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Author Topic: Hoo boy.  (Read 4222 times)
Carbonite Dreamer
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« on: January 28, 2010, 10:32:15 pm »

I've learned, you're hard to please.

I've learned I "can't write".

My LA teachers from years past strongly disagree.


Let's find out.

The Fathomable Tale Of Omega D. Hennessey.

I am the fourth horseman.

I am the last trumpet.

I am the gavel, the judge, jury and executioner.

I am Omega D. Hennessey, contract assassin.

People who need me know me. They know I never miss, they know I always cover up my tracks, and they know I certainly don’t come cheap. I skimmed over my latest contract.

NAME: Enzo Pollami.

AGE: 24

HEIGHT: 6’ 4”

WEIGHT: 184 Lbs.

MOTIVE: Trafficking of drugs, humans.

GENERAL INFO: Lives in upper-class north-east estates, address:
1245, Boardwalk Avenue NE.

I took the picture from the contract. He was tall, tan, and loved to spend his money.
That Louis Vuitton suit he was wearing didn’t pay for itself. Looking at his picture made me hate him unimaginably. The woman that gave me this contract sounded like she shared the same loathing, that was good, because in my business, hate pays the bills, and then some. She was willing to pay, and I liked that. I put the contract away, and went to go get ready.

I Walked down the hall to my room. It wasn’t much, but it did its job, and it looked damn fine doing it. I pulled my Murphy bed out of my closet, and stepped inside. The closet was a walkway to my bathroom, lined with my clothes, and other things. I dressed in all black, or dark, like I normally do when I’m on the job. Black shirt, gloves, fedora, dark blue jeans. The only black things I didn’t wear were my tie, my sunglasses, and my cologne. They were all red, red like the blood that will spill tonight. I walked over to my medicine cabinet and found the ruby cologne. The yellowed label was starting to crack and peel off, and I could barley see, let alone make out, the Cyrillic characters on the label. I took off my gloves and sprayed some on my hands, and applied it to my clean shaven face. I looked in the mirror. I was looking good as always, tousled burnt blonde hair, glowing blue eyes, and one hell of a tortured soul. I looked at the clock on the bathroom counter. It was eight thirty at night. Time to work. I left the bathroom, and pushed the neatly hung clothes aside, revealing a door. Normally, this door would lead to the house’s furnace, but this one was a little different. I opened through the door, turned on the lights, and next to the furnace and the fuse box, there was a gun case. I punched in the code (my birthday, but backwards). 6891, 60, 60.  The gun case unlocked, and there I saw my unassembled Dragunov sniper rifle, Swarovski thermal scope, and boxes of ammo, stacked to the top. I took the rifle, the scope, and a box of ammunition. The magazines were already loaded. I found my portable case, and put the rifle, the scope, and the ammunition into the respective foam inlets. I closed the case, and left the room, making it look like I was never there. I returned everything back to normal in my house, and went into the garage. Inside the garage, I found my 2009 black Camaro. To this day, the car still makes me grin. I carefully put the case in the trunk, and jumped into the car.

