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DEAD MEAT

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AEsob
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#1

Posted 03 April 2014 - 04:18 PM

That night was cold and dark, like every other night since the boy died.I had first seen him when he was a small baby, and I was eleven years old. The boy's father had been with me since my father died, he was like my elder brother. Because of his trust in my potential, I grew up to join one of the deadliest intelligence organisations of the world, and then became the head of DASD...Defense and Sabotage department, RAW.

 

It was the worst winter of the decade in India. Delhi was under snow, Shajanabad was under snow…Aurangbad was under snow. Now I was standing about a hundred kilometres from Aurangbad, in front of an old Haveli, that stood here since Mughal age.

 

I’d tracked down the bitch. I’d tracked down the bitch who had shot the boy in the chest, who had deposed me, and it took me three damned years. Do forgive me if you think I am being bleak, but right then, I was consumed by thoughts of revenge.

 

Outside, my body was cold, it was snowing like confetti in the devil’s parade, but inside, my mind was boiling like Chernobyl. The guards supposed to guard the Haveli were dead, their limp bodies torn apart by my fuming shotgun. The snow was a new colour, red. I dropped the shotgun, and then pulled back the chain of the kit bag I had.

 

I pulled out the custom modified AK12 with red dot sight and suppressor. The sixty round clip clicked into place, and I pulled off the safety, Click, the new 7.62 mm round was loaded, ready to blow apart any head to come in its way. Then I placed two .480 Taurus Bull revolvers in the holsters under my jacket. If all else fail, or if I felt like it, I always had the extensions of my hands, my knives.

 

I looked at the Haveli. Poor thing, its medieval architecture and calligraphic designs marred by the brand new security items such as heartbeat sensors, eyeball sensors and lasers that I could see with my special espionage shades that were otherwise invisible to the naked eye.

 

None of their security equipment could stop me, because I had come up with the exceptionally brilliant and suicidal idea of breaching the front door and shooting any Smart ass who decided to face me.

 

I set up the breaching charge and set my back to the wall beside it. “Breaching”, I said to no one in particular. I let off the charge and the door blew up. Poor little oaken door, you stood here for a longer time than I did, goodbye. Tossing in a flashbang, I shouldered the rifle.

 

My name is Kabir Sheikh Alam, and I will have my revenge.

 

 

--------------

 

Hope you like it, just WIP, criticism is absolutely welcome, could use some new ideas too.

 

 

 

 


AEsob
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#2

Posted 05 April 2014 - 06:49 AM

Come on, some feedback?


AceRay
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#3

Posted 06 April 2014 - 05:24 AM

I guess you could say DEAD MEAT is now a DEAD THREAD.

 

Anywho, let's do this. Not going over grammar because f*ck that sh*t. Just know that there are some spaces missing after full stops.

 

That night was cold and dark, like every other night since the boy died.I had first seen him when he was a small baby, and I was eleven years old. The boy's father had been with me since my father died, he was like my elder brother. Because of his trust in my potential, I grew up to join one of the deadliest intelligence organisations of the world, and then became the head of DASD...Defense and Sabotage department, RAW.

 

This paragraph was way too dry and expositional for my liking. The opening line was okay because it gets the reader interested enough through the dead boy, but the rest seem like some sort of synopsis without any sort of intrigue. I think you could have implied this information through the story without having to explicitly tell the reader, like through character interactions or dialogue. Show, don't tell. Let the reader guess a little bit about his past, let them figure it out for themselves.

 

It was the worst winter of the decade in India. Delhi was under snow, Shajanabad was under snow…Aurangbad was under snow. Now I was standing about a hundred kilometres from Aurangbad, in front of an old Haveli, that stood here since Mughal age.

 

Not sure why there was an ellipsis after Aurangbad, because the story is a hundred kilometres from there. It didn't really tell me anything about the actual setting of where the Haveli is, other than its snowing and its stood there since the Mughal age. I would have described the environments or the sounds or the sights that the main character is feeling at this moment, this was far too short to derive any sort of emotion from.

Also, I had no idea what a Haveli was and had to google what it was. This is bad because it takes the reader away from the story and into the chasm of the internet. I thought it was like a section of a slum or something, but turns out its a mansion, just adding "an old mansion that stood here..." would have cleared it up.

 

I’d tracked down the bitch. I’d tracked down the bitch who had shot the boy in the chest, who had deposed me, and it took me three damned years. Do forgive me if you think I am being bleak, but right then, I was consumed by thoughts of revenge.

A bit confused about the timeline of events of this story here. Earlier, he said he had become the head of DASD, but he did that in just three years? Or did the boy get killed after he was the head, and it took him 3 years to find her. I think the phrasing of the first paragraph was a bit off, it made it sound like the boy got shot, and then the MC (main character) joined the ranks.
The tense is off. 'Right then, I was consumed' is past tense, but in the last paragraph he said "now I'm standing in front of..." It makes it very confusing to read. Either the MC is talking about things as they happen or he's talking about it in the past tense, like the two of you have sat down at a table and he started telling you a story. The only other option I can think of is that he's already got revenge on her and he's returned back to the, but

I think "Maybe I was being a bit too bleak" is better than "Do forgive me if you think I am being bleak" because the latter addresses the audience directly in kind of an awkward way. If you're going for that, you should really set it up from the beginning of the story.

