The night was dark and the air was clammy. His breath was coming out in steady puffs of white smoke as the moisture on his skin started to thicken - seeming like it would freeze where it was and create a mask clear mask on his rigid face. It wasn't natural to feel this kind of cold and humidity all at once, and his breath still coming out in white plumes like clouds escaping from beneath a mountain.

What? What was that supposed to mean, he wondered. His mind was always sharp. Always steady. He never thought about random shit like that. So why now? Nerves, he guessed. Just nerves making him blunder about in his own mind, like Joey Martinez had blundered about that room, clutching his side and moaning about 'Beth.

He heard movement behind him and quieted his thoughts. Now was not the time to be letting his mind wander - had to keep it focused on the task at hand. Not easy, maybe, but that was just the way it had to be. He hadn't quite realized what he was signing up for when he took this job. Maybe he did and just hadn't let himself admit it. It was pretty normal when you took it all at face value, though. Not much crazy about it. But the dog. Why had he wanted the dog?

The man had been leaning slightly against the wall, and as the footsteps drew near he straightened up and inhaled deeply. He wanted to wipe his face off. Wanted to get that thin liquid sheen off his skin. Too late now, he reasoned... should have thought of that before or not at all.

His eyes were twitching. Why? Never mind. Force it back. Ignore it. It'll take care of itself, and this isn't going to be rocket science - not a blunt and egregious act like this. It wasn't going to be hidden, and that kind of work required very little focus when you had the element of surprise. Still, he had to be silent, quick, and most of all, efficient. Screaming or thrashing would definitely ruin it, there would be passerby above - or the opportunity for them to exist. No sense in taking needless risks.

He had been standing alone by the end of the bar at the Smoking Camel. He was smoking a Camel. Couldn't help it really - when he'd gotten the communique and deciphered it, the idea had popped into his mind immediately. He was quite clever, you see. A biting sense of humor. Never mind the "No Smoking" sign by the bar, that just made it better. More ... ironic. Maybe that casual disdain for rules of propriety is what made the barman eye him with dislike and distrust. Maybe it was just that he was smoking at the bar. Right next to the "No Smoking" sign. He really didn't care, though, that kind of animosity toward him would keep the barman away. When it came right down to it, no matter how much someone wanted to tell him to bugger off, or to put out that cigarette, or to please leave the train because the children were frightened of his cold eyes and hollow cheeks, they never would. His tall, lank figure, a dark gray (not black - never black) overcoat hanging loosely over his frame, his slightly hooked nose, and the whisper of a canine behind his thin-lipped grin, kept most people from even considering speaking up. The rest changed their mind about mouthing off the moment his dark and considering eyes fell on theirs. Those eyes - two misty rings of darkest hazel disappearing into what must have been the blackest pupils on God's Green Earth.

It wasn't what those eyes said ... it was what they threatened. And what they threatened was slow, painful, and dreadfully deliberate.

Not that he'd ever been intimidating in his early years. It was just something that he tended to - fed and watered like a rotting plant that feeds on dark words and darker thoughts. The children would nag and tease, push and trip, and for every small jab, for every snide remark or cruel joke, the rotting plant grew. He didn't really have to tend it much, really, just watch it grow and wait until it blossomed.

And blossom it did! The petals of anger and malice slowly unfurling themselves from a dark and pitiless core. He didn't believe he'd grown this way, not completely anyway. If all it took to create him was jibes and sneers, he was quite sure that he'd be very unalone in his field of expertise. There was something in him from the start, he was quite sure, and that was what gave him his uniqueness. His ... talent? Yes, that was the word. And why not? It's what they might say of an artist, isn't it? And what was he but an artist? Extracting muffled (sometimes) cries and pained (always) screams from even the most stoic of his ... orchestra.

As the bar slowly filled up the regulars kept a seat or two open next to the end of the bar. The man couldn't imagine why.
- posted by Unknown @ 19:28