NEW YORK, 1992 - THE INTERNET BECAME ACCESSIBLE TO THE PUBLIC.
Under the Brooklyn Bridge, the breath of air panting out of his lungs crystallized into a mist against the freezing cold. The tires bumped along the underpass by speeding cars. The World Trade Center shone overly dreamy over a crispy moonless night-- looking as if digitally made. The snow stuck that night to the ground. The river was icy and hadn’t frozen over. It became slushy that night. He could distinguish blocks of ice floating with the strong flow. The cold air moving over the wavy current water blew out a whiff of steam fog. It was a quiet enchanting night and cherubic.
The accelerant was splashed on a pile of rubbish inside the park bin. In the shadow, it resembled a postcard of the twin towers taken from the ’80s, it caught on fire over the edges. The man that stood next to the flames to warm up, jerked as quickly upward, stiffen, the scream stopped with a painful thud against the foundation of the bridge ending with the sound of shattering bones against it.
It was a rat-infested ramshackle slum that Viktur acquired, crooked and you felt gravity pulling you toward the back of the house. He didn’t need an inspection when he bought it. On the paper trail, the property was abandoned from past relatives and was entitled to it. The half-basement contained a hidden cellar and placarded that was in use during alcohol prohibition.
The natural hardwood floor was worn and water damaged with many cracks on the walking surface, and it wasn’t difficult to spot them at all. Some could have been drenched in rainwater from leaks from the roof or by the flowing water accumulating humidity in the basement making a pound damaging it furthermore with time. The subfloor was rotten badly.
The place had a fireplace in the foyer. A rat poison warning sign was posted by the front porch. Otherwise, the place was overall a charming walkup with a good masonry and a backyard.
Viktur held off at the top of the stairs and looked down at the entrance unsteady with the intention to collect the rent money and took his first step, maybe drunk.
“You ain’t living here for free,” Viktur yelled out upstairs.
He shut his eyes closed inhaling the ambient air of an old house from his nostrils and paced his descent. His senses deviated as if the house-made him leaned backward or even downward. The balustrade was well preserved and strong on the grip. The tread was squeaky and in place. As soon as he reached the base of the stairs with his hand twisting around the newel, he made a turn and lurched forward almost tripping from a gaping hole. He stepped in, weighing down on the uneven floor ready to give away with more squeaking as he moved downward. His footstep avoided stumping on rusted anchored nails to pierce his foot taking steps as if he played a chalk jumping game.
Inside the kitchen by the icy dripping sink, a broken window was letting the harsh cold of late November traveling indoor-- condensing when Viktur exhaled with short breaths. It was chilled to the bone. Along the hall, the baseboard was a thick piece of wood clearly a red oak colonial trim, and the entire structure was mainly made of it.
The living room was situated upfront roomy and spacious. The man-made hole was big. A suspicious stained sofa was placed on the surface of the ground likely to stop the cold entering from the basement. The cushions were obliterated as if a dog munched on it.
The layout of the house-- separated the living space by the hallway stretching back at the other end of the house with multiple rooms on either side along the way. All the doors were missing. The smell of old tarred wooden planks was strong. The trio was busy. Ronan was an expert in carpentry.
“What’s all this stuff?” Viktur asked not really paying attention to it.
He entered the space cautiously-- holding himself on the doorjamb.
“Coamputers?” said Kieran with lacking interest. “For a school project.” and handed the rent for the month.
“I want none of that-- laying around.” he whislted his words like he was giving a damn about it, he cashed in on the rent money. “Damn it.”
“We have it under control.” said again Kernian in calmness. “We-- see you later.” he turned leisurely.
Viktur focused on the kitchen faucet inserting his finger in the orifice. He didn’t bother to check the bathroom. The pressure water was weak and cold. At the end of the hall was a window where the cat always returned. You could see some green around the windowpane where the wind funneled through and wasn’t part of the landscaping, it looked like growing honeysuckle. It was an Indian summer that year. Then, winter had arrived sooner than expected. Under the light of the day, it was cold.
“The heat is on-- depends on the weather,” Viktur shouted. The cast iron was death cold next to him.
“It doesn’t work,” Maria called upon him using an indignant tone. She’d go crazy for the need to warm up. She was shivering to the bone.
“The fireplace is there-- for used, lady.” he grinned at Ronan fiercely passing by. “Finish what you started.” he took the crowbar, and throw it at the fireplace. She was babbling at him.
Viktur looked around to localize the enticing voice of a lioness and edged in her direction. The electric heater was buzzing beside her radiating raw heat warming up the bedroom. The rooms were cold. She needed to warm up needless to say. Maria was reading a book on the armchair. The music was on low volume, she was patting a cat on her lap. The animal wanted her to let go. She was disturbed in her reading and dropped her book at her side.
“The rodents,” Maria shouted at him harboring a get out of my face attitude, and rose up from her seat with a front kick, finishing with a sidekick.
She approached him enticingly carefree, swaying with the rhythm of the music grunge holding the cat dangling in her arm. She wore ripped jeans, and multiple layers of clothing to keep her warm. Black was her favorite color at the present time.
Her demeanor and attitude showed signs of intelligence with a caring outlook. He stood up to her unimpressed.
“I’ll bring the traps and a rat bait station. They never go away.” he scoffed at her.
“Can you let the kitty cat do her job?” Maria muttered letting go of the roaming feline dearly.
Viktur tried to kick the cat out of the way, and she ran down to the basement. Maria peeked at the cat-- escaping.
“They like the heat as much as you do,” he said taking a step ahead to get closer to her.
“What turns you on, Viktur? One thing, you never come in our sleep. Have yourself in control.” Maria didn’t care and met him head-on. She definitely threw herself at him. “Why you don’t love me,” she leaned kitty, “Viktur?”
“What is this nonsense?” he grabbed a hold of her arms and moved her aside forcibly. She stumbled against the wall distressed. It was a jolt. He jolted her.
“When would you be coming down during our sleep? Come and find out.” she’d asked and laughed at the situation.
She’d leaned toward crazy, she’d lost a bit of her composure living on the edge constantly. Her mind was mechanical where nuts and bolts were gone missing.
The fissure on the bedroom’s floor was about the size of a human skull. The trio was sleeping in that flat room next to the living room for the time being-- having just moved in officially. It was a happy place to crash, she remembered. Viktur lit up his lighter incredulous and flashed it around the musty gap.
“A decent-sized person can crawl underneath the subfloor,” he said.
The scent of the poison rat diffused slightly, the wood certainly been soaked with it. He could see rodents scuttling along the foundation on either side. The cat was observing behaving like a feline and hissed on her way out. Ronan was calling her to come out before they were finished their work. The plan.
“You gonna make her sick.” Maria yearned.
Under the buckled hardwood flooring, there was the hideout and ignored the fact.
“This is the worst-- I ever imagine.” Viktur looked back still laying down.
On the floor, Ronan was watching him closely. His arms were crossed tightly on his chest together slightly shivering. You couldn’t tell or was he just looking at a dangerous man? A sort of man wanted by the FBI. Viktur stood up and draw his back suggesting a foul play. He turned to face him. Ronan was a bit taller. Viktur was stronger.
“We need to support the rim joist at the corner of the house that’s where they get in, Ronan.”
“I can put sandbags to stop the cool air from coming in. It will save the plumbing from bursting,” said Ronan joining him.
“You need to patch this up, winter is coming.” Viktur advocated. “It’s late now.”
Suddendly, Viktur was shouting repeatedly.
“Bro, what are you still doing here? get the shovel and the bags with you to the backward, start digging the garden and pill up the sandbags at the corner to cover the cracks,” called Viktur upon Kieran.
Ronan was gazing at him with wide-eyes over his shoulder-- also instructing Kieran his way in between Viktur’s order, and pointing his finger up of little or no importance.
“Bro, here, get the shovel, start digging your own grave at the backward,” he said a tad dismissing, avoiding to infuriate Viktur.
Though there wasn’t any sandbag to pile up yet. They were empty sandbags, and breaking up solid soil was a challenge for him. Kieran wasn’t to keen to start out to do the digging. He hadn’t done any chores his entire life.
“The ground is too hard.” yelled out Kieran in the cold cowardly. His eyebrows were iced.
It was drizzling and hail was falling on the top of his soaked hair.
He started to feel his skull freezing on top. Kieran was suffering from the first sign of hypothermia, he wasn’t properly geared from-- the dropping temperature.
“Get to work, Kieran. I will get the poison bait.” Viktur yelled by the shattered window. “You don’t mind having a couple of death under the floor, would you?” he said to Ronan.
Kieran did what he’d been told to do for the commune. On the surface, the crystallized turf was still on the greeny/green side and slushy after stepping on it for a period of time.
He was moving planks around the yard to dig a better hole. It was perfect. The ground didn’t totally harden. He realized it had rained and went cold. He dug like he’d scooped ice cream straight from the container, and sped up his pace to keep himself warm. He was in the zone. God, he dug that hole.
One night, Viktur landed beside the house. The trio were using the house as theirs.
Alongside each other, Ronan handed him a cup of coffee to talk it out with a tap on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. He understood and agreed on the shenanigans.
“Good job, bro. You dug deep. Come inside.” said Ronan enlacing him insidiously.
“Get some woods and make a bonfire. Would you?” Viktur said from the back door observing the duo conspiring.
He had doubts of course. They did their best not to overreact to his presence.
“Maria, she’s mine, Viktur.” said Ronan.
The crowbar was made of a dark grey alloy shining rustically. Ronan grabbed it and started to work on the fire. He dislodged the original appalling plank.
Viktur knew that he was dependable.
Kieran and Ronan stacked up the sandbags on the leaning side.
Later that day a week after this week, Viktur was busy leveling the house.
The entrance of the bunker would be secured for now on. They ended up resanding the flooring during that winter.
Leveling the house.
The next day.
Kieran, Ronan, and Maria.
“We found the perfect door,” said Ronan.
But, they were the same doors- returned to its original owner. There were mantal design. It can’t be at least he thought.
“How much did it cost you?” asked Viktur grumpily. He knew it.
“Oh, we installed their connection. The pawnshop, the video store, the peepshows. Have you been there...? In exchange for anything weird caught on tape.”
“I am not a sex perpetrator,” Viktur shouted.
“About hospitals?” asked Ronan quickly diverting the conversation. “We got scrubs and badges. We need to access-- the morgue at Bellevue Hospital. We can look after the medical examiner. If you want.”
Viktur didn’t pay attention any longer. He was deep in thought.
Ronan tried to divert the conversation orbiting other topics.
“Computer power supplies?” Viktur said entering joyfully speeding his cadence.
“We’ll take care of it, Viktur.”
The floor lamp was revamped and painted in gold wired with a dimmer placed in the open area. The antique shade, a clear glass, was found in the house in a closet. The walls were still naked.
The kitchen was in use. The cooking simmered medium-high.
They were ghost hunters in books and tekkie. The floor creaked.
“There is no ghost, Kieran,” Maria said weaning as she squirmed her body girlish from the invisible and roared with laughter during her scream.
The flash made the trick with Ronan’s eyesight, it stood there gazing empitness, indicating wickedness colors. Nothing showed up in the picture. Something had pushed her. He was certain. The entity was making himself known. They were veiled with ignorance surreptitiously. Ronan was influenced by wather lurked around. The psychelelic trip was taken effect still the next day. He made him looked menacing and concise.
“Temperature is going down.” Ronan rippled with her laugh. The viewfinder was shaking.
“It has a mass,” said Viktur having just joining the group. “Check the sound.” Kerian was concentrating mute. “No, use this sensor.”
Kieran laughed and looked at Maria-- holding the sensor in the direction where it seemed a presence was lurking. His composure had to be dynamite.
“We’re in the middle of winter.” he pointed the camera at the dining room.
The sensor went death.
and the frosted window. “Guys, I am hungry here.”
“We can take a break.” Maria agreed.
The pieces of equipment were put back safely in the camera bag.
“Now, can we steal credit card numbers or anything, do something else?” he chuckled widely. “The money, we’re gonna make.”
The next day, more devices were stacked up. The servers were hidden inside the pantry placed onto cafeteria tray carts-- purchased from the restaurant supply store located on Tenth Avenue.
The connections were tied up along the trim to the mainframe inside of the bedroom. They were getting equipped with the latest technology.
“The servers are up and running.” Kieran shushed. “It’s connecting,” he muttered.
“Cellular conversation,” Ronan whispered excitedly. The call went on.
Maria padded her hands together as if to keep them warm.
The camera showed him leaving his building.
Kieran and Ronan were busy setting up another set of servers connecting wires and plugging in the system to remain in the network and they grew on it.
“What do you do inside all day?” asked Viktur realizing the extent of it, and the theft that was involving.
“Geek, geek stuff,” said Maria pointing his thumb behind her, and doing something feminine. The picture printed out from his printer upstairs.
“What is this?” he asked flipping the print.
“We’ll do all that,” she said. “I am busy coding and more.” she tilted her head on the screen with a speakerphone.
“You’re cybernetic punk of evil,” he shouted out daunting. “Where did you get all that stuff?” said unnerved new yorker.
“These are servers. It will help us track-- that would give us an edge,” answered Kieran right way-- steps from him.
“I don’t like how things, turns out here.” he was fatigued. “Am I not-- fast enough.” he stopped being wary. “Give me the damn bait station. Maria. Better be mice, I don’t like being a rat.” Viktur went on mocking her virtue. “Someone rat’s.”
Kieran and Ronan fumbled with the plywood and dropped it on top of the hole. The air suddenly went rushing and covered it with a tapestry, the one that levitate.
“This is an old house.” he dwelled pointing up his finger. “The foundation will be lifted up. I keep the original. They won’t dig the ground. We build up, we rise up.”
It was schematics on the screen, DNA, other scientific pros and not studying it. It tapped in the connection. The barrack was good stuff.
“So, this is just a game to you?” he was angered.
Maria took the last bite at the fried chicken and tossed it out on her plate, crossing her legs on the desk near it.
The chain of events was transmutable.
Ronan was behind the camera his elbows against a tree stump under a hazmat suit and a rubber mask shivering. It was bitterly cold this evening.
“Don’t you go anywhere? Just keep it still.” Kieran said under the twilight also in full gear.
The jumpsuit squealed in the cold temperature. The fisherman stepped back, his legs giving up.
“He’s here.” foretold Ronan and the fisherman was gone.
“We’re doing a film project,” Ronan told the policeman.
“He’s the actor.”
“Had someone jumped in the cold water?”
“Huh. I think you need to disperse, bro.”
“Is it the serial killer again?” Ronan asked without raising suspicion. He was calculating his steps and finally wrapped up with a.
“Let’s go.” that sounded like more of a let go.
He was filming on 35mm, a bit tense.
Ramsay fixed his gaze at his mail slot exuding fearlessness with an interrogative look. He rummaged through it and collected his mysterious package mail. The postage was missing. He ran outside. How he knew it? He saw the human shape ghost of Masul’s eye mingling against the brick wall across the street. Ramsay blinked his eyes, abashed. This was real, a flair, he’d be pursued, running with his knees straightlaced for maximum speed. He ran up the staircase to his floor out of breath. The cd drive slid open from his laptop connected to the web. The disk remained locked in as he pushed in the compartement into the device. It downloaded the program. He clicked on the web link without hesitation curiously morbid.
who are you?
The cursor shimmered on the screen.
did you make contact with him?
we know who you are.
A sizzling silence kicked off, and made him pulled his hair up.
He realized what it would feel like to be scalped alive on an autopsy table.
He pulled himself together.
He was spent.
He figured-- he’d seen a ghost.
The rip sound command.
The adrenaline got the best of him. His hand was tangling with a chin up a can of beer with a squish and drank it entirely with one gulp. He was thirsty. The fermented beverage squelched, his throat sucking up.
This ordeal shattered his bravery and was sheered in pieces, mortally wounded, depriving him suddenly of his good judgment. He’d assumed later. His bobblehead intellect was transformed into a pawn on a diabolical chess piece, infinite. The entity had crossed paths like an afflicting rainbowlike plague trail that put him hanging on thin ice, propelled him into a paranormal universe, walking on it and he never got tired.
The apparition was just insane, almost welcomed, thrilling his guts into butterflies that he was keyed in with a sort of ghost from the internet with a smile, fortunately. He came to the conclusion that he was going to bare the situation head-on collision with the corrupting line of death. Otherwise said the victims of the serial killers. Who knew really? It was the horror of the killings that held him off to crack the case. He was just confused as much as confounded. Why me?
Living it and experiencing it on hand was a major turn of events. This was no longer reading novels and newspaper front-page news.
This was a reality check, he was getting paid, he should have a blast. His stomach turned that day when the fisherman was pulled out from the pier-- like the body was swept back naked frozen with pieces of flesh missing, to where he was last seen in a few days before. It was harshed to watch for him and searched his camera.
The wind came from the Jersey shore, the dark waves generated were menacing. While in stillness the body was floating on the water with a grinning face. He couldn’t quite understand. He took his picture multiple times. The emergency team arrived at the scene, and attracted a crowd of bystanders.
All he had to do was to wait for the coroner to publish his work. It was windy that day of the discovery of the death body. No one noticed it-- stranded to the pier like it never when, nowhere. The estuary was a busy place.
The search stopped immediatly. Ramsay had his contacts on the street like a grid of informators mostly from hot dog stands vendors and ticketers-- making up tips. That was how he got this.
Despite the fact that Ramsay always had a straightforward understanding of the living. To some extent-- having seen black shadows pursuing or running ahead of him, passing through him in front of his own eyes for the past few days wasn’t something that Ramsay would accept as reality per se as his investigation went on.
It could have merely been eye floaters to be the least of his concerns with an ish off a shade. It was plausible and explosive. He hadn’t had a clue. As far as he knew on the subject matter, he was merely a pawn to comprehend his precarious situation. It moved diagonally forward.
At the end of the day, Ramsay would not accept either the fact that it was a curse that afflicted his abilities preventing him to recognize the real world from the underworld. He surrounded the invisible abysmal wrath possessing his
mindset and he wasn’t ready to accept that-- he became a psychic.
It wasn’t a gift from the other side but an affliction causing him pain and crippling him to the bone like-- arthritis of the soul losing control of his gruesome sanity. He was far ahead in/into the game. The finish line where nowhere to be found. He had to make one and break-in. He broke in.
Ramsay rekindled with the world of the normal as he went ahead with this investigation with a clear mind. He blurred out the psychic vision from relapsing his sanity with the methodology-- he picked up from alternative books. Her name was Madam Energy. She was the owner. She read him as confused and in danger of losing himself to let go of some. She told him that she didn’t need her and with time the ongoing situation will resolve one day.
Of course, he’d cursed at the vision of the grayish demises harassing him, now and then, that had finally gotten him to bleed out-- his undermined reasoning. Who wouldn’t? This went on ridiculously, the evil worked on being panned out earthly. The witchcraft was all too familiar. But, it was giving in its power.
For a lapse of time, he kept the apparitions to himself to a certain point and that was the reason it was time to find other professionals of the occult and now query for a book deal. He had enough material to send. He regained confidence. He was at home typing query letter.
Affronting the unknown on his own with the danger hanging over his head-- waiting for the guillotine to come slit his neck and both hands tossing it into a body basket wasn’t a nice picture after all. Was he going to be victimized by this phenomenon?
He was battling of course with an eye on things.
The sequence of events was out of his control. He snapped out at every danger presenting itself with the help of his intuition, preventing his self from getting bodily hurt by calculated misfortune. It was him against the world, he needed to shout out. He wanted to gain his composure because it was unbearable, the visions made him derisive-- that he kept it secret, and on the edge between being crazy, and playing being mentally disturbed.
The incubated quality of the unknown was abrasive and its implication was bestowed on him as a mystery to tackle with tact, not necessarily with an open mind. The physical aspect of the crimes perpetrated was too oblivious to be humanly possible. He was pretty much messed up at this point and didn’t really know where to turn to get support. He was anguished. How could he be handling it?
The investigation was a cold case. No one really wanted to hear about the next victim, it was ignored by the police force and ridiculed. It was swept under the carpet. In any other case, Ramsay was the head of the class. Nevertheless, he persisted with a professional outlook.
Ramsay Graham was born in a nearby town, Mineola, where he completed his career aspiration by graduating in journalism at the Newhouse faculty of Syracuse University. He had lost both parents in a fatal car accident after graduating, and ended up inheriting the property with a large amount of money that he was managing personally not spending it. He was the only heir of a real estate agent and a stay at home mom. The asset that he received permitted him to acquire his high-rise condo, and it was used solely to pay off the loan, property taxes and other fees at a fixed rate-- that’s what he said.
Ramsay was casually made aware that a window of opportunity had opened up internally for an editorial desk on the upper floor directly by his own supervisor. Ramsay was busy with work concentrating on his paper squinting his eyebrows inquisitive, flipping papers around him and placing them on a pile ready to be picked up. He looked stressed out for the rest of the floor.
Mr. Jenson was a tall athletic assertive black American who stood by his desktop that day, wearing freshly ironed clothing.
His hair was cut short, salt and pepper, and was casually dressed in business attire-- with colors accentuating his shimmering skin, and growing black hair still dark.
Ramsay applied knowingly that other applicants were more adept and suitable for the position itself. He was the copy editor of that department ever since he got hired at one of the major daily newspapers downtown. In addition to his skills, he didn’t have any background in criminology. Having graduated in journalism upstate. He’d hoped to have earned a minor in that field. He was daydreaming at this point reminiscing of his past and chasing the bad memories that he kept under a safe never to unlock. His share of demons.
It was a chance to join the editorial team as a journalist on the payroll and to prove himself that he was able to do so. A position that enriched him and added to his status in the circle.
“Who is the editor? Rams?” a female voice whispered behind his ear. He looked back.
Indeed, Ramsay was a fervent reader of crime stories and the stack of books that he read proved it. He was the type ready to make a determined effort to solve a mystery. Being an avid solver of puzzling story had its advantages. He was as tenacious to get down to the truth of things and fervent about it. He was ready to hit the dirt half his knees buried in the pavement and to go on reaching the deep of a story. That was just his gift. A private investigator was growing under the skin.
Early morning somewhat that sunrise was especially blissful, smiley and was catapulted in his early years. Ramsay stopped by the newsstand having a moment with butterflies and grabbed some prints to remediate it. The front page of magazines was terrific to look at and fancied it. He wanted to acquire more than he desired.
At this point, his coworkers were secretly conducting a bet on who would be the best fit to fulfill the position to spice up the end of the day. It was Friday of course. Ramsay was being kept in the dark by his team as well as the other potential candidates, and snooping was a way to make it through the web.
They’d asked them casually as wells as formally, whether or not they dropped their resume at the human resources this week, in the time of their breaks or after having a few pints during happy hours. The bettors were out assessing.
Of course, asking the head of human resources wasn’t a choice at all. Who would think like that?
The bid was opened as soon as the job posting was pinned up on the bulletin board by the human resources. Once posted in plain sight, the company started-- placing bets on the prospective employee in great secrecy. They all played along with the game with great etiquette. Not that anyone had known of, but the odds were good for Ramsay. Some were excluded thought. The management was disqualified from the bet. Mr. Jenson and the other bosses were not participating.
The enterprise was a sort of tradition in the fellowship. The wagers were taken by an outgoing mail boy as he was assigned to keep track of people’s punt off the books.
“You’re on,” he said the money in his hand.
Each bet was logged in individually concealed under nicknames and was to be kept under wraps in the hand of a pocketbook by the score. He got fired for lateness later that month. The money that was then collected-- was kept safe inside a jar marked with a smeared H.R., please feed me money. on a post-it taped around it. The jackpot was to be divided amongst the winners at the end of the day. The gamble was still on and about, but one closed out before the announcement.
After the posted job was removed from the bulletin board came the interviews with a panoply of people.
“Should I give my two weeks’ notice?” was his answer when asked about his job application.
It’s always been a winning commence/start.
