Misawa
20-09-2006, 05:56 PM
Part I - A Meeting Of Minds
Chapter I
Bullet In The Brain
A swift black palm engulfs a thick and darkened with rust lamp post, choking its stance, stripping the dirty peeling paint. Giant fingers clench the neck of the tall beaming tower, shaking it violently, sending an evil fissure to the surface, unsettling a couple of dusty rocks drying out in the night breeze; a cool pleasant wave soaking the canine urine deep into the chalky substance.
Tomorrow, no liquid will remain, but passers-by will have the rotten stench attack their senses.
As the rocks roll and crumble, a black, no, pitch-black silhouette leaps into the night, releasing a faceless demon shadow across the vibrant moonlight, casting a dark sheet over Riley and Main.
The anxious barks of a hundred dogs pierce the silence. A peaceful, gentle night it is no more as the one-hundred owners of those one-hundred frisky mutts flick switches all over their houses. Small bedside lamps brighten rooms where the bed sheets are uncovered and faint outlines of humanity sink into the mattresses. Opulent grand chandeliers shine their warming light into the centre of a dozen glass diamonds, imitating crystal below a dozen dark white ceilings.
Outside of the rooms, through the walls and into a forest of night-bleached foliage, dark green leaves exist only as dull brown, crooked blades with their weakening fragile twigs invisible in the darkness.
Small chirping crickets breathe life into the black ocean, illuminating the street with no light, but addictive sound. Addictive that is to Mr. Graham Hartigan, 34, of house number sixty-eight, who is mimicking the crickets’ tune as he jogs silently past a fragrant bush, watching closely in the corner of his right eye for any minute emerald spots of insect life.
A tight grey tee-shirt struggles to support his enormous beer gut from being exposed to the night air. The mass of skin rolls around like a peachy sea, slapping his underbelly.
Hartigan was six months ago a cold, soulless carcass with, in his opinion, nothing whatsoever to live for. His wife left him for his best friend and took away his two children, Jonathan, 8, and Sammy, 6, with her, without ever saying goodbye. The minute she left his life he began a six-month, eighteen hour a day unlawful marriage with alcoholism, slowly drinking himself into mental paralysis and sure enough, death. Bourbon after bourbon. Double after double; triple after triple.
Graham’s skin grew even more orange every day, and it wasn’t a tan, it was his liver slowly but surely being weakened. No one had a real tan out here, this is San Brooke, known locally as the ‘City of Devils’. The sun barely shone, for the vast majority it‘s suffocated by plumes of pollution, rotting the city and its inhabitants from the inside out, tearing apart what used to be a picturesque paradise, blooming a society of good will and compassion. But not now, no, those days have long past, what’s left now is a crime-ridden shell plagued with choking industry, murder and filth. No one cared anymore. San Brooke’s residents would much rather live for the moment then contemplate the future, if of course this city has one.
Fortunately for a limited amount of people, San Brooke is divided completely unevenly into two sectors. The public, where there really is nothing left, and the private, where local government officials lived, where the mayor, Geoffrey King stayed at weekends, even where Mr. Hartigan himself resided. You see, as well as the select few receiving complimentary accommodation in the private sector of the city, those with a somewhat large monetary status could in fact purchase property there.
Graham Hartigan originally lived in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. There he worked as one of the more ‘higher up’ honchos, earning a nice and large salary for an I.T. development company. After splitting with his wife, Barbara, he moved across from Canada to the USA, relocating in Riley and Main, San Brooke.
Back in Canada, Hartigan was an intelligent man, in fact, he was an extremely bright spark. He can thank his generous I.Q. for saving him a couple of brain cells when he went AWOL, and getting help. Half a year of not so pleasant Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings and rehab. He hated it with a red hot passion, but knew it was worth it. He was now a fighter, determined as ever to complete the toughest goal in all his life and most importantly of all, survive. It was time for him to put his money where his mouth was, and not a bottle of Jack Daniels to wash down his heart-wrenching sorrow to the bottomless, empty pit of his stomach.
No one can take it away from him that he did in fact complete his rehabilitation programme and overcome his alcohol addiction.
