No Safe Haven
Jul 4, 2013 10:36:14 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jul 4, 2013 10:36:14 GMT -5
Hartford, CT.
The mid-morning Summer sun shines brightly and unencumbered onto the Bulkeley Bridge that connects downtown Hartford, Connecticut with the outlying town of East Hartford over the expanse of the Connecticut River. Sequential arches span the expanse with a four-lane highway adorning the top. There are two pedestrians walkways, one going each way with the traffic, a low stone wall separating any walkers from the fifty-foot drop to the river below, and a metal railing as protection from the traffic behind. The westbound side of I-84 that leads into the city looks off onto the bend of the river as it snakes through lush green trees and a pure blue sky.
The view from the eastbound side of I-84 captures the Connecticut Bridge, about a quarter mile down-river, and the Hartford skyline that rises above the rivers. Including the Connecticut Convention Center. It is on the eastbound side that a lone pedestrian leans with crossed forearms across the outer wall, staring out at the river and the city above it.
Malcolm Drake's dirty-blond hair rises and falls in the intermittent breeze, covering parts of his face and a pair of ten-dollar gas station sunglasses. A plain white T-shirt hides most of his torso and tattoos, save for the few that peek out under the cuffs and along his triceps, and a pair of black-and-gray camouflage shorts cover the top half of his legs. Drake raises a hand to his stubbly chin, running his hand over the short hairs along his jawline all the way up and through his hair, pulling it back off his face.
“This,” he says in a voice loud and clear, “is as good as it gets. At least... as good as it gets here in this PISSHOLE of a city. Out here over the river you almost can't SMELL the STENCH of the open cesspool that is Hartford. Capital city of PATHETICUT. A city built on the blood money of insurance companies. A monument to the safety nets of soulless cowardice.”
Drake spits onto the pavement beside his feet, scowling.
“I can think of no place WORSE place to have to be than Hartford... and we've done several tours of New Jersey. But... here I am. And there,” Drake extends and an arm and index finger out over the water indicating a Marriott hotel off in the distance, slightly removed from the river, “...is where I will be on Saturday night when The Murder takes our next step towards the end goal. The Patheticut Convention Center. I guess they couldn't find any knitting conventions to book this weekend. Not that I'm complaining... it's been far too long since I've had the opportunity to turn a mouth-breathing meatbag into a SMEAR on my canvas. It's been too long since I've SMELLED someone else's blood on my hands. It's been too long since I've felt a bone... CRACK... between my fingers. It's been... too long... since I've see the confidence and life rush out of someone's eyes... replaced by pure, unfettered... terror. The kind of terror that no amount of muscle or bravado can hide. The kind of terror that screams... “I'MGOINGTODIE”... in the world's tiniest, little voice.”
A smirk slowly slides up the corner of Drake's mouth.
“What I'm saying is that despite being... here... I'm looking forward to Saturday night.”
He pauses, pushing himself back from the the wall to the railing.
“It's fitting, isn't it? When I came into Frontier Grappling Arts, I started under a bridge. YOU looked at me like an insect. Something that scurried from the light into the shadows. And then I came under those bright lights, center ring. I crippled your heroes... and you called me an animal. I evolved. I began to walk upright. I KILLED YOUR GOD. And then YOU saw me... and you called me a monster. Now YOU are the one who scurries away. You're trying to find somewhere to hide, but the wings of The Murder are spread wide now. There's only shadows. There is no safe haven. There's only our domain. I started under the bridge, now I'm on top of it...”
In a quick motion Drake pushes off the railing and jumps up onto the curved top of the fall, balanced precariously on the edge, his feet hanging half-over the edge. The river below, the sky above. He strikes a Christ pose.
“AND NOW I'M ON TOP. No one. NO. ONE. In this industry wields more power than I DO. No one inspires more FEAR than I do. There is NO ONE who is a peer to me, or to The Murder. There is NO ONE who can stop us. Pat Gordon Jr. is a failure. Ryan Kidd. FAILURE. Kevin Hardaway – despite his valiant and heroic efforts – is a failure. Whoever these COWARDS are, this 'Mystery Team,' they will be failures, too. They'll be buried in unmarked graves with no names or epitaphs. They say that cowards die a thousand deaths,” Drakes smirks, “... We intend on making sure of that. You're one step ahead of the curve. All of our victims end up as nameless, faceless bodies added to the body-count. Added to the mass grave. You've done us the courtesy of already stripping yourself of names. We'll take care of the rest from here.”
Drake slowly lowers his arms. He opens his eyes and stares down at the river below him.
“There's only one man that can stop me... and you're looking at him. On Saturday night, at the Connecticut Convention Center, the body-count rises by two. Two nameless bodies. Two fools that dared to stand on the tracks and think they could stop a runaway train. This isn't Tiananmen Square. OUR WARMACHINE WILL NOT STOP. You will be given no quarter. There will be no safety net. We will leave the battlefield littered with bodies. We will leave Frontier Grappling Arts filled with carrion. A feast for horrible crows...”
Drake smirks and then begins to cackle. He takes a step backward off the wall and back onto the safety of the pedestrian walkway.