For the most part, it was a sort of pledge of allegiance for many fellow workers. The game was equally-- a way of releasing the stress of the week. It went hand in hand by the demanding and stringent deadlines-- for everyone to enjoy the little bit of fun that came along with it. The money would serve well at the alehouse paying rounds at the coming party.
Ramsay spent the last hours leisurely. His peers were glancing at him-- here, now and then, asserting their bet. They were eyeing him by all accounts in plain sight like groupies with stupendous smiles, agreeing to the image, reaching as far from the east to the west coast of cheeks adamantly.
Ramsay’s supervisor Mr. Jenson didn’t allocate him a lot of work that day, and actually, it became thinner as the day went by. He anticipated a lot more considering the situation to bury his mind to it. He could tell that he was getting the runaround every time he’d looked around for more work to do.
Ramsay was spending his free time in rearranging his desk ready for a speculative course of action to move up. He started off reading another chapter of his crime novel for the time being. His mind was hungry for information and was attentive to what went on around him. He was cool-headed though at this point. His work was sent upstairs after completion. Even him, he didn’t know that.
It was a matter of time before the announcement of the recruitment to be announced officially public by the desk editor. The clock was ticking-- and the bidding was off since noon. The suspense and excitement had built up all day long. The entire team was on edge feeling excited.
Time was up.
It was time to break the news by his superiors. They walked by from the upper floor chatting. Their steps were muffled by the carpet, and minutes later they reached their lower floor respectively.
Mr. Jenson showed up from the elevator alone with a finally it’s over expression on his face and relaxed in his own element. He reached out with his pointing finger to an employee harboring a camera hanging on his neck, flipping through the photographs-- he had taken that day on commission. He got hired by Jenson himself.
Mr. Jenson continued his floorwalker demeanor with long strides toward his office. The crime photographer followed comfortably in a distance with a brisk walk. The door slammed shut behind Mr. Jenson shattering everyone’s feelings into a state of stupefaction. They kept busy glancing at Ramsay quickly unsettled.
The set of circumstances that led to this state of affairs, the group had hoped for and had in mind was startling and questionable. One dared to say in the crowd. This situation was ironic. It was a lunch meeting everyone knew. They kept busy in nut shell almost cringing in his direction. It was a political game underneath the tone.
Ramsay kept concentrating on the page, he was reading shaking on the grip. His mind was mingling for crying out loud, scraping his third eye merely humanly possible, scratching off his forehead instead. By closing his eyes, imagery shot up. The meaning of words kept slipping through his mind like scooping water with his bare hand. With the water running through his fingers and squelching in thirst-- happiness running through his body would do. He smiled at her outlook.
Ramsay recognized that his workload was not like a normal day of course. He sighed. It added to the weight of the news to come next. At this point, he wished that he hadn’t applied for the job but quickly sent off that train of thought to hell. He was genuinely pleased.
“Do your best, it’s almost over.” she said.
The period waiting entertained a feeling of the hastiness of a coma patient to realize his fatidic faith in wakening from lethargy. The end of the day was wrapping up and the rolled out red carpet was ready. The following week was taking a new shape. Monday was around the corner and coming soon/faster with only a few days ahead. How he’d wished to assert with an insight? A new pay period was going to unfold evolving into something revelatory.
The pages that Ramsay appraised and completed since this morning were picked up from his desk during his lunchtime. When he came back from enjoying his meal at the nearby park, a new batch of documents was placed on the paper tray waiting for him to work on with a crossword.
The assistant agreed that it demonstrated that Ramsay liked to keep his mind busy in the interim. He was on a coffee spell drinking it from a regular mug that he purchased down the street at the dollar store on Broadway. He’d noticed again to such a degree that the number of pages was less than previously handed over at the beginning of his shift. It made him perplexed. He scored and was getting hot. The paper assigned stacked on the tray, she’d worked on it already.
He could tell that was her writing style and amused him wittily. He reconsidered his position.
The thickness of it was clearly thin and his workload was completed done right before his fifteen minutes break. He re-examined them one last time before handing it over to the assistant. He was through with his deadline by mid-afternoon and was looking to unwind during the day with a lump on his throat.
Ramsay looked up at her turning his nose up. His jaw was well defined with a growth under his chin that was perfectly sculpted.
“To take it easy, Rams, for the rest of the day,” Mr. Jensen’s assistant mumbled close to his ear slinky with a wishing tone-- collecting the documents from the letter tray and strode in the department with a playful call me attitude.
Ramsay had stopped working-- taking into account that he was being considered strongly by the management. The signs were everywhere inside his overwhelmed mind frame. He had enough of the waiting game. He suddenly remembered the feeling from a distant past and matchmaking it to what he felt that day making a loophole of it. Life experiences, he needed more.
The memory hit and became uneasy like a child waiting desperately for his parents to bring him a brand new bike from the retail store. The bike that he wanted badly enough to open a layaway account under his name with the sole owner of the bike shop-- having convinced him not to tell his parents for his acquirement. As soon as his parents heard of it, they bought it back at the bargain price without his knowledge. His dad was in real estate. He had a watchful eye on things.
Ramsay only intended to acquire the bike from his own money earned from cutting neighbors’ grass. He hadn’t asked permission from his parents to make such a purchase. He’d known well enough to be this assertive with what life had for him set on a plate of gold. He wasn’t sure whether or not his parents bought it back to return it to shelf, indeed the bike was in the back of the car. Sooner, he’d seen the color of the item, and sitting on the saddle was gratifying for him.
Ramsay was never touched by the demeaning world and the confiscated bike like this. Always echoing, evolving around graduation. Summer went by fast. July. The beach. The coastline. He rode the bike. Could it be coincidental? Ramsay got hired in the summertime, promoted, and signed as a represented writer, during summer of this year. Was he just that lucky all the time? He’d always be in a cocoon. The world demeanor was out of reach, faster than light.
One applicant, another aspirant journalist, was packing up his documents and belongings inside a storage box. As he emptied out his drawer and the surface of his desk in eagerness steadily dumping his stuff in the box. He finally rested on it withdrawn with sweet bitterness by reticently putting the lid on top of it and fainted collapsing consequently with closing eyes.
While a few desks away, a coworker was folding a piece of paper in half. A paper airplane flew overhead thrown in his direction. The crafted flying object traveled through the air overhead gracefully. It came to hit his head landing directly on the top of his neck in a straight line and was made fun of with laughter. It was a pure act of foolishness.
It was the light day for Ramsay. The sky was as bright wherever he decided to. He intended to. At the end of the day, after the intriguing chain of events had been almost put out for everyone to see. He’d already put the situation behind him. As Ramsay was preparing to leave his desk to step out for a minute. His direct supervisor suddenly came to meet him. By the time his shift ended that Friday, he was called in and invited to meet with the managing editor.
Ramsay looked up at him and was subjugated. Mr. Jenson had all eyes on him. The space filled with excitement straight away. Mr. Jenson stood there bewildered asserting the situation, the way to bring up the news when suddenly Ramsay was struck by a fluttering mix of emotion and simmered down.
“What did I do? Did the others got a call?” he answered in good spirits.
“Not that I know of,” he answered conveniently.
Mr. Jenson was a tall man with a good posture who returned to his office from a lunch meeting a short time ago. It was public knowledge anyway. He was accompanied by a crime photographer that attended to take the snapshot.
Now, the assistant had joined the group leading center stage with a congratulations balloon bouquet and a bottle, standing next by the pieces of equipment-- hit the marquee. They prepared, the next move. The floor became on edge filled with excitement quasi-bursting out.
“Are you interested to work upstairs, Ramsay?”
“Heck, I do. Sir.”
Ramsay was getting ready to stand up with a bit of sadness or to join the party afterward.
“I am gonna leave a little bit early if you don’t mind.” he wasn’t complaining of all the attention.
Mr. Jenson was attentive his head leaning on one side complacent.
“Remember that I hired you.” he giggled on edge of cooing.
Mr. Jenson had a toothpick in his mouth with his tongue moving it around. It explained the amount of time-- he took him to answer his gaze. He was still a rookie of course entangled in the office gossip worth talking about in a meeting. His supervisor was chewing on the piece of wood breaking it apart and removed it. The bin was on the side of the desktop and aimed at it.
“Ramsay, the big boss needs to see you before you go.” his supervisor went on with a hint of a smile.
“What?” he said gusting it in-- with a flabbergasted state.
Ramsay’s heart fluttered. Hid brain was scanned.
He frowned concentrating on gravity and lifted one sphere from his Newton’s cradle and let go of it. He regained his confidence. The champagne popped far away.
“Maybe you should get ready for a big raise,” Mr. Jenson prompted him-- cluing him. “You don’t need to clock out.” he finished with a broad grin with his arm reaching Ramsay’s shoulder.
“Come. We need to take a photograph.” and went on.
Ramsay rearranged his hairdo rapidly, a thunderbolt, had hit his mindset-- shutting it off.
The whole department had switched their attention, working with the flickering of papers between their fingers, diminishing then stopping. Their jaws dropped in stupefaction. .One ear was holding a pen-- staying behind not following the party and another ended up with a paper cut.
The phone rang dubiously on an unoccupied desk and was left unanswered.
The majority of his coworkers were standing in on their feet. The whole floor exuded evil.
A passing game miss have them.
It was the big news, they were waiting for days on end. The city news coverage was attributed to Ramsay Graham. They walked together toward the white vinyl backdrop like animals behaved in the wild following. The flash. A cute face. A crowd amassed. The champagne was pouring in small plastic cups.
“One for H.R.” said the assistant.
“Go ahead, Ramsay.” he held his fist up as a bro hand gestures.
Ramsay was off to the races.
“Say hi to him from my part.” another shouted jokingly in the back of the gathering.
“Congratulations, Ramsay.” a female coworker shouted cheerfully and the whole floor started applauding. It would be the last applause on this floor.
“Nice meeting you, Rams’.” the photographer crossed his arms against his chest wiggling his head. He was younger. The mouth was widely speechless. Ramsay nodded overwhelmed and saw the flashing vision with a doppelganger.
Ramsay was heading out. It was time to turn the pages to start fresh on a new journey.
Ramsay was ready to accept the position and felt an energy shifting around him with an undeniable sense of urgency that came flowing in him.
He took his first step undeniably comfy.
He was a brand new crime reporter as in an editorial staff member after being promoted the day before yesterday but Friday after his shift had ended as a copy editor on the job.
It was time to turn the page, a new era began. As he was walking out from the elevator by stepping on the elevator sill floor, and directing himself towards his desktop.
He encountered a broad smile and a few good mornings along the way.
he searched for his desktop, juggling with a box and a coffee mug. It was Monday morning. The rays of the sun shone through the windows.
Ramsay began receiving materials on a case sooner than later. He sighted a manilla envelope sitting on his desk shining like a gold nugget and was addressed to him-- that struck him as odd on the first day.
He piqued his curiosity very much.
The kind of delivery that made him aware that it was deliberately bad news. As a matter of fact, he spotted it right off the bat.
His name was misspelled on the front side of the mysterious package-- seemingly delivered anonymously at the Daily News by internal mail over the weekend. The handwriting was sluggish and made in a hurry. Ramses Ingram.
Ramsay dropped his newspapers promptly that he’d picked up on his way to work right beside it. He sipped on his cup of coffee and observed. He was anticipating his next move moderately thinking.
“What is this package?” he murmured to himself inquisitively. “A letter bomb.” not that he’d seen one before.
Ramsay turned his head scanning at his surroundings cautiously. He jerked his body up and flinched his eyes-- flipping the envelope in the air with his fingers nearly as though it was hazardous. It wasn’t sealed. The world spun around him someone must’ve been prying on him. He purposefully unlatched the clasp envelope from the hole and examined it carefully-- cringing at the sight. He clenched his teeth ever so slowly, firmly-- taking a second glance and pulled half one out. His eyes were horrified and whooshed on one side. A coworker came to congratulate him. They knew each other.
“Print news team, huh?” the lad said. “Welcome on board,” he said hanging out.
“Where is the office’s manager?” he’d asked as if formally.
Ramsay searched thoroughly, and distinguished pictures mingled with legal documents.
Death bodies, mutilated and bloodied. Ramsay showed it to him in confidence, and his coworker pointed out-- leaning forward in the direction with his head. Ramsay went his way discreetly.
“I’d caught up with you later,” his coworker said a bit stunned.
The editorial team was busy to kick start for the day and traces of the promotion party still lingered in the office since last Friday. He went to the cleaning lady.
“Can you clean up this mess before I come back from the meeting? Thank you,” he said on the way to the copy room. She just nodded.
Ramsay went straight to the executive editor’s office to ascertained as to why and how that ended up on his desk. He doublebacked.
The unknown that someone had the upper hand on his situation-- had built up in him. His heart, his cheeks, and his head was about to blow out with bloody rage at once. Ramsay was simmering with fury internally. The probability that someone wanted to take a shot at him was likely. It was a gruesome find without question.
Ramsay had a feeling that was blackmailing perpetrated against him. He hadn’t been put to work yet. He had a preference to go with the proper channel. It was radically done. The mug got stuck on the coaster as he drank his coffee. It felt on the carpet annoyed. He will pick it up once he finished with the content of the manilla envelope. He needed to have a conversation with his new director thoroughly and the thought of his deceased parents came immediately.
Ramsay walked toward the executive editor’s office confidently and knocked on the door with three polite thumps. He listened attentively for any sounds that may occur. It was quiet. Mr. Larson wasn’t used to having a knock first thing on Monday morning. He was a caucasian man of an american family. He gained a little bit of weight around the waist after the birth of his second child. He was businesslike. The gym membership was included in the package used during his traveling interstate or abroad. He hadn’t used it for a while.
“Come in.” he said.
As Ramsay entered the office, Mr. Larson was busy attending his plants.
“Good morning, Ramsay. Please have a seat.” he continued after an inviting pause.
“Good morning, Mr. Larson. Sorry to be so early with this. But, I need to talk to you.”
“Are you ready to submit your article.” said the editor-in-chief improvising and chuckled. “What have you been working on?”
“I haven’t started yet.” Ramsay kept his composure. “Have you sent me a file overnight, it arrived on my desk.” he tried to read him, “to start the investigation on the story, sir?” said Ramsay contentious. “Did you send me the manilla envelope?” he taunted still tantalizing the boss by slapping at the find.
Mr. Larson was contemplating.
“No, and the mail boy hasn’t started his shift yet. I was here in the wee hours and we have other headlines to cover Ramsay.” and finally asked. “What do you have in your hand, Ramsay? Let me see.”
Ramsay complied with humility and handed it over.
“Let’s have a look at it. I barely reviewed it.”
The envelope slide in a circular movement. Mr. Larson reflected on the contents free of aggravation. Time stood still.
“Come and see this.”
Ramsay went side by side. Mr. Larson laid out the file on the working surface while they remained silent. Three of the coroner’s reports laid down with three different names.
“We are going to call security to investigate in that matter, Ramsay. Are they the original copy?”
Mr. Larson continued confidently putting the pieces together.
“It certainly looks like it,” Ramsay added up with certainty.
“You haven’t started the day and you already broke the law.” he acknowledged the implication.
“Pardon me, sir. We are in the middle of a blackmailing situation here.”
“I will send it to our lawyers to look into it, don’t worry, you’ll have a copy and we will discuss it at our editorial meeting in thirty minutes. I am here to delegate you, tasks, then,” he said concentrating.
“I will see you then,” Ramsay added before adding.
Mr. Larson continued giving directives.
“I am going to make a few phone calls to get the words out. No worries.” he looked up from his seat and stopped his move.
Ramsay was getting to leave the office. He swiftly seized the envelope with the file inside.
“We can start an investigation?” he added to end the investigation on paper. On the other end, it was a totally different story wrapping up.
“Thank you, Mr. Larson.”
They didn’t shake hands and hurried to the copy room. The phone rang. Mr. Larson had it all memorized.
Ramsay accessed the meeting room still early. The chain of events happened hastily. The continental breakfast was served on a table. He spread the cream cheese on his toasted bagel and crunched on it pleasurably. A bagel made from Brooklyn was indeed a local delicacy. The copies of the file were on the table in front of him. Mr. Larson started the meeting.
“As we all already know, we are proud to welcome new addition to our team. Ramsay Graham. This is his first day, and I indulge to welcome him to our team.”
They applauded politely. Ramsay nodded his head.
“I am asking to drop the case.” said next to his. “My picture is on it-- every day,” he said pleased to have Ramsay on board.
“Not everyone reads the daily papers.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Oh, I was going to ask you the same question.”
Then, Mr. Larson stopped-- taking a round at everyone taking steps behind attendees.
“Today, we have a special case to look after.” Mr. Larson started. “We are a tabloid intended to shock the public.”
Everyone murmured at each other.
“Our new staff member had a visit over the weekend. You can bring the documents to the meeting. Ramsay.”
Ramsay passed along.
“I am shocked by the story, it’s worth writing articles on it.” and waited for a while. “They were the originals. We returned them to the police for investigation. This is real information. Thank you, Ramsay.”
Their reaction was to it.
“You can leave the copies after the meeting. I’d pick them up.” Ramsay added on his feet.
The meeting was spotless.
“We have received three reports-- illegally.” he took another breath. “It was delivered on Ramsay’s desk. We have relevant expertise to take legal action. Does anyone know about this?” continued Mr. Larson.
The meeting room was dimly quiet.
“The coroner’s reports or part of and it revealed that the victim of the killer-- was pumped out of their blood.” he paused to have a good look at the round table. I guess everyone has seen and read the file already.” they nodded, “delegating tasks during the day is my main priority.”
The assignment was prompted to Ramsay as a first assignment. The deal was done.
“Thus, his source remained anonymous and illegal. They were sent to him by blackmail before the coroner would actually produce it. We need to be tact on that. I sense a high profile story,” he said finally. “There are three deaths. Three files.”
The implication of such an acquirement put the case as a top story list to follow.
The copy of the coroner’s report that Ramsay obtained wasn’t legally acquired. It was cleared out at the meeting.
The mean of the death, broken neck and clavicular fracture.
The next one died of trauma in the head.
The quantity of blood is unaccountable for.
Blunt trauma broken neck.
Broken neck. Pool of blood found at the scene.
The bloodstain pattern was unremarkable divulged in the report.
Exsanguination or bled to death.
Severe loss of blood.
The list went on.
Obviously, Ramsay was chosen to investigate and been guided by the unseen perpetrators.
The files went around the table.
After the meeting, it was time for a new fresh start.
The conspiracy didn’t really take off. As soon as Mr. Larson perceived that the majority accepted.
“Ramsay, I entrust you with the story, and please, investigate the string of murders perpetrated throughout the city according to the laws.”
All the information shimmered inside Ramsay’s mind and consumed by it. His mind was corrupted. The stakes were high and his life might be in jeopardy to be involved in that manner. For the time being, he was plunged into the madness of the crimes perpetrated against the city. The manner of deaths. His mind recapped. At least, Ramsay was not a coward, he promised to get ahead of the killing. He pledged that his sanity was going to be unperturbed after seeing black shadows stripping his common sense. An adventurous enterprise risen.
Ramsay was careful enough not to get too worked up with this last vision. His common sense led his investigation to turn up paranormal. A blood drinker. He wasn’t a reporter any longer more like a private investigator involved in a crime story that involved a lot of risk with serious consequences ahead of him.
They knew his identity,
he was the journalist for a major newspaper in the city, but all was edited at the end.
He had the freedom of writing-- his own research. Taking risks was an option.
At the comfort of his home office, Ramsay Graham stared at his computer screen unabashed. He gasped holding his armrests glued on his rolling chair. The weight of his body sunk deeper in shit. He was awestruck by the dreadful find, another one. His heart pounding with infamy, struck by the finding. The monitor turned on maliciously. He’d had enough for tonight. He didn’t click on the link. He despaired and turned off the computer to laid down on the bed. The computer rebooted later, on the screen. He woke up. He transferred money.
Where do you think you are going?
The cursor flashing. He clicked on it. The picture downloaded.
“What was he wearing?” he tried to recall and got busy.
The picture was removed suddenly from the screen view.
The figure of a man with fishing gear was on the photograph around the time of his disappearance.
The fisherman was on the photograph with his fishing gear strolling on the street before his disappearance or maybe after.
Of a man walking at the pier that ressembled the fisherman.
Ramsay pointed out at the picture.
He didn’t save the file scared that it would screw up his laptop. The print was grainy.
Send me the original.
Ramsay transferred money.
The screen typed the address and a room number for the appointment.
He will check the hotel and wait for the delivery.
There was a bit of a fight going on.
CHAPTER 10They met at the hotel the night after, acting as the delivery guy, he brought the negative in envelope postage paid.He had his own business and he was weird.A Japanese Korean expert meat cutter and just doing his job.Worked at a restaurant and delivered packages at night.They didn’t talk much.It was the same clothing, he wore the day of his disappearance.His hand was tingling with a pinting knife.His hand was tingling with a pinting knife.Maria set him up online for a hitman.Ramsay answered.interested.“We’re puttin’ in. we’re puttin’ in.” she sang it.“His own death.” he retorted.***The knife was his choice of arm.Ramsay typed in an answer.I’d describe a Japanese like a scarecrow machine. It worked.He got his answer in Japanese.The illuminated manuscript was in the vault at a private bank.The engineering processed.
“They don’t come to caves anymore?”
Viktur was held against his will and he was duck taped to a chair tightly.
“Maybe he had superhuman power.” said Ronan.
They wanted to be in the know.
Viktur was captured by some means. He’d been on that to a chair for long.
He was terrorizing the girl.
Therefore, a very long time-- they were antagonizing him.
The chain-smoker crushed his cigarette on the floor gazing at the screen.
The EKG machine was turned on and bipping alike humans.
“Who are you? Can you break the chair?”
The nodes were applied under the grey tape. They knew he landed that night after a ball of light and damaged the corner of the house.
They were signs of stabbing trought the tape in multiple areas and smeared in blood.
“I don’t know,” Kerian said not that he doubted himself to do the job. “He’s not normal.” the light kept swinging like a pendulum.
His body cramped against the back of the chair.
The chair creaked on the floor.
Viktur choked up.
It was the fatal stab.
His mouth was ducttaped, air whoosing up from the nostril, he communicated with his eyes. His eyes reaching corners.
“Keep the knife. Keep stabbing.” scowled Ronan.
The noise went sluggish bloody, spurting a bit insane. He didn’t expect the stabbing.
“Don’t let him.”
Viktur looked at Maria gasping for air. She went to clean up.
“Why he is not dying,” Maria said anguished.
She frowned reading the ancient book revealing bits of the magic.
In the end, Maria, Kiernan, and Ronan buried him under a pile of planks.
“The heist of the millennium.”
He came back from death. Under the grave in the backyard, he started to revive but nobody was there to witness. He waited for the right time. A pile of planks were put on top of the grave. Three days, it was the rules and started freeing himself from the mud. It was raining hard that night. He was going to teach them a few things to the alchemists. Viktur signed.
They stood in the room awkwardly, Maria limping an ankle against the wall, she stood near the far corner with anguished rubbernecker look, a pile of rubbish, not necessary. She smacked her quite hard. Ronan was mad. He knew better not to mess around with his boss.
They went ahead to finalize the transaction.
Andy McGregor was on the list. Maria was the bait.
“Andy calmed down,” she asked again.
Andy was now being discharged from the emergency room at Belleview Hospital.
“We should get a cab-- a drool in Brooklyn, I pay your way, you get a cab home,” said Andy.
Two fingers was pushing against her lips. “you want money, you got win it.”
“No, I have a better idea.”
They ran at the nearest train station wanting to ride to Brooklyn.
He got hurt by Masul’s attack. A direct push. He wouldn’t believe it later. But, they escaped from the direct attack. The robotic was coming after him. Maria was at his side. Andy went upstairs on Smith Street. She ran after him protectivily. The doors closed behind her. Andy was only looking for friends. He was a drunkard.
“What do you want?” he said. The world turned around.
“Looking for friends?” she laughed.
His eyes narrowed so thin. She bumped into him.