Removing the mess of that product of whisky, his stomach, was his next priority. He jogged up and down Riley every day, morning and night. Of course, all of his efforts were attempts at one thing, and one thing only. To get his wife and kids back. The aspiration burns within him each and every second of each and every day, yet the majority of his reborn heart tells him not to bother with all this, and that he is never going to retrieve the family bond which he is so desperate for, which was shattered just one year ago, nearly to the day.
As Graham thought about his two little children and what they looked like now twelve months older, their rosy smiling faces, he was almost in tears, his cheeks quivering with emotion. Be begins to breathe heavily and slows his pace, but tries his hardest to keep focused on the jog. ‘Bullet in the brain’ he says to himself. That’s exactly what he wants to have happen to his ex-best friend, the very man his Barbara ran away for. The thought of murdering him came up frequently in Hartigan’s mind, it was his only comfort and rejoice, but he knew that he could never take a human life, no matter how motivated and eager he may be.
‘Bullet in the brain’ continues Hartigan, as he clambers over a huge root that has broken through the sidewalk, increasing his speed. The jog has turned into a complete sprint, Graham is now running at full speed, charging down Riley and Main as his thoughts continuously chant his deathly wish.
All that Hartigan is focused on is the end of the street, to the mayor’s weekend townhouse and back. Not even the quaint, rich with plant life gardens could catch his eye tonight, and he always tilted his head at them.
No racing through the sprinklers of local council member Horatio Freeman tonight. No smelling Mrs. Morgan’s delicate, exuberant roses tonight; no passionate, invigorating red haze this time.
Running this fast would usually cripple Hartigan’s heart. His ticker wasn’t up to this kind of work.
Exhaustion and a numbing pain in his chest doesn‘t halt his speed. Hate is driving him, something in his mind has clicked, some kind of bell in his mind has tolled. Nothing can stop him as he zooms just metres away from mayor King’s breathtaking residence, except…
A bone-shattering surge rattles through Graham’s body, a mind-crucifying pain that feels like about fifty-thousand volts were just shot directly into his skull. He cowers in agony, so much is racing through his storming head, everything is a blur, everything is distorted, nothing at all is clear. His vision evaporates as his eyes drop, roll back and fall into an emotionless white gaze. An avalanche of sensual brutality contorts Hartigan’s brain.
All is black.
A.S. Kelly
© Copyright 2006 A.S. Kelly
Chapter I
Bullet In The Brain
A swift black palm engulfs a thick and darkened with rust lamp post, choking its stance, stripping the dirty peeling paint. Giant fingers clench the neck of the tall beaming tower, shaking it violently, sending an evil fissure to the surface, unsettling a couple of dusty rocks drying out in the night breeze; a cool pleasant wave soaking the canine urine deep into the chalky substance.
Tomorrow, no liquid will remain, but passers-by will have the rotten stench attack their senses.
As the rocks roll and crumble, a black, no, pitch-black silhouette leaps into the night, releasing a faceless demon shadow across the vibrant moonlight, casting a dark sheet over Riley and Main.
The anxious barks of a hundred dogs pierce the silence. A peaceful, gentle night it is no more as the one-hundred owners of those one-hundred frisky mutts flick switches all over their houses. Small bedside lamps brighten rooms where the bed sheets are uncovered and faint outlines of humanity sink into the mattresses. Opulent grand chandeliers shine their warming light into the centre of a dozen glass diamonds, imitating crystal below a dozen dark white ceilings.
Outside of the rooms, through the walls and into a forest of night-bleached foliage, dark green leaves exist only as dull brown, crooked blades with their weakening fragile twigs invisible in the darkness.
Small chirping crickets breathe life into the black ocean, illuminating the street with no light, but addictive sound. Addictive that is to Mr. Graham Hartigan, 34, of house number sixty-eight, who is mimicking the crickets’ tune as he jogs silently past a fragrant bush, watching closely in the corner of his right eye for any minute emerald spots of insect life.
A tight grey tee-shirt struggles to support his enormous beer gut from being exposed to the night air. The mass of skin rolls around like a peachy sea, slapping his underbelly.
Hartigan was six months ago a cold, soulless carcass with, in his opinion, nothing whatsoever to live for. His wife left him for his best friend and took away his two children, Jonathan, 8, and Sammy, 6, with her, without ever saying goodbye. The minute she left his life he began a six-month, eighteen hour a day unlawful marriage with alcoholism, slowly drinking himself into mental paralysis and sure enough, death. Bourbon after bourbon. Double after double; triple after triple.
