job: making calls, updating his resume (could he spin Breaking and Entering as a marketable skill?), and surfing the internet in-between.
One of the curiosities of this Moonlight Auction Warehouse was that a subset of the community seemed to sell items for less than what they could be sold for in a pawn shop. He told himself that these people were fools, and he scooped up as many items as he could that were selling at the below-market value. Today, a series of boxes arrived... a list of items let go on discount. Probably an estate sale or something.
He opened up a box marked "Ancient Relic"... probably the prop from a cult movie or something. Digging through the packing peanuts (which subsequently ended up all over his bed) he drew out a twisted mass of sculpted... something. It was polished black and probably stone, based on its weight... maybe obsidian? Still, the workmanship was beyond what he'd expected for a movie prop, and there was no studio marking anywhere. He studied and caressed every inch of the curious thing before tearing his attention away and setting it aside.
Hungry for an equally fascinating find, he next opened a box of something called "Supersoldier DNA". He wasn't sure what he would be getting here, but he ripped open the box and found two small vials of a dark red liquid... perhaps blood. He was sincerely disappointed here: what kind of Pawn Shop would buy these? He'd probably be taking a loss here.
The "Hunter's Charms" were impressively detailed little pieces of calligraphy, but he set them aside for resale (unlike the Ancient Relic, which he had decided he was keeping, along with the "DNA" which he wouldn't be able to sell). The DV Camcorders were about what he expected... but those were less for resale and more for recording inspiration: he still hoped he could make his art career take off in his abysmal city.
The next box he had purchased with the mindset that he was purchasing more movie props: "severed head". Glancing at the "Ancient Relic" on the bed next to him, however, he wasn't so confident. Hands shaking slightly with trepidation, he opened the box...
Having emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet (and the bed, trashcan... maybe a little in the box itself), and then nearly dry-heaved his stitches open, he forced himself to look in the box again. Between the genuine appearance and the genuine smell, there was no doubt that this was not a movie prop. Horror washed over him, not unlike the horror frozen into the decayed face: eye-bulging, jaw-distending terror. What was he going to do with this? What would he do if he was caught with this? He was in possession of murder evidence! In his current, wounded state, he'd be the first suspect if he called the cops.
He closed the box tightly, shoved it beneath the bed, and locked himself back in the bathroom (despite being alone in the room).
When he returned, still without answers, the last box presented itself to him ominously. Woozy and nauseated, he looked at the label: "Hunting Shotgun". Something told him that this was also not a movie prop... and to his horror he was right. What kind of city was this!? Standing there, with a illegal and untraceable shotgun in one hand, a human head rotting under his bed, and stitches from a gunshot wound ready to tear, he did what any sane human being would do.
He fainted.
Genuine Human
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Cornelius
- Registered User
- Posts: 26
- Joined: 16 Feb 2013, 20:10
Re: Birds of Paradise and Prey
14 Mar 2013
He tried. Laid up for weeks, his money -- ill-gotten as it was -- had run out. He applied to jobs throughout the city, but his applications had mostly been rejected. At one interview, he stole the resumes of the other candidates. As he flipped through the folders, he realized that his competition was terribly overqualified, and he would be of little interest by comparison. The economy was crap here unless one counted themselves among these geniuses... he wouldn't even be able to get a clerical job.
The threw the resumes in the trash. He was well enough to go out again, but what was the point? There weren't any opportunities out there for him. Not any legitimate ones at least. He spent a long time looking at the shotgun in the corner; he greatly feared being shot again, but he also greatly feared going home a failure. Desperate for options, and telling himself that he would only use it as a tool for intimidation.
The first few warehouses and factories were looted without issue. The danger of it was the short of mad rush that made his hands shake and his stomach turn. When he turned the corner of the downtown factory and found himself face to face with a guard, however, the nervousness turned to horror. As he ran, the man actually opened fire after him! He couldn't believe the ruthless pursuit of these bastards. Ducking behind a crate, and hearing a bullet crack the wooden frame of it, he pulled out the shotgun and hugged it tightly to his chest. After a few more rounds, he pointed it blindly over his shoulder.
"Don't make me do it!" he shouted. As the footsteps approached, he closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. Over the horrible ringing in his ears, he barely heard the body hit the floor.
After a long horrible silence hidden behind the crate, he peeked out. The guard was bleeding badly on the floor. The brunt of the blast had caught the man in the face; the guard had been so much closer than he suspected... the shot had been terrible! It was meant to miss!
As he approached, he saw the horrible ruin of sinew and skull he had wrought of the man's face. He began to scream, and then vomit... both were stopped by forcing his hand over his mouth. He wasn't sure what to do... call an ambulance... run... both? Was there evidence to clean up? Should he turn himself in? Would it be any better or worse for him if he did? Could he explain that it was an accident? Could it be tied to him?
When the flashers appeared outside, a primal survival instinct took over: shotgun and he both went out the window and fled into the night. Normally, he would be more careful on the streets... Harper Rock was a city of monsters.
And now he belonged here.
He tried. Laid up for weeks, his money -- ill-gotten as it was -- had run out. He applied to jobs throughout the city, but his applications had mostly been rejected. At one interview, he stole the resumes of the other candidates. As he flipped through the folders, he realized that his competition was terribly overqualified, and he would be of little interest by comparison. The economy was crap here unless one counted themselves among these geniuses... he wouldn't even be able to get a clerical job.
The threw the resumes in the trash. He was well enough to go out again, but what was the point? There weren't any opportunities out there for him. Not any legitimate ones at least. He spent a long time looking at the shotgun in the corner; he greatly feared being shot again, but he also greatly feared going home a failure. Desperate for options, and telling himself that he would only use it as a tool for intimidation.