Outside, my body was cold, it was snowing like confetti in the devil’s parade, but inside, my mind was boiling like Chernobyl. The guards supposed to guard the Haveli were dead, their limp bodies torn apart by my fuming shotgun. The snow was a new colour, red. I dropped the shotgun, and then pulled back the chain of the kit bag I had.

 

Font was a slightly bigger font than the rest of the tale, I don't know why.

Liked this paragraph, the imagery created wasn't half bad. I would have dropped "outside" because its unnessary for the sentence and doesn't add anything. The snow thing was pretty nice.

Why drop the shotgun though? Why not just put it into the bag? And why wasn't the shotgun already in the bag?

 

I pulled out the custom modified AK12 with red dot sight and suppressor. The sixty round clip clicked into place, and I pulled off the safety, Click, the new 7.62 mm round was loaded, ready to blow apart any head to come in its way. Then I placed two .480 Taurus Bull revolvers in the holsters under my jacket. If all else fail, or if I felt like it, I always had the extensions of my hands, my knives.

Mmmmmmm, gun porn. But what the f*ck are "extensions of my hands?" At first I thought that was the MC's fists, but then I realized you meant the knives. In that case, you really need to use the dreaded semi colon (;) between 'hands' and 'my' because otherwise its hard to follow because it sounds like he's talking about two seperate things, extensions of his hands and his knives, when really they're the same thing.

 

I looked at the Haveli. Poor thing, its medieval architecture and calligraphic designs marred by the brand new security items such as heartbeat sensors, eyeball sensors and lasers that I could see with my special espionage shades that were otherwise invisible to the naked eye.

Didn't he just shoot a whole bunch of people though? With a shotgun? Those things are really loud, and if he could just run in the front door and start shooting people immediately as we find out later, then surely the guards would have heard the shots fired and ran out while he was getting his guns.

 

None of their security equipment could stop me, because I had come up with the exceptionally brilliant and suicidal idea of breaching the front door and shooting any Smart ass who decided to face me

 

Again, what's the deal with the stealth? He just shot people.

And what are "special espionage shades?" Do you mean heat vision or night vision goggles? Or just spy sunglasses? Because I would imagine you wouldn't be able to see anything if it was "cold and dark" and you were wearing shades at the same time, I'm surprised he can manage to see anything at all.

 

I set up the breaching charge and set my back to the wall beside it. “Breaching”, I said to no one in particular. I let off the charge and the door blew up. Poor little oaken door, you stood here for a longer time than I did, goodbye. Tossing in a flashbang, I shouldered the rifle.

Why did he say breaching? And if it was such a 'poor little' oaken door, couldn't he just break it down with his foot? I think he's breaching because he wants to catch them by surprise, but they already know he's there. Surely there'd be cameras RIGHT OUTSIDE the front door if this was such a high tech place, why wouldn't there be? He's just shot people too, so the guards on the otherside already know he's coming and would've shot him already.  And why would anybody goodbye to a door? I could understand theorizing about how it will be destoryed and the loss of value or whatever, but its just an object that holds nothing of sentimental value to the MC.

 

My name is Kabir Sheikh Alam, and I will have my revenge.

Yeah this is fine.

 

I guess it was okay, let's see how the next part turns out.


Ziggy455
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#4

Posted 06 April 2014 - 09:37 AM Edited by Ziggy455, 06 April 2014 - 09:37 AM.

Ace has marked up the key points so I'll just come in with this stuff here.

 

Reading this, I can tell it's borrowed a lot of examples from Max Payne, from the actually taken line of:

 

Outside, my body was cold, it was snowing like confetti in the devil’s parade,

 

To the setup of your character going through the front doors of a big building, getting past the security system on a whim of crazy badassness, and being in one of the worst snowstorms in history.

 

The most important thing here for me to say is show don't tell. You're bogging us down with too much information which isn't critical to the scene, it's critical to the story, but we don't need to know that yet. In fact, I'll use Max Payne as an example.

 

The story starts with cops responding to an 'Officer in Danger' call from a cop and we see Max Payne above, on the Aesir Plaza's roof. We don't know why he's up there, or why there's cops on the way. Do you see? What would the story be like if Max suddenly blurted out "They were all dead. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark to everything that had lead up to this point because the woman called Nicole Horne had sent V junkies to my house to kill my wife and now I'd killed her." 

 

Max Payne'd have been a hell of a lot shorter. 

 

Don't tell us anything beyond the scene itself. Don't tell us why he's doing what he's doing right now, let the reader casually figure it out. Upload another chapter and we'll see how it goes from there. 


Mokrie Dela
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#5

Posted 07 April 2014 - 12:52 PM Edited by Mokrie Dela, 07 April 2014 - 12:58 PM.

I can't really add to anything Ace or Ziggy have said, but I do feel I have to play sheriff for a second:

 

Come on, some feedback?

None of this please. This section can be slow at times, and it could be a week before anyone reads this - be patient! Ziggy and Ace are two great people to have reading your work, worth ten of "casual" readers as they offer some great feedback at times. If you want more people reading, put a little request in the GFX section for a sig to advertise your story - people might then click it :)

 

One thing I will say, which i think Ziggs touched on, is that you've given us too much information - you've told us he wants revenge and why, when I feel those questions might be better left open for a while - let the reader slowly figure out what he's doing, as Ziggy said, and try to find the right moment to tell us why - too soon, and you lose the suspense/mystery. Too late, and you risk stringing it out. Try to also let your character shine through a bit - don't rush too much to move it along, but also don't get bogged down in details - ask yourself this: Is it critical that the reader knows this bit of information? Can the story move on without it? Does it help set the scene and have you worded it as best you can? Remember what Ziggs said - show, don't tell - show us the snow falling, instead of telling us that it is. In my newest story, I've actually tried to avoid saying snow, instead describing the scene - a white blanket, for example. Be creative :D

Good luck, keep up the work, and I'll check this out (I've only had a quick read) soon!