“I am getting cigarettes? wait for me.” she went to the 24hours Locksmith services inside.
Kerian and Ronan was at the bar.
Andy McGregor was at the bar buying a round. The place was cool.
Each received what they ordered that was his turn to pay.
Kieran paid one round and ignored him.
“Were you on this side of this planet?” Andy said.
He took his drinks to the table.
They had a copy of his apartment’s key and the mail slot.
Maria put it back in his vest and brushed his shoulder.
“I need you to make a phone call.” and played with her hair, playing. She was sexy with her leather jacket, she was not gothic, just sexy brunette.
“You got hurt pretty hard.”
He got home with no book that night. No possession.
He woke up the next morning aching.
His memories of the heist of the millennium went blank, and it made sense to him he had too much to drink again. It was blank, not that it mattered.
Today, he might stop off at the pub for a break or for lunch and query about the night before to the bartender. He’d had to wait for his next shift because he didn’t own a phone. He never showed up for work after that night. He closed up the place with taking his cash, never to be heard again, they didn’t have an address for him. He was getting his money under the tap. The restaurant bar was quick to move around.
It was days later, this was unusual for Andy to let himself go this far up in a messy affair.
He didn’t need a business card. He kept it to himself in a lump.
“It wasn’t here.” The manager answered him.
His bartender buddy a bit bruised was not here to hear about it.
“The guy disappered, he was told not to come back.” he looked at the staff.
“You drank all night. Bro, by yourself.” he shrieked maybe not true. “You looked pretty shook up. “You got hit in the head or something.” he kept going.
“He was drinking and talking by himself the whole night, and drinking with imaginary friends.”
Andy coudn’t understand.They were pitched in the black.
“You were under a spell,” it was a lie growing under envy.
July 4th, 1993.
The white noise of New York City resounded undoubtedly expecting for a scorching sunny morning. The sun had just risen on the congested city. The sky over the skyline of the city seemed fair. Many commercial jetliners and other aircraft fly above the Brooklyn Bridge leaving behind a stream of engine exhaust contrails, fast forwarded in the fabric. Birds’ chirping mixed with airwaves that are broadcasted simultaneously in devices. A bit of traffic news. The radio transmission screeched on the air, into another station. Also, 911 calls were tapped on. Police sirens wailing, scrambled out with the one of a firefighter truck signaling its presence and faded into somewhat a calming white noise again of a television set receiving no signal.
By the Jersey shore, the airspace at the airport amassed a sluggish hazy smog and was congested. A group of construction workers tarred the rooftop aloof, spreading out the black viscous substance evenly onto the surface. The slamming of hammer stopped while a police car wailed along with the commotion. A noisy chopper circling the sky took first prize of who made most of the pandemonium.
Ramsay Graham prepared his breakfast inside his elongated kitchen with a full view of the twin towers. Behind his manly shape, the coffee maker infused-- steaming the last drop of the columbian mixture. The bacon were searing and cracked the eggs. The sliced bread popped up nicely toasted, misty.
The narrative that tuned in to come out well of his psyche monopolized his mind. His blue eyes and his dark curly hair with his caucasian complexion were formidable. He knew all eyes were on him and dug in on his plate with a gulp of his orange juice. He roughly reached out for a pen with a mouthful, breadcrumbs fell off from his mouth. The characters found a way to manifest itself, materialized into printing words.
Ramsay poured a second cup of the brew into his favorite coffee mug, bought during a trip in Rio de Janeiro. The pure infusion of the freshly ground coffee bean perked up his allure and mindset. He tore up two packs of his favorite brown sugar brand and crowned his concoction pouring the milk without stirring the mix. He stared at his notes feeling confidently positive.
Ramsay was optimistic, and, all organized ready to depart for the office as he was fully dress ed wearing professional attire, and stumbled across his briefcase, he handled his publishing contract with caution and lodged it in the organizer.
As he stepped down on Bleecker Street, the typical rowdy noise of the city broke out from all directions like multiple needles launched at him, poking his thick skin as he grew one over the year.
Ramsay took off in one direction, and, quickly set off. Across the street, blue collars looked up under the scaffolding at a construction site. Some jackhammer drilling nearby, and blasting-- a pounding noise, scowled inside his grey matter, frowned upon his face in great displeasure. Impatients driver honked altogether as the light turned green beside the barricades protecting workers of/from speeding cars. A summer breeze brought calm in the commotion.
Located at the corner of the street, Ramsay swiftly gained access the coffee shop at once. The bell on the top of the door made a ringing sound in confidence. The bistro was besieged by the local hipsters-- a morning crowd. Music jazz blared out from high-tech speakers, and conversations are aloud. Ramsay lined up in order to purchase his coffee inside the artsy place and looked up at the well-lit coffee menu-- fixed against the wall. Ramsay made his choice. The female barista kindfully worked the register with a warming smile, seemingly happy.
“Can I have a short blond and cream, please.’’ asked Ramsay and tendered his money.
“Anything else, sir? A sandwich? Muffin?” The barista replied invitingly.
“Thank you. I am fine. Keep the change.”
Ramsay managed to open the door, sipping on his cup of coffee on the way out. The bell jingled twinkly at once with the right push of the door.
A strong wind gusted at the murmuring leaves of the growing tree. On the green, many birds flickered underneath the overgrown grass unseen. From a distance, Ramsay walked through the park. His leisurely stomp slowed down in pace, and came to a halt near the troupe of canines, handled by an acquaintance dog walker. As he kneeled down with a stroke on a puppy, he tripped avoiding to step on the rest of them.
“I am getting one.” he said while padding his pockets.
Luckily, the canines gather again yapping, getting closer to him with happy wagging tails, the nose tipped up, and sniffing the earthy ground. He realized fondling one.
“Darn, I don’t have enough, goodies, for all of you.” he said by and picking up his favorite breed.
“What kind of breed is this one, here? They are growing up, fast. Oh, look at this cutie.” his request was left unanswered.
The female rough collie crunched the treat under the side of her flews, the leashed dog trotted with him. The dog walker hauled the dogs towards him gently and kept going the opposite way.
Ramsay hailed a cab zealous with a belligerent manner, a few yellow cabs drove by carelessly and in a hurried way. The breaks screeched piercing the tympanic membrane, the cab decelerated into a complete stop. Always enthusiastic, Ramsay jumped into the vehicle, set in motion. He shutted the door loudly. The scent of the leather comfy backseat, well, relaxed his nerves, stretched out one arm at the discarded newspaper with nonchalant concerting look, and flipped at the rattling cab speeding up. The taximeter set down.
“Can you take me, alive, uptown?” he asserted.
The taxicab accelerated a bit more gaining with the traffic pace.
“Si, senor.” the driver didn’t look the part and Ramsay didn’t know a word of spanish.
The cab driver turned at his right mirror to check all his angles afterward. The cab gained its momentum steady in the race with the bumper cars. Ramsay read his article comfortably enjoying his ride. He was a crime journalist investigating a number of murders in the city somewhat linked together because a number of clues were left behind, subtle.
Behind the rear window, the clarity of the blue sky embellished the typical front brick of tenement buildings with black painted emergency stairs, placed on the front facade. The driver stomped on the break with a honk and accelerated once again, leading on the other lane to the next light. With the leather backseat screeching under his weight, Ramsay was distraught nonetheless apprehensive and comfy-- jungling with his coffee into his mouth. He looked out by the window for places-- stressing out.
The cab driver concentrated on his phone call, head down calmness radiated from him.
“Si, que passo.” he said turning his steering wheel to the right and repositioned his headset. He continued his conversation with his acoustic fitted securely in his ear canal, striving to listen and turned his attention to the right apparently checking the blind spot. Ramsay immerged into his reading. The cab driver accelerated with a few honks to turn left--next avenue, and drove around pedestrians as he’d pleased, bumming around them. He honked twice, the second less persuasive.
Further away, the morning flash shower started pouring down from low hanging dark gray clouds. The birds that landed on the branches chirped and wambled at the ground with its avian magnetic vision. The hose came out from the power steering pump. The taxicab swindled like a road hog. The steering oil leaked from the undercarriage of the car with the loosen tube quivering of liquid by the oil pressure, a bent wheel.
Inside the car interior, he lost control of the steering wheel, stomped on the brake pedal, bumped into a pothole, and veered erratically into the crowd hitting parked cars instead. The brake didn’t work either, misbehaving. His feet under the gas pedal, he clutched at his seatbelt. The steering wheel kept turning on its own into the parked cars, then to other vehicles moving from the opposite direction. The vehicle was in motion cowardless and passed by rubberneckers tumbling by the reckless driving and rushed into at the unfortunate incident in the making ahead of themselves.
On the dashboard, the engine icon lit red, and the fuming hood caught on fire. The gas pedal malfunctioned under his feet, and, went deliberately, accelerated tapping over a tree, with riders panic in the back seat. The driver just fell off the turnip truck. The shaken passengers unable to get out, screamed for help, and frantically tried to find a way to open the door. The sole of sneakers stomped on the window, and, the fists of a young female thump on the other side, the door locking system got damaged during the ramming.
The window finally shattered saving the young tourist couple’s life. The hood positioned itself facing up to the sky, the head light gazed high. As the back tires still ran from the engine at full speed, the driver was out timely confused to have collided in such a way against a tree. The shaken pedestrians leaned on other cars while the ambulance weaved slowly on the free lane.
The hood was blazing hot, and, the crowd kept their distance from the fire. The cars trapped bumper to bumper in the traffic jam, honked repeatedly holding the traffic to a standstill. Ramsay was intrigued that the pace had slowed down drastically. They were shaken, he could see them from a distance from his seat.
Ramsay fumbled into his pocket. His leather wallet looked new-- like a teen just bought it for himself and flipped through cash money to pay for his ride to the cabby.
“I have to get off here. Right here. I don’t know-- what’s ahead of us?” he said concentrating on the amount to pay.
The taximeter charged and printed the receipt with the cheery whirring sound. The cab driver quickly tore the receipt up and turned. Ramsay tendered the money a bit disappointed, and offered him a tip caringly. As he got off by jumping over a puddle, he landed on both feet onto the dry pavement that the sun had dried out. His shoes were waxed nicely.
Ramsay slammed the door to get his balance and with no regards whatsoever the cab driver performed a U-turn, and accelerated into the next block.
Ramsay was ready to roll-- scoffing:
“Humph. Keep the change, please. Thank you.” and walked off toward the nearest subway station with people hustling his way in. The driver of a vehicle honked and yielded to pedestrians rushing to cross the last few feet briskly.
Ramsay was ready to take a seat inside the train car before the platform cleared out of commuters. Promptly, a homeless lady sat down right next to him almost bumping him out of the way with her cart shopping, dragging it to her side. The train accelerated methodically like a normal ride during another typical morning rush hour. The train was out of the tunnel. The weather was fantastic.
The homeless lady mumbled practically chanting-- looking down, fidgeting with her fingers as if she was knitting, searching crushed rock inside her handbag. She stared happily at Ramsay smiling with yellow stained teeth. Ramsay forcibly ignored the crack addict to her business as well as the other MTA riders staring at the scene. He glimpsed at the bag.
At full speed, an express train passed by on the express lane. At the same moment, Ramsay’s local train with the hissing of the brakes entered the subterranean transportation road driftly, leaving behind a trail of their presence, drew to his amnesiac attention. In the shadowing light of the car, she addressed some words to some ghostly being in ritual mannerism. The malevolent demons were unlatched to venture out freely in the human realm for Masul’s plan, and adapted to the train rail system. A very ancient entity that invented blood. A typical jaded new yorker won’t budge.
The lady unrolled the garment methodically. From the vintage scarf, she pulled out a knife for protection with a crack pipe and covered it with her garment quickly after filling it. The other riders took turns to scrutinize at the scene completely baffled. This incident was pointless and to go unnoticed.
Inside his cubicle, the unsuspecting conductor safely decelerated into the underground station. The commuters sporadically spread out along the rail to catch their ride some walked up the stairs for transfer. The train finally stopped at the end of its course.
The straphangers inside the train moved quickly dispersing on the platform. The other riders evacuate the train passing through in between cars-- most rapidly. Ramsay got off frankly. The train car was almost empty now, someone reached out to a policeman passing the information to the officer next station. He jumped on the train walking toward the car. Ramsay left the station. The turnstile spinned. The train continued on schedule for the morning rush hour.
The orchestra was playing music graduation with a steady flow. The line was continuously moving. May was wearing a gown and a graduation cap with a broad smile. The reading of the student’s name was a wait as she stepped on the stage. Her natural hair swayed. The mezzanine was occupied entirely by relatives and friends. She was thrilled to be there.
A series of applause cheered her up smiling in return at the crowd, a group of friends stood up. May was next. The lighting was dimmed, concentrated on the podium.
“Graduating with a Bachelor in Communication with mention.” it was a note. She glanced at the auditorium. She was popular of course.
She glided toward the podium to receive her bachelor’s degree and hats were being tossed out in her mind and smiled happily. They applauded. May felt butterflies in her stomach. She was delighted to attend her graduation and leaned as a gesture of respect. It was a dream that came true. Disneyland’s gate open up in front of her with fireworks. She was excited.
“Graduating was easier said than done.” said May at her interview. “Why do you ask? I joined the team today. I am glad I’d stayed in contact with the agency.”
Everyone knew the delight underneath her academic gown. The ballroom was perfect. May was exquisite and gorgeous wearing a white strapless jumpsuit with beige high heels underneath the gown, her footwear looked beautiful on her manicured toes in magenta color. She was high class not a gold digger. Her body was tight.
“I am going to New York tonight?” she announced to her friend with a laugh, breathing out.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” she dazzled at her finger food plate.
“There isn’t enough job with you around, Liz?” she laughed the ridicule causing her to flinch one side.
“Where are you going to live?” she answered almost mockingly as she bite at the appetizer.
“I found a sublet in Brooklyn for the summer, three months stay. Option to lease agreement.” she lasered in at the crowd.
“Brooklyn.” she shrieked. “You don’t even have a phone number.” she said munching the rest in her mouth.
“I got a pager, a new york paget number and quarters.” she went on. “I have a ticket for a boxing match tomorrow night. I can’t miss it and an airline ticket that my aunt gave me for my graduation present.”
“Have you made plan of any sort?” she’d asked earlier, sipping her drink filled with ice, ignoring her statement or instead eyeballing her.
“Two nights at the hotel including flight with ticket on standby.” they weren’t alone this time, a crowd was passing by. The gang looked at each other and gained the dance floor. She’d drank more. The bar was actually bustling. The tables were empty seated with bottles of wine placed in the middle still untouched.
“Let’s go, Liz?” she glanced at the robe. “Are you going skydiving, tonight? Let’s befriend the bartender.” the music was loud at this point.
The front was opened, displaying the dress under the gown.
“Take this off, leave this behind.” she jerked on the polyester. “The plane is for later.” she whistled.
Liz was wearing a light pink cocktail dress with a low heel in white strap that showed her nailed toes. She had a pedicure with May this morning. Her friend was wearing all white dress, backing up skittish.
“Where are we going?” she asked tentatively, almost like a dog out of breath with a hanging tongue.
Once at the bar, the bartender attractiveness took a tool on them.
“I didn’t hire him, someone else did.”
“Ah, let me see, you ran out of your two tickets, and you want a free round.” he’d asked them.
“Yes.” she chuckled and pointed at her gals.
“Straight Martini with olive, Long Island Iced Tea, a glass of wine for me.” she ordered nicely.
“White or red.” asked the bartender.
“Red, Cabernet Sauvignon.” answered May.
The bartender mixed the drinks. She turned to her friends with her look. Liz took the martini and May handed the Long Island Ice Tea over to her friend.
“I organized this party.” she said lightly leaning on her glass.
The party went on sugar-coated.
Before the party was over, she was on her way home. The aircraft takeoff hourly beginning 9 am. She was at the door steady. A chauffeur was waiting in front of the house, she traveled light. Everything was jumbled in her mind. The anticipation was anew. Was she making the right decision? She sat at the bar with a bloody Mary at the airport.
The bartender dared to ask a question, drying a glass of wine.
“Are you waiting for someone?” he finally said eyeing on her.
“I am waiting for my flight to New York City. I have a ticket on stanby.”
“I know quiet a few man that comes here before flying.” he went his hand micmicking an airplane taking off-- whoosing.
“What do you mean? Gentleman, in what sense?” she was engaging that put a smile on him.
“Pilots.” he grinned.
“You’re too married.” she said once.
May always leaves a trail of men behind her, salivated. The love of men.
“Long night.” The pilot said. Their glasses clinked together.
“Yes and no, I graduated last night.”
“I don’t take off until late afternoon.”
Yes, she met the pilot at the Philadelphia International Airport a few hours before taking off. The one that piloted the airplane to Laguardia Airport for a short flight over from Philly. She didn’t use her ticket, she sat business class and enjoyed the service that it provided.
May thanked him inside the cockpit. The business card was clean and professional.
“You should come.” she finally said.
The scalper exchanged the tickets for two seats together. A brawl taunted them. That was a day after graduation at the University of Philadelphia. With her eyes closed against the sun over the city, the cab drive to the city was breezing her feelings. She glanced up at towers and the cab went for a drive into town. Of course she was late checking in at the hotel.
May promised herself a boxing match looking like she said. She was the only blond on the court in the crowd staring at her fine line. The boxing match was speculative. The pilot was at her side, enjoying climbing social status for what she’d put in for.
The literary agent, Andy McGregor, born and raised as a Brooklynite at first and 32 years old of age was clean-shaven with a dirty blond undercut hairstyle. His style of clothing, he was a sort of hipster of his time. A typical Irish American born from the borough of Brooklyn in Coney Island Hospital but working in the city onward.
Ever since he could remember, and, shortly thereafter in his early twenties, and managing his way in and out of brooklyn’s street alive and unhurt. He remembered nostalgically, the fervent nights, he had a passion for publishing and writing. And together with the occuring shot up taken place here and then-- maneuvering around, hiding behind tree trunk to between cars, avoiding fired stray bullets with a pumping heart ever since he was a child indeed was a normal way of living for him.
Having established his work and business venture on Smith Street, Downtown Brooklyn. He started his journey with some money acquired with connection linked to his Irish family. A new york thing. After striking a deal with a big publishing house, his business kept floating under a current of rejection of all sorts. He had no sense of direction, but with successfully completing the deal, the ship had sailed as he seemed that he had struck a mine gold again and ready to swimming with the sharks of Hollywood.
The day arrived when Ramsay Graham sent a query letter-- writing a book about a peculiar, unfathomable serial killer, leaving clues behind the crime scene in the city that never sleeps, not an easy task according to the police department investigating the case, they were left in the dark. The day that he read the query was an instant hook for him. The story was based on true events. The name had reminded him of the journalist. The appeal. The city skyline manifesting in front of his own eyesight. A flash of his destiny.
In the upper floor overlooking the Clinton District, Andy McGregor was able to rent an office situated on Broadway near 42nd Street in the midst of the marquees with flying colors. As he was set financially for the time being at a place where hollywood business was prominent. He was more than happy to get along with the entertainment industry.
The high-rises stood there along with the ongoing flow of people arriving from Port Authority Bus Terminal, opposite the precinct by the tenements surmounted by water towers on each roof, and schools with barricaded rundown vacant lots to the ground, built into parks engaging communities to live in a better place.
It was the place to be engaging to take the bull by the horns-- front row. You could see the scenery as far north on Ninth Avenue, and the Jersey shore, to Columbus Circle along with the Hudson River stretching for miles on both sides. It was breathtaking.
When the light grew dark, the cityscape was impressive under the canopy, and the leafy rooftop was accessible for tenants only. The panorama was just simply, enjoyable and private-- offering an escape from the all buzzing district below where no one, none differentiated night from day or even years.
Enthusiastically, Andy McGregor hung up his rotary phone strectching his arm next to his typewriter and crashed down impertinent on his roll chair swinging. He didn’t bother to listen to Viktur’s death treaths anymore that he calmly added to the insult. He heard it coming.
“You know, I can send someone to blow you fucking brain.” he warned with his cryptically voice from a public phone, not far from Andy’s office building. McGregor sniggered.
“Fine.” he answered to the other end resolutely victorious with a pouted kiss when the communication went dead, unabashed.
McGregor leaned back with his hand holding his head feeling proud and delighted. He interlaced his fingers behind his neck with elbows out and relaxed breathing deeply twice with his eyelids twitching. The landline was raging once more. He bounced back. The rotary phone was on mute and the receiver whirred on the cradle. Instead of being tied up with the handset cord to the telephone, he picked up the call with the cordless phone instead. Having the mobility to walk away from his desk with the satisfaction of engaging a conversation freely in the office was gratifying.
The enigmatic faint that has taken the shape of a disk remained suspended over the neighborhood like a god of death. The unbelievable sighting was disturbing.
“Good morning.” Ross greeted him sociable over the phone. “ Andy, buddy.” he added cheering him up once again.
“Oh. Ross, what a surprise.” he admitted to himself in return.
“I have some good news for you.” and consulted with each other with their deal.
“I have sent the proof to some casting agency, they are looking into it.”
“They audtioned for the part. I can’t tell right now, but later who is lined up.”
The racing conversation kept stacking up with the other dialogue, and replied punctually.
“All right, Ross. I will meet you there, soon.” jiggling his head side to side in agreement and with a wide smile, happiness ran through him like he’d lost the lead of the conversation accepting it. He returned to his desk with the cordless phone holding it up-- with one hand.
“Where are we with the negotiation?”
Ross already forgot.
“We tackle, the terrain right now. A producer, we can embark on.”
Andy went on. It tipped him off.
Ross was laughing midly in a friendly way. Their conversation faded in a dial tone both eyes not believing, glazed. He was struck by a thread of luck that no one can’t interfere with. The landline rang again. The call was left unanswered.
Andy McGregor stood immortalized, studying it by the window, astonished, glad, surprised and deeply sighed wiping out a tread of sweat from his forehead as it materialized into view. This city was practically in the middle of a hot summer, a heat wave. His mind loosened up, well trained, behaved, and, slightly thinking before it could blossom into the work of evil. He was greedy. The thing that hovered on top of Viktur’s property was invisible to the naked eye. It absorbed the sunlight and the matter that covered it bent-- its surrounding, hiding it in the fabric. The birds were avoiding in flight, some even circled it. But who would’ve noticed. It was expansive.
Andy was able to see a faint glimpse of his destiny, a sort of guardian. A messenger. A caretaker from a past life as it materialized. Not knowing how to act, giving up the act, and with a sudden motion as if the emptiness was asking him to jump out the window, he grabbed the curtain to squeeze it on his chest to fill in the hole of uncertainty through the cracks. He doubted himself not even realizing it. The tears won’t come out. The city noise came through, pulsating through his veins in an anguished flow and angered him stoically. The curtain all wrinkled up-- was drifting against the wind and dialed a number not knowing lost in his own thoughts, hypnotized really.
His neurons misfired and his body shut down. His cheeks went numb, his teeth clenched. Like a retro style screen of a television made from the 50s, the well shaped paving cobblestones black diamonds crossly shone with a silvery halo around it-- started multiplying in his peripheral vision and tapered off as in a tunnel indefinitely until his mind were buried in it. His legs gave up, reeling to the floor and collapsed incapacitated.
Andy charged it to the base. He possibly hung up calmly instead, lightheaded as is. His heart pumped blood in great quantity, his head felt the blood flow. Absolutely startled to have completely steered the situation, he put the acoustic on the side, highlighted. His eardrums had heard enough fearing of getting cancer from it. He wrapped up making some notes for his company, for his own agenda. Andy McGregor put the cordless on silent another big check was coming its way..
“Ramsay speaking?” could be heard from the handset as he answered from the noisy street below.
Ross Cuomo was an adventurous Italian descendant reaching up higher for someone like Andy McGregor. His office is bigger and nicer. He produced movies renting offices in Times Square. He got the news early. He’s got the answer. The Hollywood gossip amongst casting offices in the marquee was exquisite.