The engine started with a roar.  I turned on some music, and opened the garage door.
I took the handbrake off, and carefully eased down the driveway. I closed the garage door, and then I punched the car into drive and peeled out onto the road. I loved my Camaro. I turned on my GPS, and typed in the coordinates. The GPS gave me the directions, and satellite pictures of the destination, I liked the satellite feature, because it gave me ideas for available vantage points. I saw down the road a little ways from the house where my target lived, there was a flat roofed house, and nobody lived inside of it. I could tell by the for sale signs, and the lack of cars, or anything in the driveway or yard. This was a good thing; this vantage point couldn’t be any better placed.  I followed the GPS and it was in no time that I actually got to the house. I realised that I should be stealthier, so I stopped a block away from the vantage point. I killed the engine, and popped the trunk. The case was a little jostled, but everything was intact. I grabbed the case, and I stopped. I, of course realized, I would look damn suspicious with this silver suitcase, walking to a house that nobody owned. So I decided I would take the stealthy route. There was a dark path leading to Boardwalk Avenue, So I followed it briskly, and quietly. The empty house was right next to the path. I hopped the backyard fence, and quietly crept up the stairs to the porch. I looked up, and saw a rain gutter. Knowing from past experience that they don’t hold up too well when climbed on, I had to find a better way to access the roof, but no alternative lay in sight. So I took a chance, and with a large jump, I latched on to the wall of the gutter, and flipped over on to the roof, trying to be as quiet as possible, but my high tops didn’t like that idea.  With a loud stomping noise, I had made it onto the roof, yes, but did anyone hear? I looked around very worriedly, but no other house showed any signs of movement. A wave of relief crashed over me, and I got down to business. I snuck across the roof, using the pitch darkness as a cover, and I carefully got into prone position, and assembled my rifle. After calming down, I got focused on my target. I saw that he was just sitting in his loft, reading a book, smoking a cigar, and listening to dean martin. I also saw that he obviously wasn’t Enzo Pollami, but looked like he was part of the same organization. This made my job so much harder, but a lot more fun. It was interrogating time. I slung my unloaded rifle over my shoulder, and dropped off the roof into some soft, quiet bushes. I darted across the road, and hid behind a car. He didn’t notice me. So I quietly snuck into his backyard, and sneakily opened the door to his basement. I darted through the room, and skipped up the stairs, into the kitchen. In the kitchen I saw a baseball bat. I snuck over, and picked it up. The melodious music filled the house, providing a juxtaposed ambiance to the current situation. I looked around from the kitchen, and I heard the music was coming from upstairs. It wasn’t window-shaking, but it was loud enough to cover my steps. I crept up the stairs and saw that he was still engulfed in his copy of Telltale heart, facing the window. I took off my strident shoes, and unlaced the left one. I glided over the remainder of the steps, and dashed behind the couch. I wrapped the shoelace around my knuckles, and stretched the slack taught. I slowly emerged from behind the couch, making heart-pumping noises, quiet at first, but then gradually getting louder. This spooked him a little. I lifted my hands above my head. My heart was pounding, mimicking the noises I was making. Adrenaline was going through my system and record speeds, brightening my vision, and popping my ears. My mouth ran dry. I wasn’t going to kill this man, not right away, but he was in for one hell of a ride. I gave up human resistance, primal instinct took over. My arms swung down, and the lace stretched across his neck. Time was going a second at a time. I crossed my arms behind the man’s head, choking him good and tight. I regained control of my actions, and gained control of him. I loosened the lace, not by much, threw my arms up, and he stood straight, the strain on his back tremendous. The sick pleasure I got from this strange torture was not like me at all. But it felt good, and I didn’t have the time to play Freud deal with feelings right now. I walked him over to the stairs and sent him down, the lace with him. I stood at the top. He was on his back at the foot of the stairs. I picked up the bat I carefully placed on the floor, and slapped my open hand with it. I looked furious.

   “YOU BETTER HAVE NOT SCUFFED MY CHUCKS ON YOUR WAY DOWN, POLLOCAZZO!” I bellowed, and charged down the stairs, and lunged at the man, the bat over my head. I landed almost soundlessly, the bat just in front of his eyes.
 I stood up, dragging the man with me. I threw him around, yelling at him.

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!” he stammered and made confused jargon. I swung my bat at his lower spine. His legs went limp with a satisfying crack.

“DID I STUTTER?! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?! TELL ME NOW, OR WE PLAY A LITTLE T-BALL, KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING?!” I said, a little brasher than I care to write.

“V-vincen- V-Vincenzo!” He said, his voice wavering. “M-my name is Vincenzo!”

“Well, Vincenzo, I got a couple questions. Number one, Where’s Pollami? Number two, what did he tell you to say to question one, and number three, what’s the truth? And  Don’t lie, because this bat makes one hell of a B.S. Detector,” I retorted.

I rested the sweet-spot of the bat on the back of his head.

“ANY DAY NOW!”  I roared.

Vincenzo started to cry.
“H-he told me to- he told me to tell anyone that he was sick, and had to go to the doctor!”


Vincenzo sniffled.
“He’s in hiding with the-the-“


“He’s hiding with the southeast. Our buddies In the Southeast! There! I told you! Please don’t kill me! Dear god, please don’t kill me!” He blubbered.

I lifted the bat. My primal instinct taking over, the adrenaline coming back, drowning out the begs and pleads for his life. I couldn’t let him live, he knows who I am. Even though I’m out for his leader, this isn’t my first rodeo,  know there’s always more leaders somewhere. And from my research, this one loves to squeal. He’s too much of a liability.

I threw my arms down, and crashed the bat on his temple, breaking the skin, and crushing his skull. His body dropped. I put the bat down, and disposed of the body. I didn’t say the job was at all glamorous. But at least, the way the police do things around here, It made the job easier. I rolled up the blood-soaked carpet, and threw it in the closet.