AEsob
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#6

Posted 24 April 2014 - 11:03 AM Edited by AEsob, 03 March 2016 - 05:21 PM.

Thank You Black Metal for making this.

 

 

NSfC1nZ.png

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

3 January 2018                                                                                               0200 hours

 

100 kilometres from Shahjahanabad

 

The night was cold and dark, like every other night since the boy died. Five years ago, I gifted him a bow to practice archery, and now I was sneaking in a bush with that bow.

 

It was snowing like hell, and no one had expected this temperature in UP right now. In front of me, the new DASD headquarters stood out like Aurangzeb himself; dark, gloomy, murderous. I smirked, DASD, a place to call home, well, it once was, at least three years ago.

 

Do you want to know what messed it up? The food chain. I was at the top, the director; below me was my faithful friend and advisor Miss Cathy Janus. I relied on her, maybe too much, and maybe that’s what caused her to depose me and shoot the boy I considered my son.

 

Who gives a damn? All I know is that she shot him twice at point blank, with a Bull .480, and a bullet of that calibre doesn’t forgive.

 

I placed the bow under the bush, knowing that you must keep away from emotional stimulus when you are about to kill someone. In front of me, two of Cathy’s lackeys, dressed in jackets and pants guarded the front door of the DASD HQ; a Haveli (large mansion) built in later Mughal period. The time when Mughals had nothing left but tradition, weak rulers, Ego and ambition.

 

The front door flew open, and another similarly attired man with a shotgun walked up to them, then the huge oaken doors closed. Lights flickered, and all was darkness, my EMP emission unit was in place and I had about ten minutes to devise a way to get in before power came back.

 

That night, god must have starched his head, Dandruff fell, and the whole world was a thick, white blanket. I was cold, and my Index and middle fingers and my thumb were numb. I cursed silently; it had been a mistake to choose marksmanship gloves over regular ones.

 

I made a quick search for guards which felt awkward as there only two outside, one throwing plates into the sky and the other trying to shoot those plates, mostly missing.  He was definitely new, given the bickering over the other’s teaching skills and the weight of a shotgun. I found my way to go inside.

 

I had special customised shades that I received as a gift during my tenure as director,

The shades had NVG, Thermal, an attached red dot emitter, in-built binoculars and an accuracy meter. Added to that they were extremely fancy, and went well with any clothes.

 

I wish I could tell you more about the architecture, but I was too consumed to notice.

It was cold, very cold outside, but my mind was a volcano waiting to erupt after a long time, to wreck anything that comes near its reach. I pulled back the chain of the kit bag I had, and pulled out a SPAS 12. I had two shotgun shells, and two people to kill.

 

I loaded the slugs, one-by-one, and the pushed the grip upwards to load it in the barrel. Now, I was ready to blow off their heads.

 

Five minutes later

 

The white blanket had a new colour, red. Limp bodies torn asunder by a shotgun. I dropped the SPAS; I had no more use of it, and then pulled out a modified AK12 from the kit bag. The Kalashnikov had dark furniture, foregrip, red dot sight and a skeleton stock.

 

I loaded a sixty round 5.56*39 mm casket clip and pulled back the innovative switch meant to load a bullet into the barrel. A sound of Click-Jhak assured me that my weapon was ready. I also had two Bull .480 revolvers with me, and if all else failed, waiting to kill were my most treasured and useful weapons, my knives, my skills and my brain.

 

I could just wait there for everyone to come out and then shoot them in the head, but maybe I’d drank too many vodkas, because what I came up with was to blow up the front door with five kilos of C4. No, I had something even better. I was going to blow up the whole building to ‘kingdom come’ with a fifteen kilo mortar that I kept in my kit bag just in case. Within a minute, the mortar was ready and then...

 

All hell broke loose as two mortar shells, one after the other, hit the server room of the building. I knew where it was, I’d built it myself.

 

The silent, serene background was shattered. The sky lit up as blazing fire scorched the surface, the accumulated snow turned to water, flooding the roads. The cars in the parking lot began wailing, piles of rubble pinning them to the floor, and gore mixed with water to create murky surroundings.

 

I knew Cathy wasn’t here, she was in London, having tea with the queen, but now she had no one to protect her, besides, this was good psychological influence. She deserved sleepless nights.

 

Within an hour, I disappeared into the night, and wailing of the emergency services served as background music to the mayhem I had started.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

So, I wrote the chapter again, put a lot of work into this, and I barely get a little free time due to my preparations for the PHD course. I hope to get feedback soon.

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AEsob
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#7

Posted 22 February 2015 - 05:07 PM

Okay...so it isn't dead...yet.

 

It's been about a year, I got busy, and...let's just say that I struggled with it for a long time.

 

Writing another chapter now, but it may take some time.

 

It took a lot of guts to show up here.