“Memento mori.”
The mid-morning Summer sun shines brightly and unencumbered onto the Bulkeley Bridge that connects downtown Hartford, Connecticut with the outlying town of East Hartford over the expanse of the Connecticut River. Sequential arches span the expanse with a four-lane highway adorning the top. There are two pedestrians walkways, one going each way with the traffic, a low stone wall separating any walkers from the fifty-foot drop to the river below, and a metal railing as protection from the traffic behind. The westbound side of I-84 that leads into the city looks off onto the bend of the river as it snakes through lush green trees and a pure blue sky.
The view from the eastbound side of I-84 captures the Connecticut Bridge, about a quarter mile down-river, and the Hartford skyline that rises above the rivers. Including the Connecticut Convention Center. It is on the eastbound side that a lone pedestrian leans with crossed forearms across the outer wall, staring out at the river and the city above it.
Malcolm Drake's dirty-blond hair rises and falls in the intermittent breeze, covering parts of his face and a pair of ten-dollar gas station sunglasses. A plain white T-shirt hides most of his torso and tattoos, save for the few that peek out under the cuffs and along his triceps, and a pair of black-and-gray camouflage shorts cover the top half of his legs. Drake raises a hand to his stubbly chin, running his hand over the short hairs along his jawline all the way up and through his hair, pulling it back off his face.
“This,” he says in a voice loud and clear, “is as good as it gets. At least... as good as it gets here in this PISSHOLE of a city. Out here over the river you almost can't SMELL the STENCH of the open cesspool that is Hartford. Capital city of PATHETICUT. A city built on the blood money of insurance companies. A monument to the safety nets of soulless cowardice.”
Drake spits onto the pavement beside his feet, scowling.
“I can think of no place WORSE place to have to be than Hartford... and we've done several tours of New Jersey. But... here I am. And there,” Drake extends and an arm and index finger out over the water indicating a Marriott hotel off in the distance, slightly removed from the river, “...is where I will be on Saturday night when The Murder takes our next step towards the end goal. The Patheticut Convention Center. I guess they couldn't find any knitting conventions to book this weekend. Not that I'm complaining... it's been far too long since I've had the opportunity to turn a mouth-breathing meatbag into a SMEAR on my canvas. It's been too long since I've SMELLED someone else's blood on my hands. It's been too long since I've felt a bone... CRACK... between my fingers. It's been... too long... since I've see the confidence and life rush out of someone's eyes... replaced by pure, unfettered... terror. The kind of terror that no amount of muscle or bravado can hide. The kind of terror that screams... “I'MGOINGTODIE”... in the world's tiniest, little voice.”
A smirk slowly slides up the corner of Drake's mouth.
“What I'm saying is that despite being... here... I'm looking forward to Saturday night.”
He pauses, pushing himself back from the the wall to the railing.
“It's fitting, isn't it? When I came into Frontier Grappling Arts, I started under a bridge. YOU looked at me like an insect. Something that scurried from the light into the shadows. And then I came under those bright lights, center ring. I crippled your heroes... and you called me an animal. I evolved. I began to walk upright. I KILLED YOUR GOD. And then YOU saw me... and you called me a monster. Now YOU are the one who scurries away. You're trying to find somewhere to hide, but the wings of The Murder are spread wide now. There's only shadows. There is no safe haven. There's only our domain. I started under the bridge, now I'm on top of it...”
In a quick motion Drake pushes off the railing and jumps up onto the curved top of the fall, balanced precariously on the edge, his feet hanging half-over the edge. The river below, the sky above. He strikes a Christ pose.
“AND NOW I'M ON TOP. No one. NO. ONE. In this industry wields more power than I DO. No one inspires more FEAR than I do. There is NO ONE who is a peer to me, or to The Murder. There is NO ONE who can stop us. Pat Gordon Jr. is a failure. Ryan Kidd. FAILURE. Kevin Hardaway – despite his valiant and heroic efforts – is a failure. Whoever these COWARDS are, this 'Mystery Team,' they will be failures, too. They'll be buried in unmarked graves with no names or epitaphs. They say that cowards die a thousand deaths,” Drakes smirks, “... We intend on making sure of that. You're one step ahead of the curve. All of our victims end up as nameless, faceless bodies added to the body-count. Added to the mass grave. You've done us the courtesy of already stripping yourself of names. We'll take care of the rest from here.”
Drake slowly lowers his arms. He opens his eyes and stares down at the river below him.
“There's only one man that can stop me... and you're looking at him. On Saturday night, at the Connecticut Convention Center, the body-count rises by two. Two nameless bodies. Two fools that dared to stand on the tracks and think they could stop a runaway train. This isn't Tiananmen Square. OUR WARMACHINE WILL NOT STOP. You will be given no quarter. There will be no safety net. We will leave the battlefield littered with bodies. We will leave Frontier Grappling Arts filled with carrion. A feast for horrible crows...”
Drake smirks and then begins to cackle. He takes a step backward off the wall and back onto the safety of the pedestrian walkway.
“Memento mori.”