A man is alone in a sparsely decorated flat. Faded wallpaper curls off
the walls, taking chunks of crumbling plaster with it. A layer of
dust covers every surface in the decrepit room in which he sits. A
fluorescent light hums overhead, desperately trying, but failing, to
provide enough light to cut through the gloom. The thumping bass of a
dance track can be felt, rather than heard, emanating from a building
down the street.
A man sits alone in an aging armchair. He is bathed in the
phosphorescent glow from the television. There is no sound, a torn
speaker the only hint that sound was ever produced by this old relic.
The soft scratching of a cockroach scuttling across the floor compliments
the buzz of the television, and the hum of the light.
A man sits alone on the edge of his seat. His whole body is tensed,
transfixed by the images flickering upon the screen. His lips move
ceaselessly, echoing dialogue known only to him. A small bead of
spittle winds its way down his unshaven face, before coming to rest in
the cleft of his chin. His dirty singlet tells tales of last Friday's
dinner. Tailored trousers, now almost threadbare, hint at a prosperity
long vanished.
A well-groomed man walks soundlessly along the footpath. His face
clean-shaven; his hands manicured; his skin weathered. A long black
coat covers an expensive suit, designed to obscure the powerful
musculature beneath.
A solitary figure moves wraithlike down the street. He walks in the
shadows, occasionally disappearing from view altogether, only to
reappear a few moments later. His pace is steady; his motions
inaudible. He is invisible to all but the most intent observer.
A small shadow drifts resolutely across the city. It goes unnoticed,
seamlessly joining with other shadows, only to repeal the assimilation
moments later. This apparition meanders along the streets...its
destination, a run-down, street-level flat on the dark side of the city.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
There is a sharp knocking on the door, but it goes unanswered. A man
sits focused on the images flickering on the T.V. The flickering
cuboid holds a monopoly on his attention, he is unconcerned with all
else.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
The knocking becomes more insistent, and the man can no longer ignore
it. He slowly pulls his aged body out of the armchair, his unused
joints cracking with the strain. Gritting his teeth against the pain,
he shuffles over to the portal into his domain.
He opens the door to the sight of a well-dressed man, standing with his
hands clasped in front of him. The old man clears his throat.
"Can I help you?"
"No, I don't believe you can" replies the other, as he smoothly pulls
a large handgun from a shoulder-holster. He calmly fires two shots
into the man's chest before returning the gun to its resting place.
A killer turns his back on an anonymous cadaver. He feels nothing; to
him, guilt and innocence have no meaning, no relevance. It is not his
place to judge; he merely delivers those whose turn it is for judgement.
A man of many monikers walks down a nameless street, away from a
nameless flat where a nameless man lies slain. He turns into a
nameless alley, where rising steam quickly conceals his exit.
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