 

Aesob


Mokrie Dela
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#8

Posted 22 February 2015 - 09:58 PM

That's great to hear, AEsob. Yeah, It does take a bit of guts to post stuff publicly. I always have that doubt.

 

But as good as it is to see you here, please don't bump old topics unless you have something to add to it. We'll all look forward to reading your next part, but what you've posted could be said in the Writers' Room chat topic.

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Ziggy455
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#9

Posted 06 March 2015 - 04:20 AM

If you want to upload the next chapter, I'll be here to dissect it and help you.

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AEsob
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#10

Posted 09 March 2015 - 03:46 PM Edited by AEsob, 18 March 2015 - 08:05 AM.

Okay, will do a HDD purge withing the next few minutes, I thought I'd upload whatever I had, so, here it is, just at about 380 words.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Chapter 1

 

Death is coming

 

Kabir Shiekh Alam

 

6 January 2018

 

Chandni Chawk, Old Delhi

 

9:30 P.M.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

IT was bitterly cold, about 5 degrees Celsius. Freezing to the marrow.

 

Chadni Chawk is a very lively place. Well, it usually is, or rather, it used to be. With the smell of fresh spices, flowers, incense...the sharp smell of Old Jaghiya Khan’s Kebabs, the laughter of the small flower girl, as I walked past her, stuffing a few notes into her basket. Hansmukh Ram, the old musician, he gripped my hand with all his strength when I gave him the silver mouth Organ.

 

Gone.

 

These no longer existed. I still heard Jaghiya Khan’s lively laughter, the giggling of the flower girl as her footsteps raced across the snow. Hansmukh Ram in his torn jacket, held together with patches of cloth, and rendered colourless with years of wear, playing that happy tune on his mouth organ.

 

The incense shop was burnt to the ground last week, something about protection money, and Jaghiya Khan died of pneumonia last winter, people no longer liked his kebabs, with the new shopping malls and restaurants. Hansmukh Ram migrated back to his village in UP, and then he went missing. And the little flower girl? They found her lacerated corpse near the train tracks three months ago.

 

My world is devoid of all that is good. A bleak shell of life is all that is left.

 

But why is that so? I never asked for it, did I? I never asked for betrayal, for...for the systematic execution of all that were loyal to me. I never asked for the death of the only person I cared for...the boy.

 

If Cathy wanted my post, all she could have done was ask, I would've resigned then and there.

 

I don’t care about power, and never did in my entire life.

 

But I do care about one thing. JUST. ONE. THING. Nyaw aw Badal. Justice and Revenge. I live by that.

 

I am a killer. A very good one at that.

 

My name is Kabir Shiekh Alam, and I, will have, my revenge.

 

At any cost, any collateral and by any means.

 

That was a solemn oath, and I decided to keep a few moments of silence for a while.

 

Through the bitter cold, and the unmerciful haunting of my past, I dragged on.

 

I was always dragging on; always haunted by my past, always...sad. It was a continuous cycle, a never ending path I was destined to walk, forever.

 

Why was it so cold? Even Earth, like a little child had draped and covered herself with layers and layers of white blankets, each inches thick.

 

The streetlamps flickered, and through that light I saw him.

 

I saw the boy.

 

He was kneeling, crying, begging for the pain to stop. His blood soaked school dress was torn in places. His brown hair was caked with his blood. His nose was twisted oddly, bleeding. The Bitch walked up to her. Her silver suit was neat, tidy. Her sharp heel dug into his hand. He was screaming. She drew the Revolver.

 

He was kneeling, crying, begging for the pain to stop. His blood soaked school dress was torn in places. His brown hair was caked with his blood. His nose was twisted oddly, bleeding.  A bloody hole punched into his hand. He screamed. Then, three holes, one by one were punched into him. He shuddered and screamed as the first hole tore his shoulder apart, and then another. Then his head was obliterated.

 

I could not do anything back then.

 

I could not do anything now.

 

I found myself kneeling in the snow, a cheap .32 revolver in my hand. I held it to my temple.

The metal was cold, colder than what the rest of my body felt.

 

I pulled the trigger, relieved that it was finally over.

 

I had accepted death.

 

The gun clicked harmlessly. It was empty, like all the other times.

 

Fate had robbed me of the only relief I had. It would not let me die.

 

But it had been too much for me. I fished into my pockets, and found six bullets.

 

The cold brass almost burned through my gloves.

 

I loaded them, one by one, spun the chamber and with a satisfying snap put it in the metal frame of the revolver.

 

I pulled back the hammer, and time seemed to slow down.

 

I held it to my head.

 

It felt welcoming, no longer cold.

 

I thought no longer of revenge. And whether I was going to Jannat or Jahannum, I was relieved.

 

My story was to finish before it even began.

 

I pulled the trigger.

 

But I wasn't destined to die that night.

 

The gun had jammed.

 

Whether it was the frost, or the rubbish black market merchant who sold me this, the gun had jammed.

 

I looked up the brilliant night sky, cursing the gods in the tongue of my ancestors.

 

Then it hit me that it had been almost three years since I last saw the night sky.

 

I had been busy at night, always killing people, drinking myself to the edge of existence and of course, plotting my devious revenge.

 

The wrath of an Afghan.

 

The sky was beautiful. Thousands of twinkling lights against the dark backdrop of this little play,

and a crescent mass of peace; undisturbed and uninterested.

 

But then again... ‘The tender grace of a day that is gone will never come back to me’.