   I found my shoelace, put my shoes together, and back on my feet. I bounded to the back door, and redlined out of the house, leaving the Dean Martin playing. I sprinted to my Camaro, and went back on the roof of the house, packing up my sniper rifle, I went home, and on the drive, I couldn’t get it out of my head, The sad fact that the cops are so blind and stupid. It made me sad that I could get away with that assassination, and more to come. I turned the corner to get into my cul-de sac, and I noticed something horrible, such a pure choking feeling that made my core shake. I stopped the car and killed the lights. There were cops in my house. I could see the squad car. I didn’t know what to do, and I started to panic. I assumed that the setup to ice Pollami was too perfect. I assumed that the cops had set everything up. I started to flip right out, I began to hyperventilate. My hands were over my mouth, the airtight leather gloves blocking the air from getting in. Nothing scared me as much as this. I put my hands down, and got a grip on the situation.
Okay, Omega. Stay calm. Knowing what you’ve done, and what they can peg you for, They’re here to play nice, otherwise they would’ve shot you already. I idled into my driveway, and opened my garage door. I got out of my car, put away my gloves and hat, and opened to door to my house. I made it a point to leave the gun in the trunk. The cops must’ve made themselves comfortable, because they weren’t pestering me at the doorway.

I pretended to not know they weren’t there. I called my “Cat”, walked up the stair s, and to my “surprise”, I saw three police officers.

“What brings you here this evening, officers?” I said, going pale.
The leading officer cleared his throat.
“Listen. We know what you’ve been up to. We’re not as stupid as you vigilantes think we are, and you aren’t as stupid we cops know you vigilantes are. The point is, the only reason you’re not out of a job is because we keep the big crime guys hidden. They bribe us, and threaten us. I’m telling you this because I trust you, and know you’ll do us a small favour if it means we won’t throw you in the bin,”

“I’m listening,” I said, my palms going clammy.
The cop cleared his throat again.
“We want Pollami. You want Pollami. And for what he’s done, he’ll meet the same end no matter who gets him. So we’re gonna let you get him, and we’re gonna keep your number, because we’re sick and tired of being bullied by the mob bosses. The reward? You walk free, and we forget this ever happened. Not to mention whatever reward from this contract. Sound good?”
My color came flushing back. I liked this idea, if it meant I had even more protection, and no jail. Also, it was good that people admired me for my talent in more than just blood and cheques. I like it when I’m appreciated.  I nodded. The cops told me that I had six hours, and supplies were in the kitchen. It was nice of them to leave so discreetly. I looked at the clock. Nine thirty. And already it’s been one hell of a night. I set my alarm for six hours from now, and I flopped on my bed not to arise until then. The alarm went off, and I heard a radio in the kitchen. It was a good thing I didn’t change, because I needed all the speed in the world, apparently. I dashed over to the kitchen, and turned on the lights. I saw a new 50 calibre rifle, a radio, and a backpack stuffed to the brim with cash.
There was a note on the bag. I flipped it over and it read : “Do what has to be done, Maria OXOXO,” with a lipstick kiss on the bottom corner. Great.  This was all turning out great for me. I grabbed the radio, and assured them I was on my way. They gave me the address, and I wrote it down. I wasted no time. I got in my car, and  peeled right out.
It was just a matter of time before I got to my destination. It was the south-eastern slums, and it used to be an old citadel. The cops told me that I could just set up  in the old clock tower. Strange, they pretty much trashed the entire old town and built warehouses and crap, but still the clock tower stood. Beggars can’t be choosers I guess. I parked in front of the tower, and went inside. It was thirty flights of stairs to the top. I figured I wasn’t getting any freer, so I hoofed it up. When I got to the top I was pleased to see that there were crates of chocolate bars at the top. Riches abound, I thought. I got my sniper rifle assembled, and got down to business. I turned on the radio, and awaited instructions.

“We’re gonna chase him out of the warehouse. And You’re gonna get him right through the thigh. And if that doesn’t kill him, nothin’ will,”
He was right. A fifty calibre bullet to the femur would be hard to get up from.
“Okay. We’re outside the warehouse, we got SWAT bashing the door, and let the chickens run! Okay, get ready.” The officer said over the radio.
I readied the gun. I looked through the thermal scope. Everything cold was red, everything warm was various shades of pink and white. I saw the side doors of the warehouse burst open, and a tall man, with a ruined white suit, clutching his shoulder ran out. The radio came on again.

