Original Fiction
I've been writing a bit. Nothing fandom-y, a new story. It kinda came to me when I was trying to write Joker fic.
It's a villain/superhero story. Yeah, the villain is called The Numerator. Leave him alone. he likes math :p
So I thought I would post the beginning on here, and you guys could comment on whether I chould continue or not, mmmkay? It's just, when I read it through, it sounds like a really pathetic copy at Stephen King, which totally wasn't what i was aiming for. But I'll let you make your own mind up.
10:52am ,12 November 2007, New York, Joe’s Cuisine.
Josephine Tullen didn’t notice anything strange about the small, quiet man who sat in the booth furthest to the left on that cold November morning. Well, maybe that he was a bit twitchy, or that those sunglasses of his were far too big for his face, but nothing out of the norm.
The diner that day was nearly deserted, with only two of the regulars residing in their usual spots. Jane Clementis, a high school sophomore, sat at the window seat facing the pet shop across the road, reading Hemmingway and sipping milkshake absentmindedly. Nick McNeil, a talkative old man who was constantly saying how he would one day visit a cousin of his in Alabama, sat on a high stool nearest the plastic straws, slowly working his way through a blow of tomato soup. Joe, the chef, flipped burgers in the kitchen, his deep voice projecting Frank Sinatra throughout the diner.
Feeling more than a little rushed off her feet, despite the little service, Josephine sighed as the fidgety stranger distracted her attention from the till with a wave in her direction. Motioning that she would be there in two minutes, she wiped her greasy hands on her apron and wiped her brow, the heat from the fryer making her sweat. In her head a list of chores she would have to do once she finished her shift repeated in a little rhythm. Laundry, groceries, vac-u-ming, pick the kids up and sleep. Laundry, groceries, vac-u-ming-
“Can I help, ya, sweetheart? More coffee?”
-pick the kids up and sleep. Laundry-
“Sir? Is there somethin’ wrong, sir? Sir?”
-groceries, vac-u-ming, pick the kids u-
With one swift movement, a pistol was pulled from the odd customer’s overcoat and used against the 45 year old waitress. The teenage girl wailed loudly and was soon silenced. The old man, who had backed into the wall with his hand against his chest, was soon dealt with too. Patiently, the man waited until Frank Sinatra came to an abrupt halt, and Joe, all 17 stone of him, appeared from the kitchen looking furious and wielding a spatula. His eyes met eventually with this most unusual man, and his bottom lip quivered, the top covered in beads of sweat. Contemplating his options, in the line of a handgun, his staff and loyal customers dead, Joe Tyler decided to die a hero’s death. Running towards this, this thing, brandishing his spatula and roaring with anger, Joe thought of his brother, Richard, who was trying to get a Visa so that he could visit. He thought of his uncle Tony, who cooked the greatest burgers he had ever eaten, and had left him this very diner when he died. He thought of him wife Tami, who worked in the laundrette two blocks down, and would be going for her first ultrasound today. While he ran the mysterious figure watched, and let him come close enough to think he had a chance of knocking the gun from his hands, then shot him, twice.
Sitting among this undersized massacre, the individual calmly left his seat. Weaving between the bodies, he plucked four fifty dollar bills from the cash register, left the rest of the money untouched and closed it was a sharp slam. Pacing himself, he placed a small business card on each of the victim’s chests. It read:
Any closer to catching that pesky Numerator yet?
Remember, Detective Callan, I’m always two steps ahead. Want to catch up?
µ
The glass door shut with a loud rap and remained closed until a few hours later, when a poor mother would come in search of her only daughter in that filthy place she had become so fond of. Soon there were many police, forensics and news crews at the scene. But they were all too late, he had already gone.
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