89: Work
Title: Cowboy
’Verse/characters: Black Dove- two men
Prompt: 089: Work
Word Count: 311
Rating: R for murder
Notes: Ladies and Gents, the story's namesake.
“Victor Miller. Forty-one. You got off free after murdering your wife because the police didn't bother to check your house thoroughly enough.”
The rat was squealing, hands clawing at the door that somehow would not budge. He shouted obscenities, sang of his high positions. You have no proof. You have no damn proof, came the words. Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house? Who sent you?
“I am Black Dove, and I have sent myself.”
Glint of a knife. The stranger's voice was weighty and nigh inhuman. A single step forward elicited a scream even before blade murmured towards flesh. The insults turned to pleas, wet, stuttering pleas that did nothing. Silence followed, dragging on like carted bodies.
Another forward movement, and the rat fumbled, pulling out a gun, face becoming smug once again. Said intruder did not move. Not so cocky now, huh? I am going to call the authorities. How dare you break into my house. How dare you. Masquerading in some ridiculous black cloak and calling yourself some justice name. Pathetic.
It was as though he did not hear the rat speaking, and the dove ran full force, knife arm poised. The gun fired, along with some choking laughter, which was abruptly silenced.
Metal bullet met air and stopped as though it hit a concrete wall, then fell harmlessly to the ground. The slick sound of a gurgling throat followed, gasping in a hazy fog of red droplets. Perhaps behind the cloth mask, he was smiling.
He made sure to leave the small bones of the man's wife, once hidden under the linoleum floor inside film canisters, in front of the corpse, in a hallmark friendly white box complete with ribbon. Beside it was his calling card, the monochrome picture of a dead bird, with his name in graceful cursive. Black Dove.
’Verse/characters: Black Dove- two men
Prompt: 089: Work
Word Count: 311
Rating: R for murder
Notes: Ladies and Gents, the story's namesake.
“Victor Miller. Forty-one. You got off free after murdering your wife because the police didn't bother to check your house thoroughly enough.”
The rat was squealing, hands clawing at the door that somehow would not budge. He shouted obscenities, sang of his high positions. You have no proof. You have no damn proof, came the words. Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house? Who sent you?
“I am Black Dove, and I have sent myself.”
Glint of a knife. The stranger's voice was weighty and nigh inhuman. A single step forward elicited a scream even before blade murmured towards flesh. The insults turned to pleas, wet, stuttering pleas that did nothing. Silence followed, dragging on like carted bodies.
Another forward movement, and the rat fumbled, pulling out a gun, face becoming smug once again. Said intruder did not move. Not so cocky now, huh? I am going to call the authorities. How dare you break into my house. How dare you. Masquerading in some ridiculous black cloak and calling yourself some justice name. Pathetic.
It was as though he did not hear the rat speaking, and the dove ran full force, knife arm poised. The gun fired, along with some choking laughter, which was abruptly silenced.
Metal bullet met air and stopped as though it hit a concrete wall, then fell harmlessly to the ground. The slick sound of a gurgling throat followed, gasping in a hazy fog of red droplets. Perhaps behind the cloth mask, he was smiling.
He made sure to leave the small bones of the man's wife, once hidden under the linoleum floor inside film canisters, in front of the corpse, in a hallmark friendly white box complete with ribbon. Beside it was his calling card, the monochrome picture of a dead bird, with his name in graceful cursive. Black Dove.