“I am into movies.” he said proudly as a statement.
He dialed another number and waited.
The call gets an answer first ring exultant.
“In his office.” a female voice resounded.
“How are you, holding on?” he snorted his line, in finesse.
“Phil? Are you there?” he’d been warned, he had to keep an eye on him.
The receiver rested on Phil’s coffee table. A home number.
“Are you using?” he was offended.
“Speaking of, oh, I was waiting for your call.” Phil pressed his nostril up with the base of his right palm and sniffed out loud.
“I called out, why are you calling me?”
“Movies is what will help us out.”
“We got him? We’re movies.”
Andy McGregor decided to ignore the rings.
Accidentally, he redialed and Ross answered:
“Hello, hello?” he greeted oddly.
“We are here to stay.”
“They went deep into the story.” he added.
“Ramsay speaking” no word were spoken from the interlocutor.
On the other side of the street, Ramsay looked up and he hurried along the crowd waiting to get access to the office building. Regardless, he made his way in by taking the opportunity to sprint the last few steps hastily. He came across a walkable gap between him and the entrance as he slammed into the revolving door. Once inside the cool of the hall, he felt thankful and a bit relieved.
Underneath his jacket, the cellular phone musically chimed once again with the vibrating device on. The tray sat on top of the security desk preceded by his suitcase.
“Ramsay speaking.” he answered inadvertently.
The lobby emptied out briskly.
“Have you read the final draft and the contract, I sent you? Listen, I have a new one. Sent today. Express same day courier. A biker delivered it.”
Ramsay mumbled affirmatively.
“The one that will be sent to press. You need to give you last thought on it, for the editor.” he informed him promptly. “We’re gettin’ the first print ahead of schedule, today.”
“That’s something new.”
“You need to see this.”
Ramsay remained silent momentarily as he stared at the caller ID and answered him resoundingly.
“Yes, indeed. I see you in a minute, Ross.”
“I need your signatures on some papers.” he hung up with a cutting response.
Ramsay handed up a cup of coffee over to the desk, accepting it, thankfully. The lobby was silent and spotless. It struck a chord. The security guard unfolded the newspaper, charming.
“Ramsay Graham.” his name echoed into the granite walls.
The security guard picked up on the name, entrepreneur:
“Oh, I remember you, sign here. You’re the published writer, right?” with a fresh voice.
“Right.” he agreed nodding his head down.
“Right, bring it all in, bro.” and pointed his finger at him, jaw dropping with his eyes rolling up in a weird fashion, rubbing off tears of joy-- goofing around from the music that spewed out from his radio transmitter.
“Oh, demon.” he slided his back against the desk, noticing the constant flow of peoples under the sunlight through the sliding door.
“Are you monitoring me?” he whispered. “Maybe you should rap, bro.” he revealed to him, frowning at the crowd outside the building, confidently walking the pavement. It resembled.
Ramsay was fame like old news from an old new york post front page flying around in Central Park for days after the tragic incident. The security guard glanced at him on more time before putting the liquid in contentment inside his thermos, leaning on his side with both thumbs up moving the opposite way, gesturing with the music on.
What seemed to be an eternity, Ramsay looked at his watch ticking-- a load from a submachine gun instead. The elevator door slided open. He jumped inside the sill as the platform shook to level up to the floor with intermittent slapping sound before it came to rest. Ramsay stared at the counting numbers inside the elevator shaft remembering the past, to go back to where it all started.
It was going to be a sunny day in Brooklyn, the old office was dimmed plain ordinary. The four-story brownstone converted into multiple units was beautiful. He was the owner and rented the floor, Andy McGregor was still asleep under his white linen sheet inside his bedroom in the back of his second floor apartment. The blades of the ceiling fan were rotating on top of the bed, cooled him off a bit.
The street was quiet and uneventful. The livelihood of the neighborhood kicked off that morning without a hitch. The locals strolling down the street seeking a place for brunch were trendy and the outdoor dining area were immaculate with white tablecloth covering small unoccupied dining table. The waiters were welcoming their patronage with a broad smile.
The table setting was sparking and stimulating. The other regulars were inquiring enticingly for “the special of the day” on colorful sidewalk chalkboard. The street was definitely dreamy.
The daylight of a clear blue sky lit up the office den beaming through the front open windows. On his desk looking terribly exhausted, a sexy bearded Andy McGregor was distinctively horrendously phlegmatic. He sat down on his desk reading his daily agenda. His baggy eyes and restlessness didn’t give him any justice at all.
In spite of the fact that he had-- after the night drinking, bar hopping undoubtedly the entire night at the local pubs and venues, had too many. The tablets of Alka Seltzer was fizzling as he drank the content of the glass coolheaded. The bell rang. He buzzed him in. Andy was bulky and already dressed up casually speaking. The knocking on the door was a steady thump.
“Don’t worry about knocking, Ramsay. Let yourself in.” shouted McGregor welcoming seated by his desk.
They both familiarized with each other and the story.
Down the street many businesses were busy in time, pubs and restaurants were booming. Huge portions were dished out on the porcelain plates served on all table. Sidewalk chalkboard were as charming, inviting. Already scrunched up local, invaded the establishments serving brunch meals at this hour and colorful fruity drinks stood out from their respective tables. The heat of the summer was bearable. The ambiance was mellow.
The blooming tree planted in front of his window could be seen covering mostly the panorama of the street. The gust of wind broke through bending the flourishing stems warmly with a panoply of green mixed together with layers of floral leaves. The trembling sound of the flipping branches was melodiously relaxing and breezy.
Andy McGregor laid aside in the shadow, forbidden. His art deco heavy wooden desk was meticulously-- carved in shiny chestnut made around when Titanic sank deep into the Atlantic Ocean and missed its docking at the White Star Line’s Pier 59 on the Hudson River’s side. The old books armored the bookshelves that was anchored by the wall behind him, assembled from the same log.
The mystic wind stirred in the office den from all sides toward the wooden desk, not completely and stagnated flowingly-- rattling, buzzing off in his ears. He’d gotten suddenly anxious, ashamed, looked aside and was angling for a revelation.
The new partners were surrounded by it, dislodging and ejecting their vital force upward from their crown, shifting their mind to new dimensions, fumigating to a boiling point mystically-- indulging at the high-flown revelation was particularly pleasurable and commensurable.
Ramsay Graham settled to get comfy paying attention at the exchange dressed properly for the meeting. By the nape of the neck, an ongoing strange twitching sensation troubled him. He ignored it.
The unfathomable jerking movement that came in contact, broke under his skin and vainly tried to scratched it off, distraught him and turned his head as if someone would be standing behind his back.
Andy lingered, amused, composed in control. His lips chomped at the bit. The uncomfortable physical picking on his neck remained under his skin as if a bur has hooked on his collar, dawned on him.
Ramsay crossed his legs, unaware that the spirit had attached to him, by holding it with his forearms crossly fit together. The unknown came from a distance.
Andy was silently observant, tilted his head and crossed his arms against his chest. Obviously, it was too early for a draught and leaned back still interested, new circumstances had arisen. He almost asked him, trying to read him. The tip of his tongue were electrified.
On the platform, the double pedestal wooden desk with its matching bookshelves placed in at the perfect angle against the wall brilliantly fit the bill stunningly.
The bureau used as a writing table carved from the rare timber wood brighten up his office, brighter than-- the edges softened by sexy angular curve.
“Where is the letter of invitation?”Andy McGregor eagerly asked.
“He’s not paying attention.” Ramsay reminded himself. “Here it is.” he pointedly replied.
Andy McGregor was all exclamative.
“Oh! I remember typing it.” he informed him sharply. “and the manuscript?” he demanded rudimentarily scratching his scalp, one hour past.
Like a colossus, Ramsay Graham reached over the armrest-- down to his leather briefcase that he had left on the side previously. He flipped the handle over on one side, and opened it dexterously with the combination lock resting on the flooring.
He glanced at Andy delighted. He held on the genuine leather handle, and flipped it over to unlocked the drawbolt latch against his chair. The lower part slipped to the ground, and examined the content wedged in the upper organizer compartment, and felt the thickness of his latest version.
Ramsay leaned further down, and rubbed along. His cheek soften very pleased, holding a winning, smiling face, exalted, and clutched it between his thumb-- closely tight with his fingers, and flicked through the paper, and blindly snapped the middle one, youthful. A gamble, he liked to unfold.
The kinda thing you dangled along wherever the wind blew for the world to see. A thing Ramsay enjoyed the most.
“Is this your first story?”
“Crime narrative? Yes.”
In between the wall, it sounded like. The restaurant was buzzing. The bookstore was open with a sign asking to rang the bell. The door was left open.
“...and not that, I only got invited at Medusa’s field, we had dinner.”
“I won’t be a background noise, for the one leaning in admiration against the wall.”
“I don’t think, they question? The question mark, but the dollar sign?”
Andy enjoyed being with his company.
“The project caught attention. They’re lining up. Just, don’t get too comfortable.” and finalized the exchange.
It was getting late in Brooklyn but Smith Street was safe and good.
The first meeting face to face was a step ahead in the game.
Ramsay let go of his manuscript in enlightenment.
The movie stars sparkled on the red carpet.
Andy McGregor rubbed his stiff neck to relieve the pain of discomfort. He needed a girl not from strip club but there was always an exception, he was an easygoing type of man with orgasm.
A warning of impending jealousy over his head showed signs of-- some tangled edginess.
“Let me have a look. It’s just fantastic. I am myself… “ and he swung. “an unpublish. I will ghostwrite it. I make them like it, great. If it comes to that. I’ll embellish.” and snored during his reading, engorged.
During that day,
Andy McGregor displayed his manual typewriter on his desk, and held Ramsay’s manuscript in store for safekeeping.
He reached for the chain of his bankers’ table lamp to turn the fixture on. The base of the lamp was made of bronze. The reflecting white interior shade simply provided the light-- he needed to start typing a new chapter working on multiple projects for the longest, and slowly placed his fingers into the right position. The pages were not read. He wasn’t eager to continue somatically preoccupied. Ramsay never thought-- Andy was weird.
The type wheel rotated, and kick start the paper-- printing alphabetic character into marvelous word. The smell of the ink emerged as the sound of the typewriter resonated agreeably in the office. The cylinder rolled swiftly as he plucked at the first page.
Ramsay read through the last page wishing for more, he’d stopped typing, pausing wildly for the decisive moment, interrupted by jumbled words and the silence. The story panned out well and Ramsay continued, dissipating the confusion.
“Huh? U.F.O.” are you an idiot? echoed in his mind.
Ramsay’s lips were burning to ask and together with-- whether or not, he was about to ask a question.
Andy McGregor looked to be fidgety, expressly forthcoming with a whirl of publishing talk and caught up with his own conversation, nibbling his pencil rolling inside between his mouth with his tongue and teeth.
“I do books, Ramsay.” Andy tied the loop and kept typing. “I represent you, publishing books is my life, and I am going to do good at what I do, and what I have. I went crazy on this path, passionate.” he reiterated. “The tree hasn’t come down or maybe it went down, but close enough. What if, it didn’t fall, near here?” he dismissed to put one out of his mind like it was fucktalk.
McGregor handed the page over-- holding his pencil with his other hand by the eraser.
He aligned the fresh sheet, and the typebar in the carriage holding it with the paper guide rollers, and rotated the rubber tube to scroll down. Ramsay was new the street ws heroes held off.
He glared up menacingly at Ramsay after being glued on the empty page, rubbing his face with both hands and jerked himself up with scornful laughter.
Insomnia was his worst enemy. Everyone knew in the circle. He repositioned his typewriter on his desk incorrigible. The chow of publishing has stricken a mine gold. and typed musically with ecstatic gesture. The police sirens went off again.
“Going for a ride, Ramsay.” he insisted with a winning grin.
The new signed writer, Ramsay Graham, gestured holding a smile, reading obviously as Andy McGregor kept going with his gibberish in bias.
Ramsay entertained him with the yes man attitude by drawing a flying saucer on his fresh new writing-- stuff presented to him for editing. The flow was magnetic.
Andy McGregor leaned forward forcibly typing round the clock, and continuously mumbled some parts chewing his HB pencil, ambushed by Ramsay’s insight, flying, and breaking pine trees in a crash. He was going to buy a private flight across the country.
“I am warming up, Ramsay.” said Andy gaining mastery over his overworking imagination, putting back the pencil into his mouth amazed. Yes. His eyes dazzled after taking his Jameson shot.
“I always write stories, I never got time-- trying to get them published myself. I cut off the tree, Ramsay. Whose seed is it? Which continent?”
Ramsay flipped the paper over back and forth-- seeking answers his back twerking slightly so they can’t noticed and looked over the pages adding to the conversation with a dumbstruck feeling and articulated finely. Andy noticed.
“Huh? Antarctica.” he looked up again manly. “I am impressed, Andy. You type fast with no typos. What is it? A fictif assertion to fly a spaceship otherwise said a ufo.”
“Your story, no, it doesn’t need editing, just correction.” he hmm.
Ramsay stuck to the rules to set down with a frowning puzzled look.
Returning from dinner.
“This is my saga. Maybe you could use this-- in your future writing, our futuristic adventure.” said Andy giving a discerning stare at Ramsay quickly set him off to write more, and shot from the hip. “We could co-write it, under a pseudonym-- that’s the continuity.” he pointed out. “Here, Ramsay. Do you want to scrabble into this? It’s a bit of a struggle. Isn’t it?” he said whispering, leaning closer to Ramsay-- a notch ready to punch him in the face, if gotten the wrong answer, if necessary. He let go of his shirt tranquil.
“Are you kidding me? This is ridiculous. It looks like a raccoon nest.” he interjected cowardly embarrassed.
The wind howled through the window, and Andy served another shot of whiskey.
“He can hear you. Turn your voice down.” he muddled up.
“One of the best Irish whiskeys, I ever taste.”
Ramsay shifted out, relaxed.
“This place feels like someone is watching you.”
He didn’t answer.
“I am moving to the new office soon-- to an office on Broadway.” he snarled deviant, he didnt like to be played around, and wrapped up adding to the conversation for what might come with next.
“Huh.” he chuckled the whiskey down his throat.
Proudly, Andy McGregor put back the pages that scrambled up his mind with
Ramsay’s drawing roughly linked with anagrams and psychological gibberish assumptions.
Being a supporter.
“That’s not gonna cut it.”
They were drunk, floating.
In his state, Andy McGregor never doubts of himself with his edginess, fuck the other shit, since the rumor went, that he obtained kindred relationship with the big names in casting offices and producers. Andy always had a keen sense, and a connection to Times Square, the move was encouraged in a sense and welcomed edit him.
Ramsay Graham and Andy McGregor solidified their friendship quietly like dogs playing poker. The streetlight came through the windows illuminating the somber interior as the day had past ultimately gone by saving him money on the electrical bill. He was sleeping the first part of the evening to wake up with a jerk.
“I pitched it.” he awakened suddenly sunken in a rather unpleasant dreamworld as if he read his mind.
“Do you care of a bite?”
Ramsay was thinking about leaving without his knowledge for that for a while, he kept silent. He glanced at the street one below ground, was the boutique and was closed for the night. For Andy’s mind, he engaged himself with business dinner and dining out for most of the time. The nightlife was asking him out, the streetlive was buzzing.
As Andy McGregor opened up the box made of chestnut wood
to reveal himself secretive and knightly.
The pandora box
In a flash, Ramsay peeks ahead. The power sets in.
“My treasure is this one. The illuminated manuscript. Dating it is radical.
The skin is different. We need to test it.” he says methodically.
“From the dark web? Where?”
“The Met, Ramsay. The Met.” he became realistic.
“What is it? Specs of a flying machine?”
“Yes, unus apparatus volans, roughly translated it, in Latin.”
A strong emotion set in from a distant past that he made up his own language cuiniform alphabet and was a total of a hundred cunieform sysmbel that he made up from middle school.
A massive series of transformation was taking place,
the bearing was activated floating in the air into DNA pattern.
“You closing in, Ramsay?” with scriptures and the heraldry of a spear on the front page marked as a keyhole transmuting. He sounded it.
The illuminated manuscript glistening and built up his empirical magic.
The symbol was so reflective of another dimension.
The ethereal fabric evolved invisible to the naked eye.
“No.” he caught his breath-- ashamed of his last word that came out from his mouth vanishing-- the jealousy arousing in his heart and his mind. He wasn’t from a bad country, he was from a country of rurals.
The evilness hit him carelessly.
The illuminated manuscript lays like a new baby born with the horn as angel’s wing vaporing seemingly under godly light, innocently.
In the end, Ramsay comes closer to the desktop absolutely amazed, his eyes were like twirled magnets, he dazzled at the rocket fire.
The fire went down.
“What is this book? This looks ancient. This scripture. Incredible.”
Andy McGregor opens up the book in wonder.
The book stop feeding them with fascination.
Their meeting went on until late afternoon. They exchange stories.
“I put leprechaun on a galactic rainbow. He’d never get bored.” He’d never come back...?”
Ramsay acts like his commission is at stake, that, and, his agent, is in control of the situation.
“Really,” he answered correctly.
The Irish nutted, the thought of leprechaun obscured him with his greedy laugh under the light of the mystic. The ass sitting on your face wuah.
“Yes, I have it. I deputize-- you as my agent, now, drink more stouts, fais-moi, plaisir.”
The gold was inside the vault.
“Rumor has it, Andy McGregor?”
He yells out:
“You have a true story, Ramsay. Nothing-- I have read before. Let’s go have a drink, my treat. It’s been a long day.” he added.
“Where are we going?”
His deed to Ireland.
“Nobody taught me to be Irish, I have it in my own blood.”
He thumps on him.
“Ramsay!?! One only hope to turn up right.”
Ramsay stands in front of him for a moment of clarity and continued:
“The letter. I sent you. You are already a published writer. The deal was made, but negotiation is though sometimes.” and brushed it off. “I have a game plan for you.”
In Times Square, they avoid to take the big entrance and go directly to the underground parking level, the elevator door slides wide open.
The dirty emergency light sign blinks in the shadow.
After they did a bang-up job, their walking and conversation are echoing in the emptiness. They walk out by the nearest exit.
The emergency door opens without difficulty.
The light pours inside heavenly.
Ramsay and Andy McGregor act together like they realistically reappear from another dimension. The lightness is affable.
They come about a typical backdoor street of the city in front of the marquee.
The vibrant city is promising with sun rays casting against side’s building.
Police sirens scream somewhere in the city, rehearsed.
Breaks, accelerations and the frenzy prompt the collaborators to boost their self-esteem under a mesmerizing purple night sky with planes and helicopter’s blades fizzling at low altitude but over the skyline.
alking towards Hell’s Kitchen, sewage vapors irate their sense of smell-- hardly.
Next, fog keeps steaming out from the hollow into moistening the air.
New York City was at its zenith.
A great evening during rush hour.
The night is out.
They enter the Irish establishment and gets served on their table.
They were eating silently at their booth.
His time were to partake to business dinner…
Andy McGregor was mesmerized by his typewriter reminiscing of his past.
With a grin, he pulled it up to use it-- as dumbbells until his protuberant veins on his forehead were about to blow out.
He placed his glass of wine carefully on the vintage wooden desk with ease.
He started typing the query to the employment agency.
He had contacted them for hiring service.
He typed in on the agreement under a blank area.
Please, send ASAP. Candidate with Experience in Front Desk duties. Hired same day, paid training on the job.
At once, Andy McGregor pulled the sheet out from the typewriter, professional and not sober, nobody can say.
He walked steadily toward the fax machine and dialed the fax number.
His skills were omnipotent.
His skills were omnipotent.
A few pages document glided into the fax machine aperture for the whole world to wait.
He became impatient.
The phone startled him kindly. The phone was raging rustic.
He waited patiently perplexed for the confirmation sheet to print out first with the cordless on his hand ready to answer.
He glanced quickly behind him in an attempt to answer the phone call, stretching the stress. The confirmation sheet printed out, uninterrupted.
Andy McGregor decided to ignore, the rings. Accidentally, he redialed and Ross answersed sniffing he was out:
Andy McGregor puts the confirmation sheet onto the paper tray and fidgets at the phone. Ross hangs up. The clock on the wall portraits 9:56 am.
Ramsay shows up without a knock.
Andy McGregor takes a pile of paperwork.
He drops it all back on the desk to express his anguish.
The word shouts from his mouth.
“You are finally here. I am going to need you to volunteer during your free time. Did, you give, your two weeks, notice?” he grabs the coffee and sips on it leaning on the cup away from his sight.
Ramsay looks at him, inscrutable.
“And’? You are very important to me.” and tuckles his shoulder and breathlessly.
“And stop calling me, And’. Ramsay!?” he says ennerved.
Andy McGregor glances at the new coach. He offers him a seat insistent.
Ramsay looks at the leather couch freshly delivered this morning and lays down all relaxed.
The couch screeches. The leather ignates laughable ’fantasies. Ramsay stumbles.
“When do I start?”
“Money is not the problem, just the settings. It’s flawed. Isn’t it?” he says consciously.
“We’re gonna have a second print done. An error. A monumental typo, typo.”
“Are we gonna shred it all?” and signs stumbling through the rest of the prints.
Next, Andy McGregor hands him the contract for Ramsay to review.
The movers bring more boxes. The saucer was streaming, jarring.
Andy McGregor doesn’t wait:
“I had reasons to believe, you were going to like it. This is one, gonna blow your mind.”
Andy swiftly taps on his shoulder holding him to sit down.
“Yes, you have less than an hour to read the adjustments on the contract.”
Ramsay flicks through the pages with stickers attached to it already knowing.
Ramsay finalizing his reading. The stickers stay attached.
The extreme witchcraft kicks in and everyone, everywhere is fine, fine.
He gets up and walks toward Andy McGregor with his arms wide open.
“Aren’t you surprised?” his emotion vaporized.
The illuminati jiggles in leaning defensively onward and backward in the cuddle. A playboy print drops on the floor from a pile.
While his dianetics went awry but came back to normal pace with a playboy print and with an enticing camel advertisement kicking into his habit.
A camel was lit.
A great deal of interest arouses between them.
The male bonding lasts for a moment to relax. Ramsay surprised seeing, Andy, exhaling:
“We made it” he awaits. “that doesn’t surprise me, coming from you, pal.”
The phone rings again more content to be disturbed in this odd situation. They laugh roaringly. Andy answers the phone call.
“We’re waiting on you.” says a male voice.
He puts out jerking his camel.
“Ramsay, we have lunch with the publisher. We leave now.”
Ramsay Graham signs publishing agreement with the illuminated manuscript on his lap.
They go to the private bank. They are going inside the vault to store it.
“You sure you want to put it in a vault?”
In that harsh temperature, Andy McGregor notices a cab and hails it.
In the dark, Andy McGregor opens the back door of the taxi.
“What kind of hero, are you?”
“First and last.?!”
The cab accelerates immediately with the traffic unfolding in the rear windows, leaving it behind.
GRAND MARNIER. UPPER EAST SIDE.
The Grand Marnier is buzzing with excitement, elegance and conversations are aloud. The servers are captivating to watch them, going back and forth intrepid, jostling against the stainless steel double panel swinging doors, serving clientele with sophistication.
The high ceiling and the wall are painted mostly in white enhanced with sleek decorations with an european architecture. The lighting is dimmed. The booths are filled with patrons savouring their plates, were walled up against each others enhancing privacy.
Ross Cuomo and his henchman Phillip Anderson are being seated at their reserved table by the host beside the booths seemingly occupied. The honking. The cab reduces-- its speed in front of the classy facade restaurant located next to a classy theater and a grand hotel on Park Avenue.
The crystal light fixtures enlighten the exuberant entrance during the middle of an authentic new york city day. The traffic is unusually heavy for the time of the day slowing down repeatedly. A sign that the entity of the city is at its busiest.
In the midst of hustle and bustle, the two pairs converged on a narrow pavement.
They walk in at this very exclusive venue getting along with some mundane conversation.
