Posted 13 May 2005 - 11:44 AM
"This is a somewhat lousy story I wrote out of sheer boredom, in around half an hour, figured I'd post it as I haven't done much writing lately.
Tossing, turning. No! It couldn't be happening! No! Suddenly, it stopped. Officer Paul Samson awoke in his bed, it was 10:31 AM, he was late. For a minute, he stared out the glass door that opened onto his small balcony on the seventy-first floor of this accursed apartment complex. The sky, a dreary grey smog hovered along the horizon, it was dark, even in this pollution-ridden metropolis. The sprawling clouds slowly traversed the sky in their divine manner, blotting out the luminous star that lights our planet. Just another day, another nightmare.
Paul got out of bed, after a moments deliberation about the case he was assigned to. The target, in this case, was a sinewy, slender man, around the age of fifty. His name, William Robinson, rang in Paul's ears. He was convicted felon, had served nineteen years for murder in the first degree. That seemed awfully short for such a hanus crime, the police always got off easily. The irony was, he was Paul Samson's old partner, the case was cold-blooded. Paul put on his housecoat, and proceeded over into his undersized kitchen, pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee from the kettle he had left on last night. He took a sip, and thought to himself, "This is going to be a long day." At 12:02 PM Paul arrived at the station, and checked in at the front desk. "You're late, Samson." commented the secretary, and Paul proceeded on his way. Paul reached his cubicle, and found a fresh pile of papers, each condemning him to hours of his sinful duty. The order was customary, the pile was organized in order of priority, and of course, the case on William Robinson was on top. Of course. The sergeant had it in for Paul ever since he let the secret of what the surplus was spent on slip to the media. Paul trudged out to the armory, and, holstering his Desert Eagle, which wasn't exactly the standard weapon, proceeded out the door. Paul unlocked his police cruiser, and gazed half-heartedly downwards at the page in front of him.
3115 Parkview Avenue, Antonio's Fine Wines, Upper Floor - Room 14.
Suspect to be apprehended: William Robinson
Paul dreaded this task, his old partner knew the police handbook, expected what was coming through to him. Hell, he probably had a radio wired to pick up police communications. Paul drove the streets without passion, this was just another case, another nightmare. Although, deep down, he knew this one was different, and far more personal than any of his previous cases. As he passed row upon row of buildings, he peered at the numbers. 3099, 3101, the rest seemed a blur, he had nearly reached his destination. He found a convenient parking space directly in front of the winery, should a chase ensue. He marched inside, almost demanding respect, and presented his badge to the clerk, "I am Officer Paul Samson of the LAPD, I need access to the upper level of this establishment." "Y-yes, sir, here are the keys, please be mindful of our guests." With a smooth movement, Paul snatched the keys and pocketed them. As he approached the stairwell, he unholstered his pistol, and cocked it back. Under his breath, he muttered, "Hope you'll put up a worthy fight, old boy." and with that, lunged at the door, turning its handling and bringing his pistol up to aiming level. He was expected, a stream of shells erupted from a Mac-10 which was being steadied by a man near the end of this short hallway. His aim was poor, Paul rolled out of the way of the stream of lead, and dove for cover, to wait out this hail of lead. In three seconds, the light stopped, and Paul heard a clicking sound. Paul grinned, he was going in for the kill. The grin struck fear in a man who was about to meet his end, and it showed how callous the man was. Paul squeezed the trigger of his Desert Eagle, placing a shot in the dead center of the other's skull, blood erupting like a fountain. Paul stood to the side of the door marked with haphazardly attached numbers -- 14. He knew his purpose, bring back William Robinson, dead or alive. He preferred dead, the betrayal by William had almost cost Paul his life, that was not something you let another gamble with, let alone get away with. Paul stayed to the side, not wanting to be riveted by a hail of shells, and slid the key into the lock. Click. The door was unlocked, and it was oddly silent thereafter. Paul waited four seconds, and burst through the door, only to find his old partner, laying there peacefully, unarmed. After a short silence, William spoke, "My old friend, we harbour malice for eachother, I know. I do not wish to harm you any further, take me away." and with that, Paul moved towards William, only to be given a swift, unexpected kick to the stomach.
With that, William bolted through the door, Paul collapsed on the floor, gasping for air. Paul got up with much difficulty and a sharp pain. He rushed downstairs, and holstered his pistol, it would not be needed. William waited, leaning on a jet black SUV. It was most likely a painted SWAT SUV, fully bulletproofed, a hundred feet down the road, within easy eyesight. Paul unlocked his cruiser remotely, with the button on his keychain, and lunged into the passenger seat, sliding over the stick-shifter. He turned the ignition, shifted into gear, and floored it after his old partner. William had done the same, but Paul was gaining quickly, this was no standard police cruiser, but the boys back at the station didn't need to know that.
Both men swerved in and out of oncoming traffic, dangerously. The cruiser had a much higher maximum speed and better acceleration than the SUV, so Paul trailed William closely, his foot forcing the accelerator onto the floor. William never saw it coming. He swerved around a blind corner, and the side of his stolen SUV buckled when he was obliterated by a large truck carrying an insurmountable weight of bricks and mortar. The bulletproof SUV now resembled an oversized sardine can. Paul phoned the station, saying he had the suspect in his sights, but needed an ambulance and the Jaws of Life. Within ten minutes, seven cruisers were on the scene, along with paramedics and a large flatbed supporting the Jaws of Life. Slowly, the SUV's wreckage was opened up, revealing the battered form of William Robinson, who rolled out of the SUV, and landed on the street, not five feet from Paul, who was conversing with the sergeant. William's eyes scarcely opened, and he coughed up blood, finally muttering, "Operation Black has only begun." and as quickly as he woke, passed on, into eternal slumber."
Posted 15 May 2005 - 01:16 AM
Posted 15 May 2005 - 02:40 AM
Posted 15 May 2005 - 05:04 PM
Others are like "Herman took a step over the stair into the dark room"
Yours is like "Herman carefully tip-toed into the eerie room dodging cobwebs and rats"~M$&9$~