 

I straightened myself, rubbed the snow off my clothes and walked towards my apartment, with the dignity of a dead man who kills living people.

 

Oh, the irony.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Jannat - Heaven

 

Jahannum - Hell

 

It has been a very difficult chapter to write, because well, it is difficult for me to write depressing fiction. 


AEsob
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#11

Posted 18 March 2015 - 09:29 AM Edited by AEsob, 18 March 2015 - 09:29 AM.

Just to bump this up, to let people know that the chapter is up. If something like this is not tolerated, let me know and I'll refrain from doing this again.


Del Perro Dog
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#12

Posted 18 March 2015 - 01:54 PM

That night was cold and dark, like every other night since the boy died.I had first seen him when he was a small baby, and I was eleven years old. The boy's father had been with me since my father died, he was like my elder brother. Because of his trust in my potential, I grew up to join one of the deadliest intelligence organisations of the world, and then became the head of DASD...Defense and Sabotage department, RAW. Bit of a sudden leap, but I'll roll with it.

 

It was the worst winter of the decade in India. Delhi was under snow, Shajanabad was under snow…Aurangbad was under snow. Now I was standing stood about a hundred kilometres from Aurangbad, in front of an old Haveli some info on what a Haveli exactly is would be nice, because as someone who knows very little of India I've heard nothing of Havelis in ever. From my quick Google search I believe it's a kind of restaurant., that stood here since Mughal age. Yet again, an obscure and unexplained reference that would only make sense to citizens and researchers of India.

 

I’d tracked down the bitch. I’d tracked down the bitch who had shot the boy in the chest, who had deposed me deposed you from what?, and it had taken me three damned years. Do forgive me if you think I am being bleak with this line it makes me think you're writing a documentation on the events on the story to a listener rather than this being a story, but right then, I was consumed by thoughts of revenge.

 

Outside, my body was cold, it was snowing like confetti in the devil’s parade, but inside, my mind was boiling like Chernobyl. The guards supposed to guard the Haveli were dead why were there armed guards defending a restaurant?, their limp bodies torn apart by my fuming shotgun. The snow was a new colour, red. I dropped the shotgun, and then pulled back the chain of the kit bag I had.

 

I pulled out the custom modified AK12 with red dot sight and suppressor. The sixty round clip clicked into place, and I pulled off the safety, Click, the new 7.62 mm round was loaded, ready to blow apart any head to come in its way. Then I placed two .480 Taurus Bull revolvers in the holsters under my jacket. If all else fail, or if I felt like it, I always had the extensions of my hands, my knives. Way, way, way, way too much information, this is a whole paragraph of gun-porn. 

 

I looked at the Haveli. Poor thing, its medieval architecture and calligraphic designs marred by the brand new security items such as heartbeat sensors, eyeball sensors and lasers that I could see with my special espionage shades that were otherwise invisible to the naked eye. So what year is this to have such things as "special espionage shades"? Because up to this point it sounds like a modern story, but then again I've been running with zero context up to this point except that a boy was killed.

 

None of their security equipment could stop me, because I had come up with the exceptionally brilliant and suicidal idea of breaching the front door and shooting any Smart ass who decided to face me. If it was a competent security team they probably would've anticipated for that.

 

I set up the breaching charge and set my back to the wall beside it. “Breaching”, I said to no one in particular. That's...weird I let off the charge and the door blew up. Poor little oaken door, you stood here for a longer time than I did, goodbye I believe only a historian would care this much for old architecture. Tossing in a flashbang, I shouldered the rifle.

 

My name is Kabir Sheikh Alam, and I will have my revenge. *Inception horn, pan out, coming this summer!*

 

 

--------------

 

Hope you like it, just WIP, criticism is absolutely welcome, could use some new ideas too.

 

 

 

 


AEsob
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#13

Posted 18 March 2015 - 03:01 PM Edited by AEsob, 18 March 2015 - 03:01 PM.

Dude...that's like, way too old, read what I wrote...a bit more recently.

 

I wrote that chapter...on Meds.

 

I had no idea what I was doing.


Del Perro Dog
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#14

Posted 18 March 2015 - 03:02 PM

Dude...that's like, way too old, read what I wrote...a bit more recently.

 

I wrote that chapter...on Meds.

 

I had no idea what I was doing.

I know it's old, but it's still the beginning of the story I haven't read before.


Mokrie Dela
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#15

Posted 18 March 2015 - 03:16 PM

Just to bump this up, to let people know that the chapter is up. If something like this is not tolerated, let me know and I'll refrain from doing this again.

We don't like seeing needless bumps, and I have told you before (look up the page). . If you want to remind people, use the Discussion topic (but reminding people too much might disuade them from reading - relax). Read this topic: Forum Rules.


  • No Spam Off-topic, nonsensical, one word or otherwise pointless and non-contributory posts, double posting is frowned upon, and only allowed if necessary. Do not bump a topic unless needed.

 

 

Dude...that's like, way too old, read what I wrote...a bit more recently.

 

I wrote that chapter...on Meds.

 

I had no idea what I was doing.

I know it's old, but it's still the beginning of the story I haven't read before.

 

Del Perro Dog's not done anything wrong, but the first chapter has been critiqued in depth already, it might be better to read through those critiques (which will give you tips for yourself, often), note the points made  then read the next chapter and critique that instead.
However, you can critique any part you want.