The majestic swinging door looks more of a carousel.
Italian smooth music jazz harmoniously plays inside and strikes a great sense of interest on their part.
The guests are a growing part-- and enjoying the patronage.
“Enjoy, this wonderful place.”
Once accustomed to the beauty of it, they unwind in some sort of an Italian classic vestibule made of marble and broaden out by a shiny crystal chandelier. The place is absolutely stunning, louvresque. After being appreciatively ignored by the attendant. Ramsay goes to the host:
“We have a party of four to attend.”
The attendant leans over on the organizer/at the booking:
“May I ask your name, please?”
Ramsay is a bit annoyed:
“Ramsay Graham? Andy McGregor? One o’clock? Party of four?” he said.
The attendant flips through the booking list vividly.
The air was cool.
Ross returns to his table from the restroom ready to entertain his new guests, he thought.
He stood near his table that he booked earlier-- holding his dining chair rubbing it, with his manly hand, with a piece of jewelry shining silver under his handcuff and subjectively rubbed his temple with his finger and breaths solemnly patient.
Phillip Anderson looked rather wary on his chair opposite to him holding his smile, wealthy, a bit depressed. He wasn’t paying attention.
A fresh drink stands next to his hand-- feeling the condensation accumulating onto the glass. Ross glances at his expensive watch-- well intrigued and looks down-- ignoring him, knowing that was his favorite drink.
“Look, they should be here soon.”
Phil grabs his drink in control of his arm-- twice, rubbing it from top to bottom. He looks like a great men.He looks up at Ross straight with his charming eyes and tactfully pads his nose with a sharp sniff and goes deligthed.
“Can you tell me something new? Please.” Phil takes a sip of his drink with his buoyant lips.
Ross rotates his expensive watch on his wrist and grins unpleasantly with moderation, ignoring him. He winces. His beat-up facial expression candidly blackens of disagreement-- resembling of a distress cherub. His cheek-- buffs up suddenly. Ross notices them, getting in, and, looking confused. He walks up exuberantly with his arms wide open.
Ross exclaims as a showman:
“There, you are, my friends. We heard so much about you.”
Phil drinks up, turning his head toward the entrance cowardly. He gets up rapidly placing his empty glass onto the next table. A server picks it up, in a swift. Ross connects with an enthusiastic appreciation of their great attendance.
“Congratulations for your new-- publishing deal! Team McGregor.” he leans forward inclined, directs them palm to palm closing it, welcoming it.
“Let’ having us, talking.” he cherished widely modest, expressing the desire to be served with some impeccable helping hands, at the attendant.
“They are my guests, quick.”
Phil comes to notify their success eventually:
“Congratulations for the both of you. We completely finalized our standerized agreement. It was the least of a bumpy road.”
“This is a family business. Many made deals, here.”
Andy McGregor hands it, to Phil:
“Don’t open it, please. I wish. I could say the same. Sorry-- we got caught in traffic.”
“Anyone-- who is hungry? Follow me. Making money? Drinks? You’re welcome.”
Ross encouraged half jokingly with his perfect tone, stealing the thunder at every occasions and he chuckles. Ross always had guests.
Ross acquainted himself with another inside joke.
The music was steady.
Everyone seems to agree that they are indeed in a festive mood.
The wine gets served by the bottle.
The wine waiter finishes pouring the alcohol.
Another staff member suddenly appears with the menu suggesting entrees.
It takes time.
“Call me, anytime when you are ready to order, gentleman.”
Customer were paying with cards on the plate.
He wing in over. He put the nap on.
Ross takes over with his drink up:
“A toast for our endeavor. A new publication. What is the greatest motivation that our society has in our days?”
Andy McGregor stay silent, thought for a lapse of time Ramsay mouthed:
“I’d say after a few wah, recongnition.”
Phil treats him with special attention.
“You got it. I got none.” Phil darned it.
“To money, success, power, recongnition.” he replied a mouth full.
They toast and drink wine to enjoy their success.
“Good speech, not great. I feel fine.” he bites at his steak.
“I want to hear your speech, then.”
Ross chuckles, sipping and points a finger at Phil, checking to the last verifiable pages.
“All signatures are in place and confirmed. And check. Pick it up by tomorrow, oh, at the office, check, check your check.”
“What is that? rap!?”
The party feasts, drinks and discusses any topics from the marketing plan to regulars business talk in the publishing and could be put aside.
Ross continues with hollywood:
“I have Ben Astor lining up and, the new actor.” he snaps, snapped, snap his finger. “I got it, George Kearny.”
Andy McGregor gets up blushed:
“Thank you for lunch, guys. I have to go back to my office with Ramsay. We have an interview set up in the afternoon for a new assistant.” he struggles his word.
Phil continues with the conversation:
“After you. Andy.”
“Thank you, Phil!”
Ramsay and Andy McGregor leave the table promptly. Ross holds them up .
“Wait. We have a little surprise for you.”
The attendant comes to assist.
“Please, come with me.”
The thrilled collaborators indulged in hedonistic. The limousine is parked astoundingly refreshing. The attendant opens the rear door in a cadence. Andy McGregor and Ramsay embark the limo that drives out smoothly, happy to be done with it.
“Ben, you arrived, you’re here finally, just in time for dessert.”
The helicopter tour soars in the bright sky of New York skyline by the Hudson River with exhilarated travelers by the panoramic airview.
New York Street
Have one’s heart standstill
She looks at the pair with fluttering eyes.
He’d had sublet a small apartment in brooklyn for the time being.
“Indeed you look lovely.”
New York Street“Eh? Indeed you look lovely, you.”
“did you ever model?
she was flattered.
In the mist/midst of July, May Braxton, originally from Phillie, is a 28 years old female, fair skin and blond hair, just landed the other day.
Her red V neck long sleeve casual dress sleeked her best feature. She wears her suede black high heels and accessories like on the cover of a Vogue magazine. Sailing winds can seemingly be heard with a keen breeze.
Raising gracefully at the point of her feet, May strides directly into the office building-- nodding at anyone that might have crossed the corner of her convulsing eye.
Times Square was nearby-- she can feel the energy emanating from the cross of the worlds at the least she tought.
May had hoped to have a glance at Bryant Park before and promised herself to relax there with a chef salad later with a sparkling drink if she gets the chance of course. New York was so big. The office buildings were vast, immense and at the tip of it.
Once she presents herself attending inside, May walks toward the security desk attentively leaning, secured:
“My name is May Braxton. I have an appointment with Andy McGregor Representation.”
May presses the button, agitated. As she moves forward to gain access inside the elevator shaft, she backs up prudishly. The car doors get stuck in the process. She can’t open it. So sweet, May presses the button again and again, as instructed. The hydraulic stabilizes the car sill dangerous. She leads herself inside the elevator shaft. The shaky elevator levels up and pokes frantically her floor number.
The floor is silent. May walks out careful at once as she gains access to the corridor. The place felt and was hermetic, she attempts to find the office door at first glance, can’t/could’t find it. The steps of her heels on the ceramic flooring resonates in the hallway and goes for the ladies.
The door is painted of a dark green forest and bolted with screws around the edge to reinforce it, with an A.M.G.R. plaque made of gold on top of the peephole. She moisturizes her lower lip softly to humect the upper lip with her red lipstick and frowns her eyebrow inquisitive. She knocks on the dark green painted door and turns the doorknob expecting a ring to set foot inside.
A breeze blows in.
May walks swinging naturally across the hall with long stepping stride with her strand of blond hair and radiantly flowing behind her silky neck, shimmering.
The newspapers detached in midair along with the turban whirlwinds, flicker.
The sports section flung by the force of the wind on the side of the window frame remained still.
Her curiosity to explore the city was strong as she leans downward at the pedestrians gathering to cross next. Andy McGregor notices her first likely surprised. She wiggles and plenty of time passes by.
“Are you sent here from the employment agency?”
“Yes. I am here for the interview?”
“Come on in, then.” it was amicable really, and she was pleased.
“What is your major? May, if you don’t me asking.”
“Ancient language. I can put it as media.”
May had a flair, entrepreneur with tenure and having graduated in communication at the Pennsylvania University, she was the best candidate and Andy didn’t like losing his time neither. Hard hearing conversation comes through the door of the office. It ghostly slips inside the peephole. The interview was over long ago.
The flatline sounds on an EKG machine rang in her ears.
She doesn’t quite get it. A bit edgy and for privacy, Andy stands closer to the window showing signs of conviction and sobers up.
Andy McGregor stands on his ground with a gentle comforting freshly shaved face. A private bathroom for the office was in that case a commodity. He holds his cool forehead:
“She begins her training, immediately.”
The voice over on the other line answers inaudibly.
His aftershave was subliminal, sparky reaching over senses.
“Yes, I agree, a very short notice. I am having an emergency here.”
“Listen attentively. Yes, cancel the next one.”
May is at the center of the conversation.
“I will send you-- the check by tomorrow for your services, thank you, regular mail.” he says politely looking at her. He hangs up, voila.
“We need new blood, Ramsay.” he points at him drifted and smiles at her on the way to the door.
In the cloud likely an unleashed dog, Ramsay is mesmerized, like a bone does to a dog.
“Come with me for a minute, May.” she gets up paying, close attention.
Andy McGregor reaches the doorknob revealing.
“You turn the key twice, and, half clockwise. Then, the other way. Unwise.” clinking. Ramsay hears a muffled conversation chaplinesque. He was a bit of an actor. They burst into laughter at the door.
May juggles with the keyhole:
“Security code? Wait a second. Now, look.”
“I have a meeting with production, guys, the margin, can’t fit.” he leaves then. “No, I have a private showing.” and returns to his steps. May nods his head deliberately.
Ramsay opened up a bottle from the wine cellar.
“We definitely need to order. The menus are inside this drawer.”
The clock on the wall shows 7:06 PM sexy dusky then ever. May dials in. The office looks impeccable and quite lovely. The leftover of the chinese takeout containers served on the coffee table is still warmed. The plasticated fortune cookie shimmers there-- dull and shiny.
May breaks the cookie into two pieces and tossed out the rest in the bin. She reads the piece of paper with a smile and sits. She inadvertently crosses her legs under the wooden desk and rearranged her silky hair frolically. May takes the bankers lamp to enlighten her face.
“I need a short break.” she joyfully takes the tone down.
“May, that’s antique.”
“This whole office sparkles-- a love affair.” she tips in, confident.
Andy McGregor enters the private bank to get the illuminated manuscript for a private showing at the Met, walking along Central Park.
The Holland Tunnel was a roller coaster ride. Phil was at the wheel, pressed the clutch pedal and geared up to accelerate his convertable Porcshe 911 Carrera Targa. The curve of the tunnel was pulling the sports car away deeper into the tunnel. Phil was pushing the engine for greater speed. The carriage was dynamically glued to the road. Phil pulled over a block away from the rendezvous. They were late.
“I’d rather stay inside the car. I don’t trust the area.”
The street was empty but vehicles were parked near the front of the house. It was an abandoned house still well maintained. The second floor was lit. Ross carefully entered inside by the front door. He heard the last of the stumbling upstairs. Then, it was silent. He went upstairs.
From his driver seat, Phil saw the body hurled fast in the air and moving downward grotesque with the shattering window. He closed up the top of his convertible. The shadow winged in the opposite direction.
“Mysterious disappearances throughout the city.” ran through his mind in a flash. The headlines of tomorrow newspaper.
“You live in a dream, Ross.” he called his cellphone.
Phil started the engine. Ross ran down the stairs.
The body was on the grass-- the neck broken.
“Who is this?” squealed Ross running away at the tip of his toes.
“It’s massacre upstairs.” he opened up the door and jumped in. The Porsche speeded up on top of the hills, weaving on one side. He was able to take control of it. At the showing, they were all slaughtered.
***They were invited at the wedding.Phillip Anderson was a wingman, his mood was subjective to wealth and always observative.
“Maybe she could hit big like a mini martini marilyn monroe hype.” said Phil with a loud laugh, talking about May.Ramsay and May was their wedding, a catholic one. It was the proper thing to do. May was never a fanatic of religions. She took her distyances.“They married quick.” her fingers were dancing at her wedding midshoulder.
***Phillip Anderson had a talk with the producer, the nerves went high in a flash.Phil pulled it off. Stack of money were pulled from the gift box. During their wedding causing major headaches as a gift.he deals. Or is it a movie?They shot.It was a screening test.He was a decision-maker in the industry.“Phil, maybe?”The one filling the background.Ross.The place was secretive.“I don’t know what you talkin’ bout?”“Phil, do me a favor. Watch your back.”“We do the print, the movie production?”“I have the vhs.”Phil hung up. He was the publisher.“I can’t swim any closer to him, he said in the ocean, a white shark swims with hollywood, and, with his angelic smile on his face, is a new yorker in a heartbeat.”“Kernian filmed the murder of the fisherman.” Ross told him. “of his disappearence.”The spilling continued.***Ramsay Graham knows the site-- is legit and scammed for money.-throw the money or you will dieRamsay transferred a thousand.The picture downloaded.The door an old Japanese delivery man delivered a parcel.The same picture multiple versions
***Andy McGregor came back from the pub only to found the illuminated manuscript sitting on the coffee table in the living room.Andy got instantaneously feisty and searched his place entirely. Bad blood all over.“We’re could they have breaking in?” he was furious.Andy went in with a gun at the delivery address.and went at the business the japense delivery guy was hurt.He was waiting. He lost consciousness.The boy that filmed the kidnapping is kiernan… and tried to sell the video online for a large sum of money.Where do you get your connection?”“ Andy informed me.”***He had the bait. Ross.Ross took the vhs.The videographer that filmed the murder of the fisherman along the shoreContacted Ross to sell his video.“I can get the vhs. I have a plan.”Ross went along with the videographer and went to Newark to watch the vhs himself.Meanwhile, the mothman was free to fly in the landscape.Running through the dark web, he was late at the viewing and saw all the watchers dead and called the police for investigation. An anonymous call.But took the vhs with him to put it together into film.The atrocity of the slaughtering was filmed after the it was done.He’d knocked them out easily in their suit.“I have my business. It will cost you, cash.”Ross gets the video of the massacre of Masul and kept the vhs locked inside his safe, sealed in his safe.He paid a large sum of money to acquire that he indeed existed.He contacted me.The videographer that filmed the murder of the fisherman along the shoreContacted Ross to sell his video.“The boy that filmed the kidnapping is kernia” said Ross.and tried to sell me the video online for a large sum of money.Ross took the vhs.They went deep into the story.Ross went along with the videographer and went to Newark to watch the vhs himself.Running through the dark web, he was late at the viewing and saw all the watcher’s dead and called the police for investigation. But took the vhs with him.”said Phillip Anderson.*********************Ross gets the video of the massacre of Masul and kept the vhs locked inside his safeSealed in his safe. He paid a large sum of money to acquire that he indeed existed.*********************Later that night,The cursor shimmered.Click on the link below.If you wanna live. Don’t click.I didn’t go.He remembered losing his keys in peepshows.1-The set up2-The illegalIt’s a dark night outside,The mothmanI have send you the disk. Remembered.Ramsay host a dark web.Now it’s to reveal.It’s a simple rock.His screen turned off.Ramsay got angered.The screen flashed up.In the sky after being visited, a circle formed in the weather pattern.His mind was...“Where is Masul?”The high of it was deathlessWhere is masul?And a circle drawn itselfWe sent our cleaner. The video will be filmed after the massacre.It will be your proof.The paid for their life.His screen blinked.The disk insert it_The anagram appeared on the screen. A series of geometric figures.Ross transfer more money to the con artist.He received the video and the vhs.It went for weeks, delivering messages. Ramsay never click on the link.“What is this mess, ramsay. Your medical records cryotest.”That was his medical.It has been a number of years.Ramsay takes his electro magnetic reader, it blinks.***They were at NASCAR race in jersey. He’d sponsored a car racer.They were happy together climbing the social status.*********“You are an easy target, Andy.”“Your business is written in your face.”He won the race.“No, divorce.”“I am sorry the movie star was a disaster, we have certain rights and hollywood has its legend. And doesn’t want to mess around. They cut to the cheeese. The preceeding, we got it.”It wasn’t over yet.Ramsay gambled more money to match the jackpot amount and won the information.
LONG ISLAND, NY
The beach house stood-- yet unfinished in a deserted part of the shore with overgrown trees with the leaves, covering most of the stars shining in the sky. The lapping sound of the ocean breaking waves on the sandy beach-- and the music travelled as one with the drizzling wind throughout the property. Hooting.
The electrical was rudimentary wired illegally, and the fuming cord providing the power ran from the electrical line, was burning hot and sparked. An owl blinkeds and flown out from the top of the condensing light pole and whisked up.
The stark critter sordidly disappeared conspicuously. Maria shivers in disbelief with the rest of the motherhood that she had in her were stricken to the bone. A streak of malignancy plastered her eyebrows, and, frantically rubs it off on her clueless, overwhelmingly shaken up. The air is static and dried out.
A group of men plays card together under a lamp revealing a poker table. A thick, and, intense aroma of the cigar is incredibly strong. The clandestine game room is a bit smudger than a steam room with more charred peoples rising from the hollow. During the foretelling moment, the supernatural light emanating from the top of the poker table remains the source of light for the living.
Andy McGregor wins this round-- drunk. The very nature of the malevolent being spirits away and twines around the poker table, containing the misfortune inside the roulette wheels. It wasn’t long before that the hunt begins. The handgun remains hidden under scrutiny.
The circuit panel trips. The tapping. The lone electrical outlet needs to be reset, originating from the utility pole.
“I got it, Ross,” Maria shouted, relieved and unhurt.
“The power is back on again.” someone answered.
The supernatural light flickers. The light becomes misty, and, vaporous seeking to make bad omen, unaware.
At first, it hits Ramsay revealing a bloody pigmentation, enigmatic holding regard, and the light illuminates the skull, inside his brain matters-- to connecting tissues. He inhales a sleek cigar clenched between his teeth, and, he is bloody skinless. He could see it over, a hellish mirror of himself as clear, stunned, he could feel the horror, imprisoned in his vision. His hell. He regrets/refuses seeing-- its imposing engineered evilness.
The puppies yapping inside the box are well nourished by the female dog.
The despondency is minded, spins the roulette wheels.
They stand proud otherworldly holding a universe, and, the ball rolls the opposite way. Blood splashed.
Ross is next.
“There is no way out-- you played the game.” vociferated his mindset.
He shuffles the cards. The omen wants more suspended, reading. His cigar lays on a clean ashtray, and, grabs it to lit it up. They play another round. They converse and-- bluff a whole time, puffing. Third, the bad spirit eats him alive supernaturally and chemically.
Phil looks uneasy.
“I don’t want to play this round. This creep.” he shrugged.
Philip Anderson is an outcast, and, buried alive inside a lost tomb, somewhere in his mother England for being chronically possessed by evil.
Andy McGregor observes this round as he inhales his cigar, he sips on his beer, being drunk for the love of god, finishing his buck/glass in high regards.
The incandescent light bulb on top of the poker table stays lit conventionally. Maria walks in with fresh drinks, and, serves the card players-- wearing some sexy black tight pants that hold her buttock very well. In white high heels, she swings her booty lasciviously in a short silky sleeve, happily entertaining the men. Missing it. Missing the point that, she’s being a target. Men play the poker game, and, drink heavily. He decided to break the silence.
“Are you training, my lady?” Phil reveals his game sounding her naked, striking her intentionally. “She’s not a good pitch.” she nods at Ross. She glanced quickly behind at the back seat of the other vehicle. While she’s at it, after all, she is a survivor. She turns down the volume.
“The illuminated book is not there, anymore. It’s in the safe” mentions Andy cautionnally and shuffles the card deck with a cigar at the corner of his mouth.
“Why are you here? Maria? Are you trying to sneak in on me?” says Ross amassing-- the winning.
“Wait, wait, wait, you can spank me, are you playing fair game?” she thinks, she jokes and lost her grab with the empty tray that went spinning and ended up wiggling near Ross’s calf. She rubs his back for a while and leaves the game room.
“Can you make another round in about thirty minutes? Maria?” and smiles at everyone sexily to shake it off. Ross slaps her fanny hastily. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Maria?” she cleans up the table.
She was getting pay and her behavior was let go.
“Do you need rest?” says one of the men.
“You mean’ the thing/bitching in the backyard, she’s offended none, no man, can’t understand.” she looks at everyone. “for them to know as I know.” she stares at him. “What’s hidden there paying attention to the throwing games.”
The men are breathless-- grimacing, and holding it with jaw stern, laughing the ridicule.
“The connection to the line. I am from Russia. Boris’ can’t-fool me.”
Ramsay draws his drunkenness in the game:
“Are you together? Or you pay her 20 dollars, a slap?” He laughs all american. “I’d with…” with his finger pointing up and with his wide mouth. “Bang, her.” he finally been able to tell.
Ross tilts annoyed because he crossed the line and whispered.
“No one knows, who says whatnot. Not, really. I bang her. She is usable.” he draws his cards, a full house, fuzzed and laugh for another round with a rough laugh, a meaningless laugh.
“Let’s play, your cards. Ramsay” he cheated this round, Ramsay let him win again.
“I am making the same mistake this one is... a two pairs.”
“Hide your cards, guys. Ross got something to hide. A spy.” he says kindly.
The light on top of the table is on with more bets on the poker table. Andy McGregor coughs in the smoke. The music plays from the vehicle. The music continues to play, not that it mattered.
Ross Cuomo opens the vault with his combination on a piece of paper.
“I told you, you can’t trust that bitch.” he looks around in case she was standing here. He grabs the illuminated manuscript. Andy McGregor stands in front of Ramsay, blocking his way:
“What do you want super love? Make her busy, Ramsay.” he looks stunned.
“Yes, that’s the book, Ross.” he answered. “this looks like a spear made of a cross.” they leave him behind frat boy. Ramsay is madly inquisitive and can’t turn down the urge.
Ramsay bangs Maria inside the laundry room with no preservative, fucking her Italian velvet. He drops her off at the train station. He buckles his belt smudging his palm on her face and taste her lips. He leaves the laundry room first, tucking his shirt in, on the way out like a man. An empty buck tap is on the poker table needing her. She grabs it happy still dripping.
A dimmed light shines at the horizon, though occasionally hovering. The supernatural light turns off over each man-- in a successive manner. She gets dumped at the train station, not knowing why the train was waiting on the track for her alone in panic by an eerie flash. She has a one-way ticket back to New York City in her hand.
NEW YORK. QUEENS. L.I.C.
In midtown Manhattan, the sunlight diminishes over the skyline at a great speed. The scenery is breathtaking as the sun goes to set anytime soon. In Battery Park traveling in a blink of an eye, Masul sets foot on the shore as the sunset dwindles racing against the clock. The Statue of Liberty holds the torch with the flame high. A fisherman casts his line at the murky water of the estuary at peace:
“I pledged, you promised.” he trembles stepping back for a bit with all muscles numbed. His fishing gear plunges into the estuary.
Masul grabbed him and drank him flying around the city.
The joy of flying was angelic.
Later, the videographer that captured the scene was slaughtered. An urban legend was born, to whoever plays the video, he will come to kill you. He gasps his last hope of getting out alive-- to his fuzzy fall to his death. His vision is blurred with his clothing still dancing by the flowing river. The fluid went under to the stomach at great speed. The naked body of the fisherman splashes in the murky water, condemed, lifeless and cold, sinks at the bottom of the East River never to be seen again and washed off at sea.
Later/At dusk, the newspapers and specks of dirt swirl by the empty back hallway.
The landing of Masul on his feet to the ground between the two buildings is rather loud and cast his footprint in the broken concrete. His footsteps on the pavement set off-- a loud and ready for a run sound. During flight, the clamor of the city rages into his ears into a referee whistling. He looks terrific and dangerous ready to attack.
Masul is indestructible pursuing the hunt, untimely scanning through the brouhaha of the city. His vision is unparalleled and to remain undiscovered.