I didn’t waste my time. I readied my gun, I put my finger on the trigger, and I squeezed.
The gun whacked into my shoulder, making it go numb. My ears followed suit. Man, I should’ve thought about my ears before I went out with a Barret .350. I’m probably half deaph now. I shook it off, and looked through my scope. Target was down. I got him. There he was, face down in his own blood.  I got the cops on the horn, and confirmed this. But something was wrong.

“He’s getting up.” I said, my voice wavering.
“What’s that?” The officer replied.
When I finished that sentence, everything went dead quiet. I heard the sound of hungry, wet breathing behind me. I turned around looking through my scope. The last thing I saw was a corpse of a woman lunge at me. Then my rifle went flying from my hands, and everything went black. I heard furious cries, either coming from me, or whatever was ripping me open. I felt everything fade away in a fiery wash. I was dying.



Criticize away.

If you're gonna do that shit, do it about one of those ontario elections that always end in the cops chasing a rapist around a tim hortons or some shit.
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« Reply #1 on: January 28, 2010, 10:38:17 pm »

Cool story, bro.

At least, that's what I think.
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« Reply #2 on: January 29, 2010, 09:48:57 am »


1 I Walked down the hall to my room.
2 The yellowed label was starting to crack and peel off, and I could barley see, let alone make out, the Cyrillic characters on the label.
3 I saw that he was just sitting in his loft, reading a book, smoking a cigar, and listening to dean martin.
4 And  Don’t lie, because this bat makes one hell of a B.S. Detector,”
5 this isn’t my first rodeo,  know there’s always more leaders somewhere.
6 But at least, the way the police do things around here, It made the job easier.
7 I sprinted to my Camaro, and went back on the roof of the house, packing up my sniper rifle, I went home, and on the drive, I couldn’t get it out of my head, The sad fact that the cops are so blind and stupid.
8 I like it when I’m appreciated.  I nodded.
9 Great.  This was all turning out great for me.
10 The cops told me that I could just set up  in the old clock tower.
11 And You’re gonna get him right through the thigh.
12 I’m probably half deaph

1. Capitalisation of walked is unnecessary.
2. Barley is a cereal. You mean barely.
3. Dean Martin should be capitalised.
4. And and don't have double spaces, and don't doesn't need capitalisation.
5. Double spacing again between rodeo and know.
6. Capitalisation of it is unnecessary.
7. This sentence is unnecessarily long. i suggest breaking it so that 'I went home' starts a new sentence. Also, capitalisation of the is unnecessary.
8. Double spacing again, between the two sentences.
9. "     "    "     "    "  "     "       "    "     "    "        "
10. Double spacing again.
11. Capitalisation of you're is unnecessary.
12. Deaf is spelled incorrectly.

Thoughts: (As well as commentary on the style of writing, I'll be noting my questions and reactions to the storyline.)

*This guy seems like a professional. I find it odd that he drove a car that he owns to the place. That'd be traceable to him. A more sensible thing to do would be to use a stolen car, then torch it afterwards to eliminate any fingerprints, fibres and other bits of evidence.

* "I slung my unloaded rifle over my shoulder" Thought you said the mags were already loaded, so unless he unloaded it after setting up, this makes no sense.

* I don't see why he took his shoes off. He could have used something else to choke the man, and removing his shoes puts him at a disadvantage if things go south. hell, just putting him in a lock would work just as well.

* You use ALL CAPS to indicate shouting. Just opinion, but I think that looks absolutely shite.

*How did he dispose of the body?

*Why the hell did he go back into the house? Anyone who's not a total idiot would have just kept driving, ditched the car and been on the first plane out of there.

*You'd think a cop would have better radio procedure.

*"OHMYGOODNESSHE’SEFFINGGETTINGUP!" 'Oh my goodness' and 'effing' don't sound quite right for a panicked assassin. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard anyone actually say 'effing'.

All in all, not bad. Not brilliant, but not bad. Like Log said, cool story.

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« Reply #3 on: January 29, 2010, 01:33:47 pm »

At the end of the first paragraph, I started getting light-headed, and had to stop and set up a camp to rest while the Sherpas went ahead to scout out the rest of the post. After a long nap and some serious re-hydration, I was able to push through and ascend the sheer cliff face of text. I don’t know that I’ve ever been more proud of myself.

Seriously though, space paragraphs out a bit better.
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