AEsob
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#16

Posted 18 March 2015 - 03:57 PM

Okay, thanks for the reminder, I'm not here to argue over anything, just to write, but I did post an entire chapter, but as I said before, I'll refrain from doing this.

 

My computer crashed before I realised that I'd posted it...and because it crashed,  reopened the Writer's room page directly and then posted that in there.

 

My PC has been having hardware issues, it makes a 'crack' sound and crashes...or restarts, the repair guy will be here Friday.

 

AEsob


Mokrie Dela
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    Best Story/Poem 2013 "The Storm"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2011 "Justice in Flames"
    Story/Poem of the Year 2010 "City of Lies"

#17

Posted 18 March 2015 - 04:22 PM

Yeah, that don't sound good.

 

I'm aware you posted the chapter, but you have to realise that this section is a slow section. You won't get a reply within five minutes most of the time. Sometimes it's a few days, sometimes a few weeks. But when some of the old regulars come in, if they peek in your topic, and if they tear it apart, it's going to be worth the wait to hear what they have to say.

 

Keep that in mind. Posting "Bump" or reminders that it's here is going to do more harm than good. It won't make people want to read it, but risk people thinking you're after attention. Views will come when they come, and replies will too. To the people who view this forum, I would say: don't just view a topic. Reply to it. Post your thoughts, any suggestions. That is what we're about here. We don't just show our stuff, but look at and help others with theirs. Let your work speak for itself.

You can, by all means, post in the Writers' Room discussion topic when you've got a new chapter up. But even then you don't need to. This section is quiet enough that anyone who comes in will see when a topic is posted or updated.

 

Keep writing, posting, and helping out, that's all I say.

 

Oh, and buy a mac...

Spoiler


AEsob
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#18

Posted 26 April 2015 - 03:53 PM Edited by AEsob, 26 April 2015 - 03:54 PM.

Chapter One part two
“Death is coming”
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15 February 2018
7:50 P.M
Kolkata, West Bengal
Park Street
 
 
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He was a disembodied, hallowed person. No connection between the mind and the body.
 
In another life, he had been Agni Roychoudhuri. He used to be a spy, a secret agent for an organisation that had officially never existed, but influenced every major national decision since its inception. 
 
DASD. 
 
And THAT...ruined everything for him.
 
You see, there was a war. A good, loyal man had been tricked out of power, and the one who came after him...she was a b***h.
 
THE B***h. The so called lord of all b***hes. A b***h in the literal sense, a consummate b***h, and a rabid b***h.
 
She purged all who were loyal to the last director, and every loose end.
 
People who had retired, people who went off the grid, people that were let go.
 
People like him.
 
She rounded them up, and shot their families before their eyes, then killed them.
 
He escaped; a miracle in all senses. The bullet missed his heart by a quarter of an inch, and never hit anything on the way out.
But his only reason to live what can be called life was finished.
 
Now he is sitting here; with his skin covered by a layer of dirt, hiding the original tint and the intricately patterned, but faded tattoos. His nails are long, and both of his hands are tattooed.
 
Though it is impossible to notice the text in the middle of the blank space in the middle of his hands, given the dim light of the room he is sitting in, but maybe we’ll just try.
 
On his right hand, all his fingers except the index finger are folded; he is drawing unintelligible patterns on the teak desk that has enriched its texture with age. All his fingers have serpentine figures tattooed onto them.
 
The outside of his palm has a space, with patterned arrows pointing towards his fingers and arm. There is text in the space, beautiful cursive lettering.  ‘Hand of Doom’, it read.
 
His left hand was wrapped around the hilt of a single edged combat knife. The patterns on his left hand were the ones on his right hand; just the text read ‘God is dead’.
 
Once upon a time, the text on the right and left hands were ‘Hand of judgement’ and ‘God is here’.
 
That used to mean something.
 
He is wearing a cream suit, unbuttoned at the collars, no tie.
 
Two tribal patterns rise, wrapping his collarbones, and snaking halfway up his neck, where they stop. Long black matted hair and an unkempt, unruly full beard, both of which haven’t seen the light of day in a long time, hide most of his face.
 
He was very popular amongst girls in school, a fact that he feels is funny. But then again, he never cared about anybody’s opinion, except Her opinion.
 
His nose, which was praised once upon a time to be perfect both in size and in shape, was very slightly twisted now. It had been broken on the way down off a cliff side, and into the raging white river.  He thinks that it adds a certain charm to his cold, calculating, murderous face.
 
His grey-brown eyes that once sparkled and shone with life, smiled and made others feel positive now look around with an indifferent air, no longer shining, no longer happy. A cynical example of the fate of a man who cared. Not even cynical, he doesn’t think that it matters anymore.
 
He is a hitman now; he kills for money and to just satiate his bloodlust, and for a chance at revenge. He carries Her picture with him, always, and he shows it every man he kills, and just asks one thing.
 
Did they ever know Her?
 
So far, he has never ever received an affirmative, and every time that happens, his face contorts into a furious demon. But he never lets it show. He wears a mask.
 
His mask, it resembles a death’s head without the characteristic teeth, lies on the desk. It is custom made, covers his entire head...it is bulletproof. It is quite lenient with the numerous scratches on its surface; scratches from shrapnel, and marks indicating where dents had been removed. Even its visors could stop a bullet, albeit a small bullet fired from over a longer-than-effective-range distance.
 