In the wraith of an earth-like imagery made of fire and brimstone, the downfall of meteorites from the heaven smashes into the lava. Masul is standing on the edge of a sole magma rock formation rising from the earth. Masul was born from the molten rock as a figure. His sight multi-focused and goes from gamma rays, infrared light, and, focus on the human realm of our time. He hears indistinct yelling, and, pays a particular attention to Viktur’s voice professing an ancient alchemy.
Masul finally jumps over the fence with some mighty power and lands on top of the erected structure. The wooden boards crack sharply and shake to the foundation with Masul planning to mow them down in a comprised and premeditated accident. The head of the bolts unscrew maliciously and bars topple over helped with the force of gravity.
By landing on it-- tourists walking underneath the scaffolding scream out of fear, all released into a muffled laugh. Moms and daughters clutch on each other chilled to the bone with eyes rolling up completely aghast, screaming underneath the collapsing. The staggered scaffolding crumbles cold-blooded like Jacob’s ladder made an intriguing and a continuous rumble. The black shadow works its way down. Peoples peek and take their chances from the attack fascinated. None of the witnesses have really given any thoughts as to what it was yet. The world amassed in Times Square.
The menacing Masul walks on the pavement amongst others pressing on his powers and crawls as a black shadow over the windshield of a taxicab to the ground. He leaves the damned scream behind him. A passerby jolts at him frightened as if a ghost sighting occurred. Masul treads exceedingly resembled as if he could fly instead-- banished to wander the earth for eternity-- vanishing in front of bewildered tourists and Andy McGregor after a long day at work.
Masul comes through walls invisible to human sight towards Viktur-- preaching some ancient alchemy in the midst of Times Square.
A metaphysical hand nudges Viktur’s shoulder, and, try to snap it out with a quick swish sweeping the back of his neck in moderate disgust, engaging his nemesis. As he turns, Viktur yells at Masul that grows in dimension much taller than him.
Viktur looks completely jolted:
“Repent my sinner! You can touch me.” he yells with a bearish squeak. Masul frowns with a pasting smile. “Repent for salvation, Masul.” he raises his voice fighting him increasingly helpless.
The world is englobed in confusion. The elderly voice shouted in flesh with a fervid, blurred face and rejuvenated. Now, the two foes deliberately start bargaining, and, the heated conversation overcomes the commotion.
“No, Masul. It belongs to me.” and swallowed his last word.
They leave the ruckus behind. The traffic light turns to green in the middle of the crossroad. They cross the busy avenue as if the event didn’t occur with the ambulances rushing to the scene. The traffic controller conducts the vehicle to run smoothly driven by feisty drivers and chauffeurs in the right direction.
Following their feud after their transmutation throughout the course of the medieval time set up their long standing-rivalry caused by the staled alchemy. The crows fly out.
“Masul? How did you find me?
The puzzled man looks at him deeply as if his eyes had changed color. The birds were dying around with becks broken.
“I got my ways of finding you. Viktur.” he says with a dried up voice.
“I have no doubt of course. How did you get out? What do you want from me? I locked you in hell.”
Viktur and Masul walk down the street quietly holding it together. Viktur opens the grid and walks up the stair rapidly while Masul surveys the neighborhood with a wrong eye and secures the latch/latching device on the grid, bending it on the verge of breaking it. Viktur uses his keys to unlock the front door of the tenement housing, he had just purchased.
“Come on, in.” he says cynical.
Viktur puts his keys back inside his front pocket as Masul disappeared together within the building. Both men are inside the hallway, they walk up by the worn wooden stairs together that clinches timely over their steps. At the top of the stairs, Viktur opens the door of his apartment followed by an attentive Masul. Once inside, Masul inspects uneasy the interior of the living area-- ready for a kill. The wall of the apartment is decorated with different sort of religious relics.
“Viktur. It hurts my eyes. Get rid of all these junks-- from anyone’s view.”
The immediate living cult member spurs inside the welcoming area, sheltered on the first floor by Viktur inside a small room with a broken window solely furnished with a queen size mattress and a sink with down the hall a run-down bathroom with a showerhead leaking cold water continously with no door for privacy. Viktur turns to greet his beloved members. Masul vanished in thin air.
The love triangle involves Ronan, Kieran, and, Maria are not in their right mind, all in their twenties.
Ronan and Kieran are both, two individuals, Irish thugs that stash money from living off the street. Their priority was money stockpiled underneath the flooring infested with rodents. The light twisted, this way.
Maria is from Moscow, Russia, saved from human trafficking. a prostution sting. She throws herself at men for protection. Knowing that Maria, and, Ronan are sort of a twosome. Kieran was off the hook from loving her, but the closeness altogether, and, sharing the same bedding everynight was otherwise telling a different story.
Viktur quickly surveys the apartment searching for him. Masul is nowhere to be found.
Viktur shouts prudish:
“You can’t kill me. Masul. I have the spear.”
The cult members clutch on each other; pulling away from each other. Everyone is accountable but Masul, but as a black mass. The cult members look excited putting on, pushing the limit consistently with/on each other at Masul by backing off a sense of pity, feeling protected by their master, Viktur.
Masul reappears darting right behind him:
“I have never left your side, Viktur.”
“Thank you for the short visit.”
The horror of being there so close to him obliterates his mindset and gives away. He won’t survive and he knows it.
Masul asks emphatically selfish:
“Where is the book. My way out?”
Viktur feels his devilment-- he’s strained himself to breath:
“The book is lost in the dark web.” and he looks down atoned.
An agitated Ronan implicated himself heroically:
The truck engine starts.
“Wait. I sold it to a collector. An antique store owner.”
The others stay out of the way. Viktur is dumbstruck with potential retaliation. Ronan grins at Masul incredulous straight. Maria pleads. Kieran is staggered. Maria grips at Masul’s arm to save Ronan’s life and manages to put her scream into words:
“An antique store. A book collector.” nothing was possible.
Masul throws her onto the floor, whimpering. Masul goes after Ronan and strangulates him once more-- to slouch him againts his will. Ronan ’s shoes come off the floor and slips-- defeating the laws of physic. Soundly, he throws him on the side wall making a hole on it, relics fall down. He is badly hurt.
“I expect the book to be returned to me, better be sooner than later.”
In the morning, Good Day New York reports the incident that caused many casualties, when the scaffolding collapsed, hurting and killing peoples crushed under metal poles and stabbed by wooden boards. The screws were undone and found at the scene. They reported the next morning.
A group of peoples congregates outside of a bookstore attending a social gathering open to the public-- smoking cigarettes and welcoming friends ceremoniously. A luxurious car drives by the bricked facade. Ramsay Graham’s book signing is trendy and uneventful. Viktur stands on his own account around the corner probing the gathering, preaching to the public evasively charming. He spits on the ground marking his hatred territory. The book lovers walk by undisturbed. Inside the bookstore, Ramsay seems anxious longing his true desire after all. His heart rages with an uncontrollable hatred of him. May stands beside him in a lovely way and gives her a kiss in the wind. Ramsay stares at his agent in disagreement. The private collector seems unwilling to give away that easy.
“Did I tell you that he wanted it back?”
“But, what?” Andy McGregor hears him out.
“Are you going to let me down, right now, are you?” he engaged.
Ramsay yanks at his glass of wine.
“I really have a bad feeling about this?” he points out spilling a bit of wine on the hardwood flooring, no one even noticed the spill.
By the window, Viktur lurking turns his recognizable profile and grins under the spotlight.
“We decoded part of it, ufo technology, whatever they were here before humans ever, the DNA sequence of a sasquatch. The DNA was seeded... being born from lava. We’re the last.” he says pacing his word. He is alert. “I am not making any assumption here. The illuminated manuscript needs more than meets the eye. Ramsay, if any, there will be.”
The nightmarish following is unattended and unsuspicious. Masul draws attention to himself to kick-start his premeditated scheme. He creeps up walking beside the police car by knocking on the passenger window. Masul probes them rather unpleasantly blurring their state of mind. The deliberate provocation made the overworked cops glimpse at him under the windshield strike/struck the onlookers as preoccupied. He decoyed the police force for his intended deceptive stratagem. They jumped right into the unfolding crime involvement. The bait was an easy catch. The driver calls central right away. Masul walked away faster than a normal being and runs shadowy. The cop starts the engine, into pursuit of the shadow man.
In the dark alley, the two Irish thugs team up. Their faces are uncovered and both look like-- they need to shave it off. They didn’t manage to think up of how they were gonna proceed with the heist, but it didn’t occur to them to make any plan either other than getting back, the illuminated manuscript intact relaying on Masul’s supernatural power.
Ronan’s mask sits on top of his dirty thick sweaty brown hair, and, hasn’t showered since the night Masul beat him up at Viktur’s few nights ago haunted by visions since then. He pulls the front down leaning downward by jerking his head backward drunk, contemplating at the stars thrusting his hands under the mask, and, reaches for his handgun under his jacket, thinking he’s protected. The odds are on his side.
The edges of the fabric cover part of his sight. He gains confidence, feeling his moisty breathing as though he is breathing through a bandit mask. He can taste the residues of food from his mouth, haven’t really washed his mouth after eating franks at Nathan’s.
Kieran is a little taller and slender more of a follower destined to outlaw living, just finished, shotgun relay style, his second can of beer and misses the city garbage bin by the sidewalk and the empty can rumbles through the trickling sewage system, hitting a rattle nest, more are coming. They are ready to commit a burglary.
Masul is gnarly and fast at his coup-- turns his back with a short snarling. The world twisted, distorted-- taking on Masul’s supernatural physiognomy fluidly. Masul etched Ronan’s mind with extreme witchcraft and mind control, looming over him.
The Manchurian candidate is on the verge of a breakdown.
Kieran is just… had seen enough.
“You need to quit and be quiet.”
Importunately, Masul takes over Ronan-- within deep into his brain and was mercurial.
“Do you know the buyer? Have you met him?” says impaired Ronan.
“Like I give a fuck.” Kieran loads his handgun, takes aim and make him stops budging firmly. “About you? Next time, I will shoot you to see what it does.”
Kieran whispers deliberately at his ear pressing his gun in anguish against his back to bodily armed him.
“Andy?” he blows.
Kieran let go of Ronan in some uncontrollable fright.
Ronan removes his mask jolted, and stigmatized with a howling sound originating from his throat. Kieran retreats, backs off even more/as much.
“Kieran?” shouts Ronan in despair, and stops in stupor blinded by supernatural char unfolding and perturbing his sight.
A short confrontation appalled him to neutralize Ronan in the mist.
“What the fuck.”
Kieran fights him to grab his gun as if he was going to put him down, to turn him over to the police station maybe. A cruel dilemma.
Kieran forcibly clattering between his teeth:
“Where is your gun? Hand it over, your gun?” he forces him, and twisted his other hand. “Give me, your gun. Are you ready? Give it to me, to me.” the muscle becomes strained. “Now, Ronan.” he tells again. “We are here-- to get the book back. Ronan, let go.” they were all dirted.
Ronan is upset, stranded, incapacitated and wins, his face wincing of an alpha.
Ronan is an alpha.
“I am going to bleed him… tonight.” he yells. “She tracked them and fucked with him in some ramshackle shack in Long Island. Bet you, he’s rich.” he waggles his handgun aiming at an imaginary target under the visor. “A warning for what’s coming.”
The Machiavellian plan unfolds. The sparse dirt whirls by the wind, Ronan griply reaches out to Kieran’s shoulder looking to lean on. Ronan remains calm during his breathing under a spell and stares at the ground feeling dizzy. Kieran feels for Ronan’s left hand holding the gun pressing against his temple. The veins protuberate.
The finger ready to discharge it any second/moment/in an instant/morbidly/in a flash of light.
Kieran forces him out of his deadly grasp disgusted.
“Drop it. You are insane?”
Ronan stands up anew, awash of sweat and gazed at Kieran morbidly mercurial-- staring back at him with a stern look and fixed in time revealing the smearing scheme.
“Damn, serious. I am.”
Kieran is raging, upset and the marauder jumps on him.
“Cut it off. Don’t you point-- at gun, at me.” and Kieran attacks him. “Give me, you ammo.” yells Kieran.
Ronan comes to a resting point to the ground.
Ronan pulls out the mask up to his nose and takes a hit.
Kieran didn’t notice it and stretched down his mask to his neck while Ronan inhales with whizzing sound and exhales, holding the crack pipe and the lighter, twisting together with one hand pushing it deeper into his front pocket, and looks up to Kieran, his mouth fuming the scent out. He startled.
“She is mad in love with this motherfucker.” and grins at gunpoint to exhale, not at him, in admiration. Now, at him.
“We are not done, yet,” Ronan yells at him.
A convulsing Ronan snuggles lurking frenzy frothing from his mouth.
He trembled like he caught rabies, it seems.
“For a second, I thought… that crack pipe-- got into you!”
“Are you ready? Let’s go.”
They are armed with a revenge. Lug aroundThe corrupted villains dwable towards the standing crowd.
A laid-back Viktur says:
“Get inside. It’s right there.” and spits to the ground-- and continues with throwing the smoke on the pavement on the sidewalk.
“... get off from my side of the street.” It hit the lad’s knee. “How brutal... peace out man or piss out.” the blunt went swift to the ground. The crowd witnesses the scene.
At gunpoint, the thugs showed up cinematically by the corner of the street diligently walked towards the crowd. Ronan leading the way, turning and shooting. The bullets went flying.
In a moment of contemplation, it will come to an end sadly. His handgun had its mischievous purpose and jolts him out of his lethargy. They won’t survive absolutely. As May joins at Ramsay and Andy McGregor while entertaining the guests. By this time, they all look out to the window, like a group of jolted preys staring at a predator, remained calm during the heist. The gunshots resounded again. The front door slams wide open. May looks instantaneously distressed. His handgun fumes. Ramsay protects May as a human shield. The window glass shatters in the air timely but seemed an eternity, as the bullet hits her expensive cuvée/glass of wine and totally confused. She goes blind sharply and spent time in hospital blinded by hazy pastel colors with her damaged sight. She arbored a bandage for days ahead. After the result came up, she was expecting. The axe and the tools appears from the back pack. The protecting glass shatters into pieces. The illuminated manuscript vanishes.
The book lovers escape the scene-- vanishing grainy into the darkness. The cunning thugs acted up at the party and ran off the street. The goal was to stick together no matter, what outcome that might arise on the run.
“You run, first.”
“You don’t tire me.”
Andy McGregor and Ramsay stumble at the victim. Viktur drowns with his own blood on the ground. Phil and Ross run into a dead body. They nearly stop breathing-- suddenly looking unhappy, privileged for having bad blood in hand. Viktur lays death there gazing fathomable. In stupor, Ramsay goes back inside to join May decisively.
Masul witnesses the scene from across the street. Delighted. The armed fugitives keep running away from the heist-- turned deadly. They want to escape alive.
Ronan gives him direction:brazen out
“Slow down, stay. Hide, behind the tree.” and takes the wooden seat, out of breath.
The unmasked robber, Kieran tramples over the bench olympically and throws himself in a stomp behind the trunk rolling down as fast, cringing in the mud-- molding himself onto the dirt covering the top of his crown with his mask, his fingers underneath the garment.
A police car with the light on top lit drives wailing, and watches it passing by under the bench and passes out of breath on the wet ground. He washes off his face with his hat. The two fugitives sit down carefully.
Ronan grabs his mask to pad his hair totally soaked in sweat, empowered.
“I still feel-- we are being followed.”
Kieran answers yielding him:
“Where do you take your idea? You are a fool, too...” he says, playing it down.
Ronan looks calm.
“Calm down?” he lost it.
He opens the last can of beer sucking up the rich foam.
“Here, have some of this.”
He drank the rest of it.
“We go to The Vatican with it,” he says feeling his backpack, making plans ahead. “What happened here tonight will have to stay between us. A secret. He will need to find us.” he regains control of his destiny.
“We go to a church, close to fuck’”
Kieran retains his composure:
“No. I saw you shoot him. The blood splashing out from this man. You hit a damn artery, man. I was behind you. Where did you learn how to shot, a man? Where we gonna spend’ the night over.” he says strangely. “I have all... the bullets inside my barrel.” if he recalls, having not shoot once during the raid.
“You are the one that shoot him,” he answers with a propounded answer.
“He wasn’t me that struck him with the bullets. It was you.”
Ronan pokes at him-- on his ribcage.
“Admit it. You are a liar.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“No! I saw you, shoot! You have the blood of this man-- on you! I have all the bullets inside my gun. I hope, he’s gonna yank, you pretty good, this time.”
Ronan looks inside his barrel totally incapacitated and continued talking over each other.
“Are you on a…”
“Forget it! Done deal!”
The crow screeches into madmen, a shadow man.”
“Shhh… Did you hear that?”
“I am no longer hanging around. Are you insane? It’s him, I’m sure.”
They run for their life.
Ronan grabs his shoulder to slow him down:
“Stay together, do you want him to finish us, alone.”
Masul reaches the top of the tree receding his airspeed that leans to the limit of breaking the trunk and bents the top that slaps and dances in the air. The wind breaks through the branches.
His jump takes velocity from the trunk and takes a firm step on the veranda. A thunderstorm is raging. Masul plunders.
“You always make yourself useful, Viktur.”
The thugs survived the night, but later in the news.
The streak of pee hit the grass in different direction, urbanized, walking around dressing like construction workers or MTA employee. They enter the tunnel. Death leans on you. Viktur’s treasure chest. The next 48 hours were crucial for solving the case as it went down deepen inside a sentient hellish sinkhole. The street of Gotham City has been unnerved. So, are the bad spirits lurking in between walls of living quarter. The city has gotten affected, his protector has been eliminated after all.
In anguish, a darksome Masul searches for relics inside the unlit apartment. His telekinetic power carries objects of value around him, and, moves all of it, floating in the air, and, speeding to the next room with infamy. The fake ones stay inert, and, scarcely fall for gravity landing, roughly to the floor like a tock. Masul goes to the next room-- all the drawers slide wide opened, one, and, after the other consequently. The heavy unbalanced antique chest goes downward, violently. Then, it gives away as the parts come off from the frame that hit the floor with a big crash on impact. A woody box lands upside down onto a Persian rug heavily. It catches his leaning clunk feature pointedly fixating in that direction surreptitiously. Masul opens the box with his power and stands upright worthy of honor. The spear pointing up inside fluoresces near his presence. The safe box closes safely with icy brightness and levitates muted. The city remains silent and on edge. Masul grabs it moving through the air with contentment. His sham expression on his gratified gruesome face shakes off his power sounding around straight away. His vision travels to survey the source of the transmission.
Police office over the airwave:
“Yes, Midtown West…”
Masul is ready to leave with-- a box filled with relics inside the clinking treasure chest. At last, the Persian rug comes alive and levitates under Masul’s leather boots with the treasure chest to flee by the broken window into the night sky with a restless moon. The spear remains in his possession under his jacket, rest illuminated consuming his energy.
The spark. The flame. The explosion.
Masul stands as a witness across the street. The place is under fire inside. The toxic fumes gas up from the broken window with Kieran inside counting his money. the police knocking on the front door. The force of the explosion thrusts the subdued policeman to propel in the opposite direction. The whole foundation collapsed in itself like evil work.
Good Day New York broadcasting the event the next morning.
From the East River that flows on its riverbed under the Queensboro Bridge, Masul skims over the indistinguishable lights of the borough of Brooklyn gaining altitude with wings flapping in the air.
The moon shades a nightmarish, and yellowish tone in a clear sky. Intermittently on the leveled ground, the outdoor leading tracks journey along endlessly in the shadow of maple trees reaching. The light is getting brighter-- beaming out from the tunnel.
The headlight of a noisy train coming out from the underground passage outshines-- all light around during an earthquake, casting down shadows.
The subway yard is located at the far end, the same new train comes down onto the suspended tracks and turns in this direction toward the end of the route speedily.
The light of the television illuminates the dimmed living room. Ross sits relatively comfortable in his padded rocking armchair, watching television news and reaches blindly on his antique piece of furniture that became a coffee table and served him with its handy purpose-- grabbing his cellphone then his drink. His angular feature was marked by the hunt forcing his facial muscle to budge as a madman ready for a kill. He grabs his concoction mixed with gin and tonic making sure to swallow it, in retribution. He phases in, peculiar and was low key. The apartment that his family actually owned was constructed in the late 1920′s and erected next to a train station.
Ross makes use of his eyesight glancing upward ready to jump out from his seat and lodges in stupors like a prey on edge hunted by its predator, trapped and securely comfy inside his hideout. Definitely, eye-rolling right up to the ceiling, agonizing in a split second and almost squeaking breathily, realizing, it was not a dream but a living nightmare that he was living in.
The scent of the soaked leather belt was miles away from his mind and vaguely noticed,
what he was wearing at this moment in time, Nike sneakers, a pair of Levi’s, and a white tank top with streaks of sweat dripping from under his mandible. The gun standstill beside him.
In a desperate measure, Ross scrutinizes cavernous sounds within the walls ready to give up its foundation. The train passing by in front of his apartment is horrendous. His ear sticks out. The racket made by his gun against the coffee table echoes like a supernatural beam inside his eardrum.
Quietly, he makes sure to feel the leather strap before making any move. In a swing, he suddenly grabs his rifle with the barrel wear cut off from the wooden floor and cocks it fervently feverish with a grin. His rifle is attached to his chest with the leather strap adjusting it and diligently pointed at the windowpane and sets one foot a tad closer while arching his back forward.
The tremor starts shaking the foundation of the building founded of bricks, foundry, and wood. He rapidly opens the window with brutal force, with his moistly bared hands in agony with his rifle, dangling against the glass. With a deadeye and panting, Ross shoves his rifle against the white painted windowpane facing the front street. There, it is an empty Brooklyn street, and, so buzzing in the daytime. Many windows of living quarters remain unlit under the curtains.
Ross pops his head out with a dashing gaze in his eyes as the lighting of the train hits the facade of the three-story apartment building.
He occupied the second floor on top of the owner’s business that lives upstairs. The rooftop stayed unfinished.
He scans the empty street aiming to it with his rifle coldly.
Ross shouts outside lunatic with his gun swinging loosely in harm’s way underneath his chest with his head’s up against all odds.
Ross explodes wangling his head, trembling before god and screams:
“You motherfucker! Show your mother fucking face.”
The streets remain undisturbed.
Ross kneels down staringly and grabs his handgun at once ready to discharge his ammunition. His eyes are wide opened. He’s seen it flying by, but couldn’t locate where he went.
Then suddenly, Ross throws himself onto the floor in a sitting position swamped in sweat, regaining his composure sourly to calm himself down. His legs are restless.
By the corner of his eyes, he notices the pile of newspapers cumulating by the corner for weeks. He searches the apartment to make sure-- no intruder has broken in. The television broadcasts-- the late news.
Ross pops his head up from his window in a hurry. He looks up again with his forehead milky white and clammy with his loaded rifle.
“You ain’t getting me yet.”
He breaks off his breathing seeing double and the tongue out. He has reached a breaking point in his demise.
The next train passes by bringing with it more grief, and faster. A figure appears on top of the last car. The wind had no effect on him physically. Ross totally lost it. He loses his grip-- on his gun. He throws himself inside at the floor totally frightened and frozen in time. His skin pigmentation evolves into a pale olive porcelain undertone-- while staying in the dark under Masul’s scrutiny.
The excruciating pain under his chest makes him look like, he’s suffering from cardiac arrest. His face frowns dubiously.
Blindly, Ross reaches for his gun and holds it high against his chest firmly, vainly in pain, ready to use it.
He remains on his floor obliterated-- all panicked against the windowpane. He couldn’t blow his brains out and drops it beside him. He rubs his eyes disgraced and remains calm.
The train travels to the far end of the track with the brakes whistling. Masul gains access to the train by forcing himself into the last car.
Ross gets up tiptoed. The window stays opened. His breathing is uncontrollable. In front of the television, he flicks through the channels with the remote control fidgeting.
1993 WTC bombing.
Once again, Ross sits down. He grabs his drink from the coffee table. Ice cubes glass clinking dearly.