Graham’s skin grew even more orange every day, and it wasn’t a tan, it was his liver slowly but surely being weakened. No one had a real tan out here, this is San Brooke, known locally as the ‘City of Devils’. The sun barely shone, for the vast majority it‘s suffocated by plumes of pollution, rotting the city and its inhabitants from the inside out, tearing apart what used to be a picturesque paradise, blooming a society of good will and compassion. But not now, no, those days have long past, what’s left now is a crime-ridden shell plagued with choking industry, murder and filth. No one cared anymore. San Brooke’s residents would much rather live for the moment then contemplate the future, if of course this city has one.
Fortunately for a limited amount of people, San Brooke is divided completely unevenly into two sectors. The public, where there really is nothing left, and the private, where local government officials lived, where the mayor, Geoffrey King stayed at weekends, even where Mr. Hartigan himself resided. You see, as well as the select few receiving complimentary accommodation in the private sector of the city, those with a somewhat large monetary status could in fact purchase property there.
Graham Hartigan originally lived in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. There he worked as one of the more ‘higher up’ honchos, earning a nice and large salary for an I.T. development company. After splitting with his wife, Barbara, he moved across from Canada to the USA, relocating in Riley and Main, San Brooke.
Back in Canada, Hartigan was an intelligent man, in fact, he was an extremely bright spark. He can thank his generous I.Q. for saving him a couple of brain cells when he went AWOL, and getting help. Half a year of not so pleasant Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings and rehab. He hated it with a red hot passion, but knew it was worth it. He was now a fighter, determined as ever to complete the toughest goal in all his life and most importantly of all, survive. It was time for him to put his money where his mouth was, and not a bottle of Jack Daniels to wash down his heart-wrenching sorrow to the bottomless, empty pit of his stomach.
No one can take it away from him that he did in fact complete his rehabilitation programme and overcome his alcohol addiction.
Removing the mess of that product of whisky, his stomach, was his next priority. He jogged up and down Riley every day, morning and night. Of course, all of his efforts were attempts at one thing, and one thing only. To get his wife and kids back. The aspiration burns within him each and every second of each and every day, yet the majority of his reborn heart tells him not to bother with all this, and that he is never going to retrieve the family bond which he is so desperate for, which was shattered just one year ago, nearly to the day.
As Graham thought about his two little children and what they looked like now twelve months older, their rosy smiling faces, he was almost in tears, his cheeks quivering with emotion. Be begins to breathe heavily and slows his pace, but tries his hardest to keep focused on the jog. ‘Bullet in the brain’ he says to himself. That’s exactly what he wants to have happen to his ex-best friend, the very man his Barbara ran away for. The thought of murdering him came up frequently in Hartigan’s mind, it was his only comfort and rejoice, but he knew that he could never take a human life, no matter how motivated and eager he may be.
‘Bullet in the brain’ continues Hartigan, as he clambers over a huge root that has broken through the sidewalk, increasing his speed. The jog has turned into a complete sprint, Graham is now running at full speed, charging down Riley and Main as his thoughts continuously chant his deathly wish.
All that Hartigan is focused on is the end of the street, to the mayor’s weekend townhouse and back. Not even the quaint, rich with plant life gardens could catch his eye tonight, and he always tilted his head at them.
No racing through the sprinklers of local council member Horatio Freeman tonight. No smelling Mrs. Morgan’s delicate, exuberant roses tonight; no passionate, invigorating red haze this time.
Running this fast would usually cripple Hartigan’s heart. His ticker wasn’t up to this kind of work.
Exhaustion and a numbing pain in his chest doesn‘t halt his speed. Hate is driving him, something in his mind has clicked, some kind of bell in his mind has tolled. Nothing can stop him as he zooms just metres away from mayor King’s breathtaking residence, except…
A bone-shattering surge rattles through Graham’s body, a mind-crucifying pain that feels like about fifty-thousand volts were just shot directly into his skull. He cowers in agony, so much is racing through his storming head, everything is a blur, everything is distorted, nothing at all is clear. His vision evaporates as his eyes drop, roll back and fall into an emotionless white gaze. An avalanche of sensual brutality contorts Hartigan’s brain.
All is black.
A.S. Kelly
© Copyright 2006 A.S. Kelly