The first few warehouses and factories were looted without issue. The danger of it was the short of mad rush that made his hands shake and his stomach turn. When he turned the corner of the downtown factory and found himself face to face with a guard, however, the nervousness turned to horror. As he ran, the man actually opened fire after him! He couldn't believe the ruthless pursuit of these bastards. Ducking behind a crate, and hearing a bullet crack the wooden frame of it, he pulled out the shotgun and hugged it tightly to his chest. After a few more rounds, he pointed it blindly over his shoulder.
"Don't make me do it!" he shouted. As the footsteps approached, he closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. Over the horrible ringing in his ears, he barely heard the body hit the floor.
After a long horrible silence hidden behind the crate, he peeked out. The guard was bleeding badly on the floor. The brunt of the blast had caught the man in the face; the guard had been so much closer than he suspected... the shot had been terrible! It was meant to miss!
As he approached, he saw the horrible ruin of sinew and skull he had wrought of the man's face. He began to scream, and then vomit... both were stopped by forcing his hand over his mouth. He wasn't sure what to do... call an ambulance... run... both? Was there evidence to clean up? Should he turn himself in? Would it be any better or worse for him if he did? Could he explain that it was an accident? Could it be tied to him?
When the flashers appeared outside, a primal survival instinct took over: shotgun and he both went out the window and fled into the night. Normally, he would be more careful on the streets... Harper Rock was a city of monsters.
And now he belonged here.
Genuine Human
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Cornelius
- Registered User
- Posts: 26
- Joined: 16 Feb 2013, 20:10
Re: Birds of Paradise and Prey
4 May 2013
It was someone's idea of a joke. More specifically, someone had spun his joke back on him.
He'd seen the crowds down at the Fisherman's Wharf... seen them taking their catches home in buckets and bags. He wondered if they actually intended to keep them. Still, it was like a fever lately: fishing in the ice. Some movie must have featured it recently... it was the only way to explain it.
So, he put together an aquarium. It was embarrassing, really: he still thought of himself as a sculptor (when his conscience didn't chastise him for being a murderer) and this was just... degrading. Producing something of practical use. Drab. Dull. Lifeless. He built it on the desk in the motel room: eighty dollars' worth of glass and ten bucks worth of silicone. He tried to pour some life into it, but it felt like a monstrosity. Each time he set a clamp, he felt a little of his inner-artist die.
He had snapped a few pictures of it and put it up on the Moonlight Auction Warehouse for $300. It sold quickly. He was simultaneously surprised and ashamed: he imagined the disdain on the faces of his peers from school. He told himself that, if he could make the practical in something beautiful, he could erase that shame. Three hundred was enough to get him through the week and buy modestly better materials. The next one would be better...
That had been a month ago. Now, he sat staring -- mouth agape -- at the notice that his recent creation had sold for $20,000. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. Had people no idea what things were worth in this city? He kept driving up the price, and they kept paying. He wasn't even including fish! He was very specific about that, in fact. Why would anyone ever -- nevermind.
He had money now. Substantial money. He owned a car... he had never owned a car. He had set up a workshop, even made business contacts in preparation of opening a studio. The memory of his desperate crimes -- mere months ago -- seemed like an entirely different person. Now, he wasn't just getting by: he was thriving.
And still, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that he was being rewarded for having done something awful. All of his gains were ill-gotten... all of his money was blood money. There was a weight in his chest that kept him awake, even in his well-appointed new flat. Despite what he wanted to believe, he knew that it wasn't merely that he had sold out to some crazy fish-enthusiasts.
No... he had sold far more than his artistic integrity to get by in Harper Rock. And sooner or later, he knew, there would be a collection.
It was someone's idea of a joke. More specifically, someone had spun his joke back on him.
He'd seen the crowds down at the Fisherman's Wharf... seen them taking their catches home in buckets and bags. He wondered if they actually intended to keep them. Still, it was like a fever lately: fishing in the ice. Some movie must have featured it recently... it was the only way to explain it.
So, he put together an aquarium. It was embarrassing, really: he still thought of himself as a sculptor (when his conscience didn't chastise him for being a murderer) and this was just... degrading. Producing something of practical use. Drab. Dull. Lifeless. He built it on the desk in the motel room: eighty dollars' worth of glass and ten bucks worth of silicone. He tried to pour some life into it, but it felt like a monstrosity. Each time he set a clamp, he felt a little of his inner-artist die.
He had snapped a few pictures of it and put it up on the Moonlight Auction Warehouse for $300. It sold quickly. He was simultaneously surprised and ashamed: he imagined the disdain on the faces of his peers from school. He told himself that, if he could make the practical in something beautiful, he could erase that shame. Three hundred was enough to get him through the week and buy modestly better materials. The next one would be better...
That had been a month ago. Now, he sat staring -- mouth agape -- at the notice that his recent creation had sold for $20,000. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. Had people no idea what things were worth in this city? He kept driving up the price, and they kept paying. He wasn't even including fish! He was very specific about that, in fact. Why would anyone ever -- nevermind.
He had money now. Substantial money. He owned a car... he had never owned a car. He had set up a workshop, even made business contacts in preparation of opening a studio. The memory of his desperate crimes -- mere months ago -- seemed like an entirely different person. Now, he wasn't just getting by: he was thriving.
And still, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that he was being rewarded for having done something awful. All of his gains were ill-gotten... all of his money was blood money. There was a weight in his chest that kept him awake, even in his well-appointed new flat. Despite what he wanted to believe, he knew that it wasn't merely that he had sold out to some crazy fish-enthusiasts.
No... he had sold far more than his artistic integrity to get by in Harper Rock. And sooner or later, he knew, there would be a collection.
Genuine Human