His memories of the faithful night reveal itself in a flashback. Time stands still. The clock dial tangles on the wall and notices it. The commotion of the train is execrable. Ross smudges his fingerprint to keep out the clock from falling on the floor. Then, he hides on the side of the window ready to shoot his rifle and rubs both eye socket pushing harder. The train passes by. Half of his face looks out fiercely-- seeking the moon.
The empty apartment stagnates in the darkness. He surveys like many times before. He is the prize game.
The clock shows 1:27 am. The brand was multivox and the intercom screeches out. Ross stares at the intercom from the kitchen totally frightened and astonished. He holds up his rifle. Inside his head, he supernaturally hears the sound of a woman screaming by the ceiling. Ross cracks it open by pointing his gun up as it moves in one direction-- and looks up with deadly force and ignores it.
The sound of the interphone resounds again.
Ross opens the noisy fridge.
There are the remnants of a bottle of gin and the remains of lime.
He chews on the sour fruit and expedited his faith by indulging with the gin.
He slowly walks out from the kitchen leaving the door fridge wide open and come to sit down on the couch and awaits in agony.
The cell is on vibration mode. It’s a call from Phil.
With the stock placed against the rocking chair ready to charge-- the gun in the open mouth. He couldn’t face death in itself. The footsteps resound from the staircase, reaches his beat eardrum.
Ross walks toward the door to answer undecided and barely shouts wanting to be on top of Masul:
“What the hell do you want?” the train passes by.
At this very moment and what it sounds like an advanced armory, the cannonry harvesting energy, frequency, vibration blows the energy out, pulverizing the door and parts of Ross’s upper body flies across the living room.
The train passes by timely. Going over fearing for her life, Maria walks inside in shockingly curious. She screams the hell out. The crime scene fades with her terrifying scream.
Ramsay is dreamy, all sweaty. He wakes up in between imagery of dreams. Shiva’s combat with Ramsay didn’t. He kept going with a fight with the blue god at the corner of the bedroom. His eyes expecting. It wasn’t a mistake. He sees as clear. But he fought that war and won the combat and made himself an ally.
Maria grabs Ross’s cellphone on the floor and rings immediately. She sat down in shock almost acting it. Ramsay answers unaware as he wasn’t waiting a call from the snitch.
“Maria? How did you get my number?” knowing well.
Once more, Maria informs him with raging tears tantalizing. The tears pearling to her mouth.
“Ramsay. Ross is gone. He is dead.”
In the distance, on the line, he stands solely-- fighting against the stupid tears.
“... body part is missing.” as she answered with her head down with indignation, the murder scene was being secured by the yellow band. (Two detectives come to investigate.)
an old friend she says. i can’t, really.
The Morning After The Murder
The persisting tremor under the coldness of his soaked sheet is clear. He was distressed on a deeper level. His sweaty body is dubious. His breathing is pacing. The bribe with the inducing night terrors was nothing that he could handle for the moment. The nothingness of the unanswered question in the agony is an unreachable bait. The oblivion behind the nothingness is strange and frightening-- frothing indefinitely in front of his own eyes, on the run.
The forest was densely leafy under the light of the moon, Ramsay runs blindly in the dark on the gray compacted dirt road filled with perfect puddles of different sizes that make the road look like of cheddar cheese on the moon’s surface untouched and undisturbed.
As it moves alongside speedily with the green vegetation leaning downard the road like laughing matters. The branches of a tree hit the windshield and the tire of the vehicule rolls onto many puddles at once.
The murky water splashes out and on the windshield as the side window strips the leaves from the branches, falling on the passenger’s side. In the deep dark of the forest, the driver swears that the frightening trees were running against him to trap him under their weight.
Ahead of the unlit moving vehicle, the fog fumes from underneath the shrubs floating over-- a flow of living green things on the ground dissipating from the airflow behind the trail looking mysteriously wicked. On one side, a narrow ditch would appear in the glade with frogs croaking in the pound and dissipates in/at/with the distance.
The shrubs become greener under the gleaming light, you can tell because the vehicle makes him run faster. Suddenly, the lightbeam of the speedy pick up truck reaches his position and pushes forward to decelerate abruptly, striking him of anguish, and, made his head tilt on one side to check the commotion approaching. He is barefoot wearing only a pair of jeans. Ramsay jogs in front of the cloudy mass with a steady pace. The dashboard is lit and it’s warm inside. Outside, the temperature is frisky, foggy and humid to the bone.
You can hear frogs croak again from the rolled down passenger window. He looks at the side mirror, it’s him, chasing himself. With his footing up close, he dives into the black mass. The pick up truck off-road lights get lit on top as well as to the front and flashes into the mass to warn vagabonds out of the property.
Ramsay relaxes bedside corrupted and headway, grabbing his skull in wariness from the numbed pressure on his skull, caught and battling with the two worlds.
The nightmare comes to an end under-- a crescent moon and grabs his robe from his armchair and tight it up to his waist. The curtain goes swissh. The morning light come rushing through the master bedroom.
HIGH Beams light of a car
The water drips from the faucet to a constant warming flow and a man goes into the shower. Ramsay prepares a light breakfast cutting cheese inside his kitchen by the window where the twin towers still stand. The shower head pressure gets lower to none, she swirls her blond hair and the crackers looked delicious, the mandarin was juicy inside his palette.
Ramsay turns on his computer to watch the stock market for this week.
May walks by dressed up for a ride in the countryside.
“I am late.” she childishly starts giggling.
“Here she goes.” Ramsay seems to be overly/dearly/very happy.
“Maybe you should spend some time at the lake house.”
“I ain’t going without you.” she smiles at him like a blossoming flower. They hug.
Ramsay goes into the office den casually dressed with a cup of coffee ready to start the day taking care of his money.
“ You can go ahead and take advantage of the day, I’ll be on my way after I am done with this mess. It’s intriguing, how could this be so low.”
The carpeted hallway is well maintained and well lit, he grabs his newspapers delivered at his doorstep.
“I won’t go alone.”
“I meet you in the morning, I have a long night ahead of me.”
Ramsay reads the newspaper inside his office den.
She stands there with a her jaw stern absolutely ignored.
Ramsay reads the article from the World Trade Center bombing with his forehead frowned.
“You have to pack up a few things and we spend sometimes to the house, the beachouse, the lake house.”
She packs up obedient to get ready for the morning.
Later that same day, Ramsay calls the cryogenic office.
“I am confirming my attendance for the meeting.”
“It is noted, sir. I will see you soon.” the male voice answered.
It’s nighttime in the city and the clouds are low.
Ramsay leaves his apartment for the somewhat clandestined meeting. It thunders and pours rain drafty. He runs under a stormy rainy moment ans stands at the corner. The honks of the traffic resonate elsewhere. Then, it stops, muffled by the air pressure. Ramsay hails a cab alone absolutely soaked with not a chance to catch one. All seem to be on the clock making fares for a living. Finally, at the lest despaired, one lucky man gets a ride.
Yama the god of death
The insider gains the interior. The waiting area of Alcor Corporation is hermetic. The double entrance door is made of a shiny maple wood and ornated the grand entrance. The doorknob is encrusted with gold. The wall is made of chestnut wood and some high quality plastered wall. The floor is made of granite with the hallmark of the company encrusted in a gold circle. The entire room gives a feel of retro architecture and has a feel of modernity to it. High-end types of furniture are decorated with Tiffany lamps lit beside leather chairs. The high ceiling is dimmed perfectly. Ramsay is relaxing on the leather swivel chairs. The reception desk looks overly priced and colossal. The male desk operator comes alive and begins with the subscription.
“Sir? Are you here to open an account with us?”
Ramsay is ready and answers:
“I am here for a consultation.”
The desk operator continues:
“You can read about administration fee, consultation, account set up, specimen of conservation, specimen collection in this booklet.”
“Thank you, I will read them cordially.”
“Take a seat, sir. I will call your assigned worker.”
Ramsay awaits anticipating the meeting, and, flips through the booklet with contentment.
Kaycee Carletti is a brunette wearing what could look like reading glasses, the 29 years old Caucasian female with mid-long hair to the shoulder, and professional with a sticking to it attitude, cordially shows up to welcome Ramsay Graham. The technology came from Japan. She welcomes as is with-- a light gesture Japanese time.
“Konnichiwa, sir. May I introduce myself? Kaycee Carletti. ” and asked. “Please, follow me.”
Under her arm, Kaycee revises the folder with japanese characters correlated with an english translation. The name of Ramsay Graham appears on the folder as well as a snap picture of him, stapled in the proper space. Ramsay Graham gets up firmly and shakes her hand nicely. The office is clean and immaculate. Spotless.
“Come in. Mr. Graham. I have a space reserved only for both of us.”
The doorknobs in gold of the double entrance door turn together. The maple wood entrance opens up automatically. They walk into the office area.
Kayce gently goes, she intented to know.
“It appears to me that you are interested in our services.”
“Yes, I actually do.” he rather answers, overwhelmed.
“No worry. I have reasons to believe that your life is somewhat in jeopardy considering buying a suspended animation in six month time only.” she added surprised as if they offer more than meets the eye.
Kaycee reads him under his defense mechanism.electronic feedback
“You could probably say that... I am assuming-- we are going to expand a huge amount of talk in this kind of undertaking. Give me your best shot. ” they’re shooting.
“I apply myself to it. Remember, I need to pass me through.”
The meeting room is dimly huge, the suspended lighting shines on the dark granite table.
At the other end of the meeting room, there are multiple screens put side by side where the emblems of Alcor Corporation is animated nicely.
“I want my spaceship back?”
The multiple screens fuse together to make a bigger screen. The other side is set identically.
At each end of the granite table, it has a desk lamp lit down to a laptop with a comfy leather chair nicely arranged. They both come in together jovially.
“Have a sit. Mr. Graham.”
The war wages. electronic feedback.
Ramsay sits as requested by her assigned worker.
“Thank you. Miss. I don’t think we haven’t been introduced properly yet.”
“My name is Kayce Carletti. Have you forgotten already?”
“Nice doing business with you. Miss Kayce.”
“The pleasure is mine. Mr. Graham.”
“Call me. Ramsay. Please.”
“Ramsay. Now, tell me. What brings you here to our office, today, sir?”
Kayce walks toward the multiple screens. She turns her head, and, grabs her seat.
“I also have good reason to believe that you are obsessed with your own death.”
She smiles-- almost a made up one.
Ramsay is over the sky:
“Can you make my plan of death, any easier? I cherish death and my life.” and grins at her.
“Alcor Corporation is here to help you. Mr. Graham. Whom will freeze your body for an undetermined amount of time.”
They both sit down. Kayce types on a digital keyboard. A screen appeared underneath the granite table.
“Go ahead, I am listening.”
As the day went by, Kayce explains the procedure on the multiple screens as Ramsay swivels on his chair left to right.
“...and we are using your asset to explore venues to make profits for the company and for its clients, for its entire population for say.”
Ramsay nods his head as an agreement.
Kaycee continues forward with electronic feedback.:
“...is your asset big enough to open an account today, Mr. Graham?”
Ramsay nods his head still foolishly and takes deep breaths.
“ ...only those with an obsessive fear of death are that comes to grip their own mortality opts for this kind of cryostasis and it comes with a price.”
“At what is price?” he asked adamantly ignoring the money factor.
“A meager of $150,000.00 with nitrogen.” she stops.” do we keep the skin?”
Deep in thought, Ramsay breaths out.
“...with this option, you only get reanimated until the science of nanotechnology is advanced enough to be reanimated.”
“Why is that?”
“...because the cells frozen with nitrogen often sustained, a certain damaged while being preps for cryostasis.”
“How long in the future are we talking about?”
“That is not the issue here, three thousands years in the future. Mr. Graham. It is you to be reanimated. I need you to be fully understanding this process on a cellulars level as well as searching yourself in enlightenment. We injected you with the nanoprobes. We dry out your corpse, we freeze you and we hope for the best.”
“I think, I can do that.”
He walks out in the morning.
The thousands of years, whenever year, it will take.
It is a typical start of the day in New York. The Jackie Onassis Reservoir is clear. The sun is out in a blue sky and the morning takes its normal course. The Dakota Manor stands next to the park majestic. A pair of svelte athlete runs on the running track with early bird hikers, and, nannies pushing strollers around the edge.
Ramsay is delighted relaxing on a park bench behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art-- not disputing the fact of that matter, and, smiles face up to the top of the needle, and, gives a chortle.
The gym bag is on his side, one hidden underneath the bench. He wears an expensive tracksuit with a yankee baseball cap with Ray-Ban shade and a pair of Nike running shoes. His opulence betrays him. He checks the dial ticking on his expensive watch, anticipating.
The sky was made of plaster “cerulean blue” with stars purposely shimmering a special day for an extraordinary journey, for an ordinary death ritually orchestrated for anyone to witness. The sun is still raising over Fifth avenue. The grass is keen and in an excellent state. The dirt is watered and fresh for growing. On other grounds, the flowers grow as nice as the day before, and, the fences are painted freshly in black.
Maria shows up ostensibly ostentatious, and, literally slants inward at Ramsay-- out of exhaustion, for protection and cringed on him warmly after sex. Lost in mind with Masul’s under her skin, her confidence shattered in a heartbeat, and, collapsed in tears with the horror of being preyed every night.
Sleek at getting out of trouble, Maria showed up homeless looking terrible, and rough. She hasn’t showered in days, and, she is trash, because she’s been on the run for too long.
Ramsay remains unnerved.
“I thought of everything.”
A longing maroon shirt covers her curve down to her thigh wearing the same slim black pants from the beach house party, and, a hoodie of the same dark color underneath it to cover her crude and filthy blond hair, and, closing in on him dearly. She is on a survival mode, the bitch secretly dials a number with the stolen cellphone.
She recoils highly suggestive with placing carefully her red leather boots made by Dr Martens below reaching for the bag slowly on her side, the one placed under the bench. He feels her move, entrapped.
“Can you be more greedy?”
She kept silent-- off guard, scared of/getting comforted, and, to warm up. With the hood down as a worn off cloak protecting her from being seen from the underworld, she stares all shook up with a tired face. She puts it on immediately ashamed, horror-stricken.
Maria holds the untraceable cellphone on her hand belonging to defunt Ross.
“Where did you get that?” he says antangonizing, recognizing it straightaway. She does not answer witless, and, in control of the magic. Ramsay is pulsating. The bird sing first, another one adds to the melody. A cab driver honks by Fifth Avenue and a helicopter fly above. He forces her in and she sways in.
Maria puts on her new sunglasses from the bag, and, gets right to business.
She is edgy, and, shaky, but otherwise, the word was perfect:
“The money…” she waited. “You promise. I am smarter than you think, I am.” she whispered at the end.” They were alone. It was a monday. Her emotion was high and anguished.
She almost rant-- that, it was over, and gets up.
Maria answered coarsely:
“I had to take some detour to make sure, Masul wasn’t behind my trail.”
“We are in the broad daylight.” he forced her down and gives in tenderly.
The snapping branches methodically came from the undergrowth and moves away. Ramsay wards off with an evil eye.
Indifferent, she stopped, steamy. A passerby stops taking a picture. Maria turns his way unguilded.
. She hides her face, and, smiles back at him again. Ramsay grabs her by the arm.
“Are you on drugs?” i like being taken in picture cuesues.
Another hiker walks nearby.
“Sober as hell.”
The hikers walk away calmly. Now, alone.
“Did you hire, the hit man?”
“Yes. He is on the phone-- listening.” she lost her mind.
“I have $50,000.00 inside the bag. Plus $20,000.00 more for a clean death. One in the heart, on each lung and the stomach.”
“Not a problem.”
“Make sure, he steals the money and dump the wallet and the credit cards behind you.”
Ramsay shows her the bundles of money inside the gym bag. Maria leaves the bench very appreciative.
“I put you some new clothes on.”
“Thank you, bitch.”
As she gets up. Ramsay grabs her rapidly. He stands in front of her.
Ramsay presses himself against her, shattered giving it up:
“That could likely be the last time I get to.” he didn’t finish, she resists. “Wait, Maria... I have two plane tickets landing close to mexico in my jacket, and, a key of a property. We visit. Take it. Now, leave this fucking city and never look back.”
“I got it. Firearm only. Sexy.”
Maria hugs him for a dearly moment pressing her breast against his body and shivers momentarily.
“Good luck. Ramsay.”
She kisses on his neck quickly more than she needed to.
“You will be taking care of.”
Ramsay keeps holding on. Maria leaves disarmed.
Ramsay is alone almost unsure of his fate.
Minutes past. He looks around him and smiles.
Maria walks away rapidly with the gym bag money in her hand firmly.
The top of the needle gets hit by the ray of the sun traveling from heaven.
A man walks fast behind her looking for someone directly, and, takes the stairs. a shot was heard.
He pulls his gun out, and, turns again perpendicurly to his position and pulls another handgun to shot at another angles.
’right in front of him after an interminable moment.
Maria hears the gunfire behind.
kaw paw paw cut cut cut cut cut
She almost fainted on her knees. The tears came in a silent storm.
The bag money slips.
She catches the bag money in the flight-- against her breast with both hands with
the next thought, to be taken down-- avoiding the imaginary bullets.
She runs to save for her life.
Then, she retains her composure.
The money. Her heart beats.
Ramsay falls on the pavement slowly dying from his wounds. One last shot with half a smile. His ears popped and drowned.
Ramsay looks at the sky breathing blood. Bloody scene.
The hitman is Ronan, intrigued. couldn’t recognize him.
Inside the cab to the nearest airport,
“my girl and i are catching up a flight oversea. We need some privacy. She needs to change, no, he looks at the tickertswe go to jamaica.”
The dark skinned taxi cab driver nodded paying attention at the road ahead instead, smoking his cigarette in liberty.
“you sure, you don’t mind.”
He flips it.
Maria counts the money with Ronan.
Over the radio, Maria ask:
“You got him, dead? really?” she realized, she was playing with old fire.
“Totally. Who is this man? I have like thousands in hundreds.” more astousnished with the money that we transferred together.
Maria adds more bundles under the garment:
“I have the tickets. You don’t recognize him?” she looks up at him.”
“I have, his jacket.”
she exclaims/explained calmly patting him down. He pulls his shirt down, and, relaxes with the thousands of dollars under his jacket thinking, watching aftetr thedogs, looking at the cab driver by the window.
He asks him a question putting his face enclosed the window.
She pushes her, she lands gracefully.
“Can you go any faster? Chief, we gonna be late for our flight.” he repeated.
“I said, I can’t. I am just under the limit.” he gestures at the odometer with his smoke, he jerks it, and, lit another smoke.
Maria packs more bundles on Ronan’s back.
“Are you almost done? Baby.”
She wiggles at the front mirror on the front winshield. The cab driver feels appreciative.
The split had her, a flash from the first heartbeat in Ramsay’s future.
She never heard from him again the cash settlement sent to her monthly. The check was plenty.
“I think so.” she breath.
“Wait for one more, Ramsay. Now, let’s leave this city before nightfall.”
The soul of Ramsay flies to the sky.
The gate is at the corner.
“You take the luggage with you, babe.” he kisses in passion.
They both had their forged american passport.
\911 happened. The scream and the crumbling tower inside the tower horridied the world.
What sounded like implosions at first. It resonates everywhere. The pod has been tampered for extraction. The sustaining device breaks apart. The nourishment amniotic system is being sucked down into a drain by an ongoing mechanism.
Unconsciously acting like a fish detecting disturbance under the water, the ghirthy body swims, encoded in his DNA, with limbs reaching nothingness as the watery substance adapts to his movements. Ramsay is immersed under a bluish oxygenated substance and breaths in deeply. The bubbles float in a path around his perfect neogenic skin. He is physically bold and opens his eyes utterly agitated. A reanimation team is behind the removal of the body.
“Enough, get him out of there.” the managing director indicates at the team members.
“At the count of three, 1, 2, 3.”
The water is flushed out. The team pulls him out abruptly of the water from the rapidly emptying pod. The substance plucks itself into the drain. His naked body is recovered in a sling and gets lifted up smoothly over the edge. His legs and arms hang unresponsive. The rest smudges on his skin.
“I am only here to break you free.” and he gets injected with a cocktail. “The all-knowing.” he whispered cynically.
“In the knowing, fake human.” the one wants to joke first. Others laugh smear into the madness. “The soul of ufo abductee, whoah.” They wash him off methodically. He looks different and better.
A few days have passed, Ramsay wakes up in a penthouse on his reanimation bed reading his vital signs. Ramsay was coming in and out of consciousness, having been brief solemnly under the influence of the med. His mind is restless and sedated. The doctor gently injects the drug with a spray through the skin. The voice of an older man voices out gracefully.
“Some were somewhat botched. The medicine, he will need.”
The light hits the face and the pupil dilates. Ramsay opens his eyes, relieved.
“What the heck, that won’t do it, it registered.” the doctor chuckles happily.
“He should take it, on its own, cells procreation.”
The electrocardiogram is remarkable and starts beeping beside his bed immediately and goes out of the chart.
“Injecting him-- 3 ccs.” the assistant hesitates. “Now.”
Ramsay howls with a vengeance.
“The mind and soul still has a heart, that knocks him out.”
The mission is accomplished, what could be said about him as being a perfect being.
“They drugged you to come to term with this experiment.”
Ramsay feels his own body with his own hands. His peripherical vision is bombarded with imagery.
He peeks underneath his sheet.
The monitoring device can’t read his heartless beat and unplugs himself.
“You are sedated. Mr. Graham.”
“Get me off the med.” the doctor nods.
The assistant injects him with a counter-effect.
“Certainly, your brain didn’t want it.”
“ It certainly not pleasant.”
Ramsay remains still motionless on his bed while the doctor auscultates him.
“Your body is now a collection of a pre-made organ. Mr. Graham.” the assistant says.
“Stay in bed. Mr. Graham. Do you want it made premium? You’re made to go to space.” she joyfully let that one go. “I will get some help.” she leaves the room apologetically.
“Oh, yeah, I took, the assignment?” he grudged.
The doctor asks him.
“Which year are we?”
“We’re cowards. We are in 2315.”
“You got your uniform here.”
“Leave them, there.”
“Your awakening has not been accepted yet?”
“ ...and it remains a mystery.”
“Then, it should remain a mystery,” he replied to outdo it.
A long hour has gone by and still, the nurse hasn’t shown up yet.
“Others don’t remember their past or they have forgotten it. As for you, you kept your memory. How is that possible?
Are you the oldest man on Earth?”
“Now, I feel so much better. My brain is older. ”
“We inserted a bionic device viable in space, integrated with your cortex.”
“Can you move all your fingers?”
“I think, I can.”
Ramsay’s fingers flex and stretch.
The doctor sounds his fingertips with his scanner.
The plasma-connector shines underneath it.
“Your sensor works perfectly, your skin, nothing can pierce it. Move your toes now. Nice big toes. Now, sit down.” he exaggerates.
“I can’t move, feel my limbs, doctor.”
“This is all placebo, Ramsay. How does your muscle feel? Your Joints? In pain? Do you feel numbness? And where?”
“Please, doctor inject me with this drug again. My whole damn body is in pain, right now. Sharp sensation, stabbing, numbness, it’s over exciting.”
The doctor pulls out the medicine, the spraying sound is resounding.
“The rate of apoptosis is decreasing, good news. Relax your legs, the medicine does work.”
The doctor hits one knee with the hammer and the other.
“Can you move your toes? Good sign.”
“5 mg every day, you will need those pills taken once a day. Be discreet about it.”
The doctor says leaning too close to his patient:
“I will be back at a later time. I feel you. Mr. Ramsay Graham. Enjoy your stay.” the doctor smiles politely and leaves. The nurse comes in.
“Let’s see if you can walk. Mr. Graham. You are made to live indefinitely.” she says in an undeniable tone of voice.
Ramsay has some difficulty evaluating his situation.
“We are going to make it. I’ll be alright.”
