Road Less Traveled - Part 1:
Sometime after the war he hit the fork in the road, the time where he had to make a choice. The choice he made is why he's here this fateful day, a gloomy day in the middle of March, when the sun of spring hits the cold of winter.
"Where is the money, did you spend it all on whores and synth?" spouted a short burley man dressed in pinstripe black slacks and a sports coat to match. His polished black dress shoes glimmered from the overhead lamps that flooded the large room with light.
A scowl of discontent sprawled across his face, but he managed to keep a somewhat maniacal smirk intact. "Did you think that we wouldn't find out? Did you honestly think that the money would be forgotten?" with a gaze of trained hatred, eyes pinpoint on a chair in the dead center of the room.
Located in that chair a man of average size, slumped there with no obvious intent to move. After sometime a breath escaped his lungs. "No-" he murmured, a faint version of a word. The only things he wore were his bloodied chest and a pair of badly torn slacks. Fresh burgundy fluid oozed from a large gash across his chest. The dried blood glistened with a slight haze, fluctuating tones with every breath.
The made for a movie mobster with a sadistic twinkle in his eye, focused on his prey. "No? Is that all you have to say?" he questioned as he proceeded to unbutton his pin-striped sports coat. With a small toss, the crisp black lined jacket flew through the air with no obvious destination. Revealing the sweat and blood died shirt that covered his dark skinned complexion.
With out warning, he sprung forward like a lion after its supper. Ripping the meals head back with a handful of dark hair. Looking down, then up as if deciding where to start, he peered in closer, until he could feel his own hot breath reflect back. "Do you have the money? Or will I have to?"he gestured with his meaty hand towards the sheathed hunting knife attached to his side. A quick flick, the knife entered his hand as if it were meant to be there, with no more movement was the blade pressed against the Adams apple of its captive target, yearning for penetration.
"Is this motive enough for you? What do you say Locke -- Locke Rosh?"
Current Inspiration: Nine Inch Nails - With Teeth
Current Mood: Fucking Joyfull - See Above
Sometime after the war he hit the fork in the road, the time where he had to make a choice. The choice he made is why he's here this fateful day, a gloomy day in the middle of March, when the sun of spring hits the cold of winter.
"Where is the money, did you spend it all on whores and synth?" spouted a short burley man dressed in pinstripe black slacks and a sports coat to match. His polished black dress shoes glimmered from the overhead lamps that flooded the large room with light.
A scowl of discontent sprawled across his face, but he managed to keep a somewhat maniacal smirk intact. "Did you think that we wouldn't find out? Did you honestly think that the money would be forgotten?" with a gaze of trained hatred, eyes pinpoint on a chair in the dead center of the room.
Located in that chair a man of average size, slumped there with no obvious intent to move. After sometime a breath escaped his lungs. "No-" he murmured, a faint version of a word. The only things he wore were his bloodied chest and a pair of badly torn slacks. Fresh burgundy fluid oozed from a large gash across his chest. The dried blood glistened with a slight haze, fluctuating tones with every breath.
The made for a movie mobster with a sadistic twinkle in his eye, focused on his prey. "No? Is that all you have to say?" he questioned as he proceeded to unbutton his pin-striped sports coat. With a small toss, the crisp black lined jacket flew through the air with no obvious destination. Revealing the sweat and blood died shirt that covered his dark skinned complexion.
With out warning, he sprung forward like a lion after its supper. Ripping the meals head back with a handful of dark hair. Looking down, then up as if deciding where to start, he peered in closer, until he could feel his own hot breath reflect back. "Do you have the money? Or will I have to?"he gestured with his meaty hand towards the sheathed hunting knife attached to his side. A quick flick, the knife entered his hand as if it were meant to be there, with no more movement was the blade pressed against the Adams apple of its captive target, yearning for penetration.
"Is this motive enough for you? What do you say Locke -- Locke Rosh?"
Current Inspiration: Nine Inch Nails - With Teeth
Current Mood: Fucking Joyfull - See Above
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
niobe:
Thanks. 
sarahjane:
you missed out! we had rad adventures. you should go next time though. i'll be posting some pics and stuff in my journal, check it out!