He feels he is no longer among the living, neither is he among the dead. He has no moral boundaries, and no target is unattainable.
 
They say that he can dodge any bullet, pass through 12 inches of steel, that he can destroy entire armies alone, with nothing except a semi-automatic pistol and a knife. That he is invincible, ruthless, merciless, and when it suits him, psychotic. He welcomes all the opinions with open arms.
 
He is called Death in his present existence. Because, they say that like an agent of nature, he keeps coming; over and over and over again.
 
But sometimes, just sometimes, he thinks that it would be better to put a gun to his temple...and pull the trigger. But he respects life too much for that.
 
Then again, he never can let go. So he clings on, desperate/angry/confused, whatever suits him at the time.
 
Tonight is his big night. If he can prove his worth tonight, then he will have a new employer, one with endless resources, and, if what the rumours are true, a sense of loyalty.
 
Loyal men, what a joke!
 
He remembers being loyal a long time ago, and he remembers his reward.
 
Then he mentally scolds himself for becoming distracted before a kill.
 
His target somehow had information that the legendary Death himself was after his head. And thus, having every wish of self preservation and no wish to have his head mounted on the legendary assassin’s wall, did something every fat, rich and corrupt politician would.
 
The worm went and surrounded himself with the Encounter squad.
 
That meant 35 armed men with fully automatic rifles and shotguns, two helicopters, five military issued SUVs and 4 snipers, and automated machine guns mounted on every other counter.
 
But every security measure has a weak point, and when there are a large number of people concerned, the room for error is larger than ever.
 
But there was no margin for error, especially this time. A single mistake would mean failure.
 
In another life he would’ve considered that killing policemen, who were obviously following orders, was off limits. Now though, he is happy to kill any person who came in his way. And he can do that.
 
What seems strange to even his present form is that he is happy to kill any who stand in his way.
 
Then, for a moment, the Man who cared comes back.
 
“What have I become,” he wonders.
 
The thought goes away as fast as it came.
 
“Then again,” his present form decides “It would be suicidal to charge the encounter squad head on.”
 
Then he clasps his hands together and sits silently, purging all the thoughts that bother him, the smell of fresh roses that always linger around in a corner of his mind and all the memories that crawl under his skin.
 
He opens his eyes.
 
They are uncaring once more, no longer sad, but bloodthirsty. He picks the two halves of his mask up, positions them, and clasps the back to the front.
His target had run out of luck.
 
But then, his target had run out of luck when he received news that Death had come after him, now, he was running on negative balance.
 
Suddenly the wind picks up, and the lights go dimmer. The scene darkens to acknowledge his entry.
 
Death...an agent of nature, someone who comes for everybody when time is up. There is no evading an agent of nature.
 
Be it rain or shine, dawn or dusk, the man in the cream suit doesn’t care. His long nails shine in the slowly dimming single CFL light that gives light to this little slice of darkness.
 
He holsters a Walther P99 hidden under the table and slides the Combat knife in its holster under his sleeve.
 
Funny thing is, he doesn’t remember his target’s name. Not that he cares though, at this point, his name is a dead man’s name, scrawled on a piece of paper lying a bottomless Abyss.
 
For his target, Death is coming.

AEsob
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#19

Posted 30 January 2016 - 05:13 AM

Chapter Two

“Later that night”

Death

8:00 P.M.

Park Street

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

There was one thing Death was sure of. He couldn’t leave out of the front door.

 

The Encounter squad loomed ahead, their features exaggerated by the moonlight, marching in combat boots, toting Kalashnikovs. Accompanied by the howling wind outside, there was a certain semblance in the scene that reminded him of something, though he couldn’t really remember what.

 

It was funny though; there weren’t storms of this magnitude in Kolkata, not without rain, at least. Across the street, his target was getting cold sweat.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was a bad day for Mohan Ram. White streaks of sweat had marked his red kurta and an incessant scratching of the large bald spot in the centre of his head had formed red marks all over it. His small, beady eyes scanned the room for any sort of danger, and his blunt nose sniffed the air, scanning for traces of gunpowder.

 

When it came to existent or even nonexistent threats, Mohan was the first to take cover behind his favourite, premium leather maroon sofa. Right then, his nails dug into the plush seat.

 

Shakily, Mohan retrieved a Marlboro from a pocket of his Kurta and put it between his thick lips, which seemed rather comical under a large moustache and Hawk like nose. Tension made him more comical than what was usual.The indication of imminent Death, at the hands of a most talented and ruthless assassin will do that to people.

 

Two weeks ago, all was well and good. He was making money like he had never done before, and he was always used to make a great amount of money. What Mohan did, however, was...horrifying to most other people. Mohan was, in his own words, an ‘employment generator’. He sent promising young men and women to their doom. He took a large cut, close to 500-800 thousand, and then shipped people off to the Middle East. They thought that their lives would be improved, that they would get jobs; he knew that they WILL become sex slaves or bonded labour. If they manage to escape, they will for the rest of their lives live in the shelter beside the embassy.

 

He was very rich, and well connected. With money and connections come power, and Mohan considered that he was very powerful. But last week, he had received a letter with no return address, and no stamp. It still sat crumpled within the other pocket of his Kurta. He took it out, straightened it, scratched the greying stubble on his wrinkled cheek, and read it.