“We are not gonna stop-- it, the collision.” she shook her head. “We can’t. You better off in space, pioneer.” she smiles.
Ramsay remains silent as he looks astonished at the outside world, fixed in time. Some gazing tears come out from his eyes.
“That’s just another stirke. They finish up. They wipe us out.”
“How many more days? I won’t need your help, nurse. Thank you.”
“Fine, help yourself.” she turned mellow. ” You are gaining your strength rather quickly, Ramsay.”
“I perceived my memories.”
“Placebo visit.” she says in self-reliance. “This was recovery. The implant in your brain, it doesn’t die. You’re already up and running.”
His eagerness to make peace with his new stomping ground is undertaking. His stance rises eyebrows to muster. The instinct kicked in, it was a period of uncertainty that will turn to oblivion. He observes the sky, fazed.
“They’re my surrogate parents.” the boy says strikingly, he broke the silence.
“Unbelievable, crazy, unsuspecting, moralizing, overwhelmingly, substantial”
Ramsay goes straight to the little boy.
“You weren’t born yet when I transfer.”
He pulls out the shirt like an unhappy daddy.
He looks at the navel and the back with incredulity.
“Oh! really, a navel.”
Ramsay pokes the young boy and laughs loudly.
“You got some nerve. I really have a navel, ain’t artificial.”
“Haven’t done anything to you? Tell me, son.”
Ramsay checks out the navel, one more time. The fatherhood strikes him.
The boy already has a typical navel of a human being that’s one thing.
The blemish ivory white skin of the likely son intimidates him.
The veins are prominent.
He plays with his toy.
He’s folding the parachute.
“Are you a writer?” he expects an answer.
“Before, I was a reporter for a daily newspaper.”
The young boy remains on his seat like a cool kid.
He crosses his arm.
Ramsay walks back and forth and around the observation room.
“Are you human?”
The young boy grins a big smile and a good laugh.
“I am definitely a humanoid same as you are.”
He throws the miniature soldier with his parachute in the air.
Ramsay is deeply thinking. He puts his index on his chin.
“They are going to take you along in the fleet. I have one more ticket.” it follows by a short silence.
The son brightens up the circumstances is attentive to it.
“My name is ???"
“I have been recruited. Yes, thanks to you. Who gets the chance to go.”
The son nods with the head and runs after his biological father.
“We are being recorded. Have they told you that?”
They look at the tinted window.
The love smears.
The mini paratrooper slowly comes with the deployed parachute.
“You need a new name.”
They stand together in the middle of the observation room and Ramsay was able to catch it with the son hugging his legs.
“They are inside the next room observing and studying.”
“We don’t have the chance to meet people like you every day, Kryos.”
“Yes, I thank you. I must say.”
The son stands alone.
“The impact will take place in two months and twenty-six days. Do you want the count in minutes?”
“That wouldn’t be necessary.”
Both Kryos and his newly accepted son discuss a wide range of topics.
“What is left to be safe?”
“Space is now the safest place. I mean the fleet-- even Mars.”
“I see. Not bad for a name.”
“So, you can be my Infiltrator. Cyberguard.”
Both are laughing.
DNA control command
CHAMBER OF DEATH
Inside chamber of death, aluminum containers were lined up sturdy and built to last. Within each conservation gazing pod contained a single human body reconstituted ready for reanimation, whereas others are still rising in various stages. The carbon, copy of the DNA was stored in the database.
The brain luminescented intermittently fading throughout the nervous system surrounded/ finely by/ flowing connective tissue. Framed within a human shape mold buoyant like jellyfish within the synthesized watery substance- fiddling about. The lasering nanoprobes follow suit, channelling trough microscopic embedded build-in vascular tracks within the molded humanoid figure.
From head to toe, the restituted body was set about to be stacked serpentine with stream and confluent muscle spindles within the flowing of the quick-witted nanoprobes for the forthcoming waking of the body.
On the fast track, the freezing cool air funnelled up to wake the death. Viktur’s body was frozen as is and while he remained conscious of his ordeal untimely. He swore to scratch off the surface- able to fog a mirror. A tired bitter whooshing godly light sparked in the peripheral white background. With the power of his mind, he could see through his eyelids- screaming like a standing prisoner in the pit of an icy dungeon.
The frozen Viktur’s face visible from the small thick glass digital aperture was expectedly fortelling. The wounds healed at once. Masul scrutinized and tapped on his pad screen-- notching up dubiously in fraught to win against time. The perusal of the readings seemed stable after a full exam through MRI, temperature reading, humidity, and pressure digitally screened and interlinked from the pod itself. Masul came upon them-- with deadly intention.
The steward caregivers accessed the decontamination section, the process began, and the gasified steam dissipated.
“Why are we so dressed?”
“You know, DNA contamination, freaks.”
Before entering the hermetic chamber of death, ultrasonic cleansing sterilization system went into action-- flashing on their protective suit with oxygen tank underneath and bombarded with U.V. light.
The two cryo-scientists walked in, armed with laser guns considering the doorway, once inside the chamber of death through quantitatively stepping in, the interior felt utterly, peacefully atoned, and balmy while the rest of the world were callous- never uncovered/stayed undisturbed.
“I never understood why we need to be screened for it.” he looked up and began checking the parameters of the conserving pod in cryostasis stage.
“Let’s get to work.” he replied, not listening to him.
“I will go check on the next container.”
“He gives me the creeps.” he pointed out.
“The body is missing.” he’s stunned. “That’s impossible.”
The interior ablazed emptiness-- etched in his mind.
Masul edged near one tentatively reaching down for his laser gun in a manner of speech. He whooshed his fist down laterally-- unfolding it through the surface of the fabric of his personal protective equipment to feel his laser gun stricken, a bit stunned.
“Where do you come from? Are you clear to be in this room?”
“We have to prepare them for transport.” Masul replied not stopping his lethal buoyancy.
“Are they ready for transport?” he held it-- pointing the phaser at him.
Masul attacked him first, he tore him apart shadowy and violently as well as ripping apart the jumpsuit. He turned back with a smeared mouth growling-- toning it down animalistic, gawked. The other kept missing the target claustrophobic and triggered the alarm-- removing his helmet desperately gasping for air, holding it under his arm.
“This is not a drill. Everyone at your post immediately. Red alert.” resounded in the ward.
“Are you a clandestine clone?” he demanded and screamed cowardly throwing himself onto the floor-- dashing at him mach one speed. The helmet kept rolling down across the chamber of death.
“You are the property of...” he gasped breathing his last word out in pain-- mouthing drowned words-- with gushing blood with hands crossed on top of his head for protection. His bones were shattered. He grabbed him like a scarecrow, drank up once more as prize game and hurled him against the wall absolutely satisfied with his quench and with an amused grin.
Viktur scrambled for words, sputtered out blimp of energy from his swollen cheeks before his. The antigravity tomb for transport made of granite moved forwards.
“You stay flesh and blood.” said Masul connecting.
From a dark side, Viktur screamed out of his burning lungs.
" this side of me is long gone, let me prove you.”
In a bip! Bip! The humming.
On the way out, Masul changed Viktur’s pod setting to MRI. It showed, but an empty can.
From the console command, Kryos and other high ranked personal-- watched the surveillance screening. He pointed at one screen intently-- fidgeting on it.
“Kill this man. Stop him. He’s extremely dangerous.” he managed to say with a manly rugged voice, holding his head down with both hands consciously.
“My son is missing.” he said angered. “He took my son. It’s a long story. He is the man, we’re looking for.” he continued knowingly.
After a period of time waiting for the identification of the renegade, the stern commander frowned at him, summoned with his conning/cunning.
He isn’t all himself. He thought so.
“All cyborgs looking for the fugitive. Shot at will at the target.” he ordered.
On the run and being arrayed with laser beam all over his head, Masul evaded the premise propelling-- the antigravitation pod forward with him. He shot back over his head. The springy laser beam ricocheted off the wall to hit his pursuer. After that, he targeted a few opponents-- shooting from behind the pod using it as a protective shield. He had superior dexterity to his opponents.
Employee photo I.D. of Masul appeared on all visors.
Next to it, the identification of the body that went missing: VIKTUR plated on steel.
The word winded out at first.
“I’ll go.” and Kryos mustered a group of clone soldiers.
His team parted for Earth immediately.
The gigantic dome protecting the city was anti-gravitationally suspended, and interconnected solely coordinated from a panel control on board of Kryos’s vessel.
In the thick smog, some are escaping the imminent danger, with modest aircraft waiting to be stationed inside the cloaked vessel, leaving loved ones behind heartbroken. The end of an era.
A flock of birds flew directly into their trajectory and collided with the escape pod window, smudging out of murky liquid guts. A different kind of species. A mutation.
In the oblivion, all eyes zoom in and out erratically in many directions instantaneously, computed in Kryos’s mind.
“Whom you mean to control them?” said Ramsay-- entering earth atmosphere.
The spaceship transformed into a chopper and swirled on his side into a near freefall through the force field of the dome and whistled the inaudible revelation.
“You mean HAARP, Earth? Huhhh?”
“We’re human, we’re cowards. We’re cows, ravens.”
The blades of the chopper covered it.
"What?" he dodges risking it.
“They didn’t implant it in your programming.”
“They kill spirits. They are at war with the spiritual world, the elemental spirits. Ain’t doing any good to the animal kingdom.”
The remaining clone soldiers jumped off from the chopper with a whoosh that went straight down with a propulsion device, Ramsay rushed and jumped into the civil insurrection ready to take on his first mission.
The fizzling pandemonium was almost cheerful disguised by heretics loathers. The remaining renegades ran under-- cringing down from ignated debris falling from the sky. The billboard advertised Ray’s Pizza dripping mozzarella cheese from the pan. The vessel held high in the sky. Ramsay rippled through the crowd with a small faction, a number of faction. In the riot, the loather’s ears popped out in pain, riveted to the ground.
“Stand up, scumbags. You are coming with me.”
The other phased out loather sat next to his stolen item on the pavement reaching it. His ears popped out too.
“You get up.” the soldier grabbed him like a ragdoll.
“They embark.” another turned snarling to look up at the sky.
The crowd was suspended in time suddenly silenced. The sky lit multiple times with bolts. The clone soldiers lift off to space, the rest moshed in place.
The martial law was advertised in every billboard of the city. The end of the world was broadcasted, the mission was live everywhere. The world was watching the end. The billboard screen zoomed inside the busy movie screening of the upcoming cataclysm, passing through the fabric of space entering the time capsule.
The polished inner core of the time capsule made of a lifeless surrounding dark crystalline component remained static. The spherical room had within its center-- a control command for a normal size human being. The handprints casted stand-alone onto the unique command control system suspended ethereal radiated a strong stigma against any capable user.
The interior of the huge empty sphere revived in brightness as soon as Kryos set out for a journey with the machinery propagating the mechanical effect of a falling row of dominoes and irradiated with a crackling sound, revealing his malevolent purpose. He stepped into the unknown. The foundation fabricated from an invisible gravitational horizontal plane emanated from it, Kryos stood in the unknown rippling it with each step he’d taken on it that’s when he felt her underground. Her emergence was imminent.
The system control in the form of a round crystal ball attached to this dimension-- of where light, energy, and matter joined in the same quantum level vibrated making wavelengths, discernable. He activated it-- connecting, uniting.
Kryos surrounded entirely by mirrored dark matter-- swirling enticingly around the edges-- glistened through the rounded walls with shades of the dark observative energy. A boiling matter virtually. In front of him, the imprint of the size of a human being appeared inside a black diamond shape-- came into view and disappeared pointedly.
Kryos literally transfixed in time as though he was in control to a powerful device of what would be considered a time machine. He reactivated the blacken control by pressing onto it with his palms confidently. The colossal machinery operated hastily.
They were shooting at the asteroid breaking into pieces trying to divert it from its original trajectory. As the comet came in collision with the target Earth. Half the north pole ripped apart. The crust took a bite and melted. A smaller earth began to form. The collision vaporized all organic matter melting rocks. Of all matter. Out of sight. The north pole swang.
The vision became clear of Viktur and Masul in medieval time wearing templar knight armor. By nightfall, a bright morning star twinkled on top of the highest tower of an abandoned bolted ransacked castle-- up the hill. The roads were treacherous with trees growing alongside cliffs, embellished the view of the duskly doomed green valley. Where stories of foggy ghost encounter was prevalent.
His chest infused with fulfillment at the godly revelation both looking up at the marble castle looking satiated and weary. Masul turned back and led the way by pointing at the star with his armored arm and gloved hand. Viktur down on his feet jumped onto his horse valiantly. Random memory followed with stagnant images.
By getting closer to their destination, the castle was in fact a monastery, marble block and tarred woods scattered around the site. The two medieval templar knights observed subdued devotedly at the starlight coming down from the heavens. Masul landed on both feet, strolled further down and remained united. With a cavalier attitude, they gracefully prostrated as if the scorching light knelt them down. In the brightness, the spear descended from above his head and landed gracefully onto his hand. Masul was given the dagger. A new brighter realm opened up in our dimension. A drop of blood from the man’s palm dropped down-- right into the middle of the spear. It forms a red diamond in the shape of the knight cross. The preacher was given a scripture of ancient scripture, inscripted in an asteroid rock.
In the middle of the time capsule, Viktur stood right next to Kryos.
“You gave it to us in the form of a dream. The book is merely a prop for propaging our presence and the spear-- and now this. I will live forever. We are like the knights templar gone terribly wrong.” said Viktur in a deep voice, interrupted.
“Why? Live, forever? Why the loop? The amnesia?”
“So, the legend goes. The rest of them, their bodies were burnt after their death. We were the last two. Now, where is the ancient scripture?” Viktur pointed a phaser at him and shot in the dark missing the target.
“You didn’t spill the blood.”
The weather report was largely ignored by the rescue squadrons. In the midst of the tainted jetstream, a dissipating brown orange cloudiness cumulated, containing hazardous acid rain with other chemical components-- concocted a storm, never seen before. The tower control was unoccupied.
A renegade spacecraft pass through it while others flee into space in a beeline for a chance of survival neglecting protocols and safety, making holes in the protective dome. The diffusion of the resulting mixture were deadly. The filthy atmosphere filled in many parts of the city, creating a wind force that was not manageable for the small spacecraft to handle. In other words, the pilots couldn’t handle their means of transport in such precarious condition. They sent cargo liners instead. Trying to get the panic at bay inside the cargo, the pilot flyout without a doubt saving their ass in the chaos.
The incoming anti gravitational spacecrafts swayed along with their headlights on-- waiting in line. In the enclosed queue awaiting for embarkement, the evacuees boarded the ship in an orderly fashion.
A large amount of people were frantically holding their papers together compared tickets with one and another, others asking for direction intently to move towards the right line.
Needless to say the clone soldiers kept an eye to trespassers, providing a safe passage to ticket holders diligently. Legitimate carrier of tickets were methodically scanned. The cyborgs linked and interconnected-- made the work easier to control the customs.
On the helipad, the cargo closed off with everyone wedged in, suspended-- feeling a dawn sense of relieve, when the craft was gravitating off the ground. Few were smiling broadly-- staring down fervently at the ground, tapping on the floor with their soles. Hanging by the windowpane, an eager young man compelled, glancing at the spectacle of the insurrection below. The fires and the fury was spellbinding-- settled in the stillness when the balls of fire came down-- flashing at irregular intervals, enlit the sky entirely as strong as a nuclear detonation. The inflicting catalyst space rock stricken the crowd deeply. The pilot carried them away to the safety of space in high speed with a loud shout coming from the cargo.
Some been falling victim of mugger and renegades. Having not listen to the warnings to prepare ahead-- were denied access to the sanctuary. At last one, the non believer sat down in the chaos-- not admitted. The diffusion of the resulting mixture burnt to breath in. He coughed. The chemical composition of the comet reactivity wedged into the atmosphere and light up like a monstrous ball fire eyed in for destruction. Volcanoes erupted on Earth. The highway for heavens was chaotic, amongst space debris that were falling off from the heavens to the ground.
As soon as the doorway opened, the wind was obliterating. They sparsely ran to the shuttle open freight. The cargo liner embarked a new load of peoples and another remained floating in the vicinity of the helipad despite the wind force that was gaining in strength. Another gathered a crowd, the shuttle pad opened up. Another group ran under the rain, trapped under the open hatch when the shuttle reached the ground, battling to get ahead of the line up, ended up being a casualty of a cataclysm.
Keen to the idea of the safety onboard the sanctuary, the next pilot started off the engine with a heap of survivors in the cargo, while others continuously cramming into the gate to take them to the same sanctuary, the wait was long, screaming encaged and pushing out for their life to be saved. They fly out-- over the bystanders cringing under the exhausts, another landed immediately ready for loading. They jumped in at first opportunity, one holding, and grabbing another child onto his shoulder to the top of his head, to reach the platform. Another reaching down, to the next one to get in the safeness of the cargo that he was attending to. The remainder of the group hopped onto the surface, the craft still in the air.
A mass of people gathered around the heliport trying to force entry to customs, stomping on the breaking corpses. The light and sound brighten up the sky panicked peoples to the core on a cellular level. Many of the left behind lost their own humanity and mind. The crowd heard the tremendous noise following by shakes to the ground. The earthquake hit the city.
The squadron of shuttle crafts could not handle the force of the wind anymore since the dome were dismantling under a burning sky, having almost exhaust their fuel. Like a bat out of hell, the departed leaving behind screaming latecomer. The takeoff was disrupted, risking it. It was over. One was hanging down, gravity pulling him down to a certain death, nothing mattered after a while and disappeared in the mist. The high winds and the high temperature made it impossible to breathe without a mask. The first polluted jetstream of pyroclastic flow hit the streets covering all, lost in the dust. They nagged at each other coughing over it.
The pilot was listening to orders over the radio, he’d been warned to watch out for lighting in the sky. The hatch was opened ready to load. The next crowd disrupted a takeoff- risking it to overload, the pilot engaged the engine. While another dangled over the launchpad occupied by desperate foes. He had nowhere to land and returned to base. One fell from the hatch. The next group ran toward the shuttle on the helipad. There, it was, the ball of fire came down to incinerate along the way, caught in the fire. Before the blast of heat and the pressure of the collision come to pulverize everything on its way. Their humanity was wiped out from their DNA.
In the time capsule, they became enemies.
“Have you been rebirth?” said Masul with a sharp voice echoing.
“ I admire the fact that you have been doing very well to clear up your act. Since, I track you as my next prey.”
“Let’s have it some rest. I don’t have much time. Get, to the facts.”
“She was here first.”
May was standing silent.
Like mightily unveiling veils, the noise occurring sounded like the sail of a sailboat sailing some neutral godly zone underground, shattered around.
The tremor went gravity, fish swam under the water, set in the ocean.
Masul drank Viktur’s blood dropped him for death, and shot him with a laser beam that dematerialized him, sucked in into a hole. The spear had fallen on the floor from Viktur’s hand, reached May.
“Couldn’t have thrown you in the mouth of a lion?” Masul growled, stabbed by the dagger.
The vision was a continuous reeling of past images. The timeline were put together.
Masul in his human form, plotting against him, making plans to eliminate him.
Finally, he stabbed the preacher with the dagger sleeping on his hammock.
The canopy was well maintained, Viktur were covered by a white sheet in an oasis.
Masul sat there in the brightness of the day, reading the book, trying to make sense of it.
The preacher revived under the white sheet after a few days.
The dagger was the key ignition of the mean of interstellar transportation.
She had changed in the process during the tremor.
“You throw at me some challenge and I come to win it.” she said and continued with Kryos. “They cloned him.” she whisked the words, incapable, with readable lips pointedly at the vision.
Masul removed the dagger from his flesh, May ran away to take on.
“They cloned him, he died in kindergarten.” She turned to Ramsay now. “The school bus accident at a scout camp.” she repeated with more conviction feeling the transformation.
“I made him up...” he thought so, seriously. He couldn’t finish his sentence.
She became human. The son looked up to her. The mirage dissipated in the desert land, sandy.
“Mommy.” he says like he just woken up from a nightmare.
May put her hand on the boy ears, looked up to Ramsay and whispered.
A time elapsed.
“Ramsay, our son died of an accident later that year. Please, let go of him.” she repeated.
“Let’s go now. We are together in this.” he cried out at her finally grasping the element of danger.
“The blood of the altered human doesn’t taste like the human. It had lost its flavor. You can’t tell until you drank all.” she’s relieved. Her munching biting her lips in disgust.
They run to save their life and gathered people on their way. Spacecrafts and aircrafts fly around the sky. Some reached space, some not. The asteroid wedged in the atmosphere. Doomsday oddly creating an artificial hell on earth. The sky remained illuminated radiantly as well as the skiff of snow.
Masul distinguished the edges of the cataclysm growing faint light at the horizon, emanating from the impact. The shockwave were not as menacing, virtually calming. Momentarily, its evil state materialized. His vision became grayish. He leaped off the ground, landed by snatching a random man. Once more in motion between skyscarpers while sanking his sharp teeth on the jugular, the ground skidded off, dumped him in a colliding course/in a collision course--with a high rise still conscious with his hands reaching nothingness and Masul swayed one way. He dropped death to the ground-- knocking off shattered glasses of a high rise.
Masul set off in the wind like he’d never used this shape before, the unimaginable destruction pursued him, travelling to the remotest part of the globe. In the Atlantic Ocean, the tsunami followed, he encountered a sailboat with drunkards celebrating the end of the world. He drank a few before the tsunami hit the boat and carried on verging toward Queen Maud Land, Antarctica and stopped. He gazed in a specific direction, and transformed into the element.
The group were fussing with theirs spacesuit, fastened their seat belts altogether and their helmets each with a communication system able to reach the sanctuary in the vast distances of space. Kryos sat on the co-pilot seat and the survivors occupying the backseats properly fasten belt were on edge, were in a state between craziness or a meltdown, murmuring to each other. May computed the trajectory hurriedly and turned her head.
“We need to get out of here alive, at 3. Ready, everyone?”
“Yes, sir.” they shouted altogther giving a last look at each other.
The emergency aircraft with serial numbers imprinted on the front facade were ready for an emergency takeoff. The ceiling opened up. All were tensely seated.
“Clearance for a bumpy ride, Ramsay?” she looked at him. “We only got one shot at this.” she said.
“Yes.” he answered. “We really have to leave now. If you want to survive this cataclysm.” continued Ramsay.
May taking the command of the console launched into midair. The spacecraft rose up into the hazardous sky, dancing with the wind blowing from any directions.
“Brace yourself. Where is the airbust? Ramsay.” she yelled out.
“The great lakes area.”
May keyed in the command. The debris were-- blown into space. Inside the spacecraft, they felt the airburst. The material started coming down onto the spacecraft.
“We need more powershield. Ramsay? It’s now or never.”
“Maximum power-- on standby.”
“Ramsay!? It’s colliding with our initial trajectory.”
She maneuvered the spacecraft as good as he could to save the shuttle, maybe not.
“Ready for a 45 degree-lift off.”
May programmed a new trajectory for the spacecraft.
The debris hit the spacecraft.
Ramsay was on edge.
May computed with the command control.
“At the count of three…” and pressed the ignition button without counting.
The spacecraft on auto-pilot went straight to space and stopped a short distance away from the sanctuary.
“Same as new, no pretends.” she said relieved.
Ramsay nodded. They are being intercepted and rerouted.
In the dark night, a lonely snowflake wobble donward, touched down on the tip of a shelf ice. By the force of gravity, it drifted down underground by the force of gravity down below to the bunker. Masul was inside some sort of spaceship. He inserted calmly the spear inside the lock and bleed of a rusty liquid. A unique compartment opened up magically from underneath the ground. Antarctica Queens Maud Land-- thousands of years later. At night, a spacecraft materialized wobbling hazily. The same spacecraft came back into view further away fueling from the magnetic field-- moving slowly enlighten itself, playing hide and seek instantly in different locations in the airspace, shoured by the firmament of the brightness of the stars. At lightning speed, the space saucer speed up into space.