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It was beyond hate; beyond contempt. It was fury past its prime: careless and unrelenting destruction. And all because of me. It was the cook.
I could see his one eye bulging as he realized who I was. My job revolved around the factor of my secrecy, but this guy - he knew. I had shut him down and out a couple of times, and if this test failed, he would have caused one of the largest restaurants in this one-light town to be given the ultimate can-kicker. Sometimes I hated this job. But as I saw the compelling, obsessive urge to stand up to me come to life in his tooth-filled frown, I realized that this was the only line of work for a guy like me. This moment - from the counter up front, my sight travelling straight out and onto the uncooked meat, the unsanitary palms slipping and slapping all kinds of infection suspects - was divine. Poised, I was a gargoyle, a frozen monster just waiting to strike. In a thousand timelines past, blood would be drenching from how hard my teeth were clenched in this euphoric moment.
A woman's stoic voice brings me back.
"That'll be 8 bucks and 41 cents."
I hand her a twenty.
"Got a penny?"
"No," I say, without checking. Twenty is all I need to condemn the slimy bastard behind the counter. Twenty is all I need to slide it up and ace this operation.
I slink back towards an unoccupied table. I glance at my watch. Tells me I've missed my wife's birthday dinner, but not too late to drop some flowers into her grasp and grab some birthday love. I look towards my meal, sigh, and pull out my deadliest weapon.
Clip-board.
It's time to take evil down the only way I know how. I write down the restaurant's name, and smile one of my most sinister smiles.
I mark an X.
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And all the while, all around, the diners continued regardless of the unsavoury stranger. They spoke as one, a collaboration of voices from various octaves melding as one single symphony of chatter—and the percussion was present also—the clap-shuffle of feet on the terra, crockery rattling, cutlery rang sporadically. What can I get you? Did you go over the files last night? I'm sure Mommy will be here soon.
Sound, sonic, bustle.
He sits there with his clipboard. He smiles his putrid smile.
The musical air is razed, flailing massively in futile effort to hold composure before being torn asunder by the piercing calmour of the newly fragmented window—born by a garbage can passing though the plane—sending shards scattering in all places and bringing an abrupt cacophony of noise flooding into the eating establishment. Screams and cries litter the chaotic cataclysm and the scene is a mess, pieces of glass fly, the can embraces the wall and falls to the floor. Pandemonium in the most transparent and true of instances.
And as quickly as they had begun, the things settled again, strewn across the tiled floor.
Sound, sonic… soundlessness.
And then the moaning. The sobbing, the hot tears and the flooding thoughts; the logical left hemisphere scrabbling for reason that provide litter avail from an overwhelming notion that this does indeed happen to ordinary people. Babies cry and ice-cream is on the ground. Bold so much is the audience they now exchange glances albeit limited to a slowed blur of confusion amidst grand expressions of sock and terror. The light is still swaying. It causes the shadows to dance.
He is watching. And he sees that it is good. The faintest sound of a siren lurches over the horizon and he moves.
The man with the clipboard is still in there, and in one fluid motion the master and creator of this scene of entropy sprints for the restaurant, the wind whipping his hair and jacket, goggles dance around his neck. He draws his brand, Oplex, and with a feral roar hurls the entire kopis sword through the jagged maw of the building at Clipboard.
However, following the undulating blur of metal—that is the Oplex winging through the air towards his target's chest region—is Reprah himself, and the two men impact; Reprah catches the man (headless or not) on the right shoulder in mid-flight causing him to skid and heap on the glassy floor. Reprah, however, collides with a crude MDF door and renders it into splinters, sliding to a halt in the kitchen with a grimace of pain. He rises, turns on his heel and reaches for his next weapon, shrugging off the pain…
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OoC: This is a rather untypical style of RPing, known as Mixed/True. It also doesn't use typical third person formatting, but you can use anything!
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Copyright © T. Carey, K. Jackson 2003 - 2007.