 

Dear Mr. Mohan Ram, it has come to the attention of a responsible citizen of our great nation that your name is primary among the list of great criminals, scum and bottom feeders that have infested, and destroyed the reputation of our country, from within and outside. Your crime is to destroy the future, the youth of our country. Death is coming for you.’

 

A drop of sweat trickled down from his small chin and blotted the blue ink. A week was over, Death was coming.

 

Mohan felt a sudden urge to lighten the load on his bowels, so he shakily stood up and hobbled over to his washroom.

 

As the dark, teak door closed with a bang, and a key turned in the brass handle, the thirty armoured men inside the room sagged their shoulders and sighed, in perfect synchronisation.

 

They wiped their hands on their visors and removed their balaclavas. Someone pulled out a deck of cards, and somebody else voiced sympathy for the scouts outside.

 

The storm was interfering with radio contact. The helicopters had pulled out, and the scouts outside were observing radio silence. One of them had checked up on the scouts just about ten minutes ago, so everything was probably all right.

 

Their charge was safely tucked inside the toilet, and probably wouldn’t come out for the rest of the night, so all they had to do was relax.

 

They didn’t know that they were wrong. Very wrong.

 

Then it happened.

 

Someone knocked on the door, and the squad leader beckoned to one of the younger men to answer it.

 

The brown haired boy was annoyed, they were playing teen patti, and he was winning. The game broke up, and he shuffled up to the door casually and unlatched it.

 

He opened his mouth to say something, his eyes flared up with surprise.

 

But before the air escaped through his vocal cords, a military grade flashbang was shoved down his throat.

 

The assailant kicked him, sending him reeling backwards, and then his face exploded in the goriest mess imaginable. Battered flesh flew here and there, shrapnel and light stunned the others in the room, coating them with their former comrade’s brain matter.

 

A mixture of shrapnel and teeth blinded a man who was playing with his rifle’s safety. He raised his Kalashnikov and opened fire at what he perceived to be the door.

 

The door turned out to be five of his comrades.

 

In that moment of unmixed confusion, others in the group fired at the blind ‘traitor’, and ended shooting more of their friends. The survivors returned fire.

The red haze of blood and smoke cleared, only two men were left standing.  The squadron leader, whose ugly face had been further rendered ugly by shrapnel, and the youngest in the squad, Owl, who, although not wounded, was frozen, almost paralysed where he stood.

 

As far as the squadron leader was concerned, this was the worst day of his life.

 

A so called ‘agent of nature’ was at the doors, he had lost twenty eight of his men, all shot up by each other before he could do something about it, the target of this psychotic killer he was facing wasn’t worth protecting, and shrapnel had blown up at least a quarter of his cheek.

 

One horrible second had passed, but to the men, that second seemed like a year.

 

Then they broke out of the stupor, and the two men opened fire on the door. They emptied two extended magazines in the general direction of the door. Ninety rounds of military grade Soft point 7.62x39 bullets. It was overkill, enough to disintegrate an elephant.

 

When the smoke cleared, and the last brass shell hit the ground, both men put down their fuming rifles and expected to at least catch their breaths before they confirmed the kill.

 

The first shock came from behind.

 

As the gloved hand clasped Owl’s face, the leader turned around to see a masked man in a spotless cream suit drive a knife into the last remaining person of the squad.

 

There was shock in Owl’s eyes. As the jugular spurt added more gore to the leader’s face, Owl writhed in pain. He tried in vain to pressurise the wound. But he had already lost too much blood.

 

The leader tried to draw his sidearm, but the assailant was faster. Before he could even reach the grip of his pistol, two bullets hit him in the neck.

 

At the assailant’s feet, Owl kicked in pain, blood seeping through the gaps of his fingers.

 

The poor young man had many dreams for the future. In his last moments, he felt only regret. Regret for not having spent enough time with his mother, regret for not having bought the house he wanted to, regret for not marrying the woman he wanted to.

 

Now his dreams would never be realised.

 

Then he thought of his leader. He knew that the sergeant had two daughters. The sergeant was a single father, his wife was dead. Owl knew that the sergeant had a large house loan, and that there was not enough money in his bank account.

 

In his last moments, the smell of his mother’s home-cooked Biryani seeped into his nostrils, and then, it was all over.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Death shuffled uncomfortably in his place. The pain in his back felt the urge to remind him of its existence, and his head felt tremendously heavy. He had not slept or eaten, in days. He felt somewhat weaker. Three years ago, he would never even need to kill thirty people to get to his target.

 

Were his hands shaking, and was that why he shot a guard twice?

 

From behind his mask, his eyes scanned the room for traces of his target.  They scoured the bloodied room, sniffed for any particular smell that could help him track his quarry, but all he smelled was bile and viscera.

 

He looked around the room and laughed. There wasn’t much to look at.

 

Spotless white walls reduced to rubble and stained with blood splatter, a 36” LED TV, destroyed, and letting out sparks, just like a casualty that sprays blood after his throat is slashed.

 

Priceless decor reduced to dust, and a genuine Ming vase smashed, lying dead on the floor.

 

There was no sign of his target, and he was not in the mood to wait.

 

A sudden rage overtook his senses. In a bout of psychotic anger, he picked up a guard’s Kalashnikov and rained fire on all the closed doors.

From behind a particularly dark teak door, a stream of blood flowed on, to meet the sea of blood that he had created.

 

Behind his mask, Death smiled and felt that, sometimes, psychotic rage paid off.





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