At War with the World.
He walked quickly, but not so quickly as to gain unwanted attention or to make himself look like anything other than a man who needed to be somewhere. This served many purposes, as nobody bothered to stop him, and, if anything, they allowed him to pass with minimal resistance. Of course, the most obvious benefit of walking quickly was that it allowed him to reach his target more hastily.
At a quick glance, which was all that anyone could afford to catch, his sharp features left an onlooker in awe, yet none could accurately picture him or transfer their mental image to another. This was especially useful when it came to police descriptions and sketch artists, as none of them could put him down for a crime that he may or may not have committed.
One could call them crimes, if one were so inclined.
Only the "victims" of these "crimes" knew that they occured, and only they could see what was right and what was wrong. Only they could deliver judgement to this self-appointed arbiter, this vigilante of sorts. But it's very hard to ridicule someone when you're looking down the barrell of a Colt Model 1903, the taste of cold steel infecting your pallet and sending chills down your spine. But the steel didn't stay cold for very long, it actually became quite hot as the mechanism fired. But they couldn't tell, because the gun had no hammer. It was really quite cruel, even the government gives a dead man a last meal.
You have that final meal and then you have to sit there as a legalized murderer straps you in and prepares to strike you with a bolt of compressed lightning. And then there's a clergyman to bless you and protect your soul as you're killed, to read some passage that is supposed to heal the massive wound that you're about to suffer. Then finally you see that executioner put his hand on that switch, or pick up that syringe, or ready that axe, or prepare to pull the board from under you, and you realize that you're dead. And then you die, but you die in peace.
Hell, even a firing squad has to pull a hammer back, and there's always that fraction of a second where that little metallic reaper has to fly through you and deliver you to death. But not an assassin, much less one with no honor.
His favorite way to kill was to wedge the gun into their mouth, hopefully with some desperate struggle, and then to sit on them and to leave them helpless, and then to talk for some indeterminate amount of time. Then, just when you least expect it, he'd pull the trigger mid-sentence, and you'd lie there, dead, thinking you're alive, waiting for those last few words.
He was the single most merciful killer in history.
At a quick glance, which was all that anyone could afford to catch, his sharp features left an onlooker in awe, yet none could accurately picture him or transfer their mental image to another. This was especially useful when it came to police descriptions and sketch artists, as none of them could put him down for a crime that he may or may not have committed.
One could call them crimes, if one were so inclined.
Only the "victims" of these "crimes" knew that they occured, and only they could see what was right and what was wrong. Only they could deliver judgement to this self-appointed arbiter, this vigilante of sorts. But it's very hard to ridicule someone when you're looking down the barrell of a Colt Model 1903, the taste of cold steel infecting your pallet and sending chills down your spine. But the steel didn't stay cold for very long, it actually became quite hot as the mechanism fired. But they couldn't tell, because the gun had no hammer. It was really quite cruel, even the government gives a dead man a last meal.
You have that final meal and then you have to sit there as a legalized murderer straps you in and prepares to strike you with a bolt of compressed lightning. And then there's a clergyman to bless you and protect your soul as you're killed, to read some passage that is supposed to heal the massive wound that you're about to suffer. Then finally you see that executioner put his hand on that switch, or pick up that syringe, or ready that axe, or prepare to pull the board from under you, and you realize that you're dead. And then you die, but you die in peace.
Hell, even a firing squad has to pull a hammer back, and there's always that fraction of a second where that little metallic reaper has to fly through you and deliver you to death. But not an assassin, much less one with no honor.
His favorite way to kill was to wedge the gun into their mouth, hopefully with some desperate struggle, and then to sit on them and to leave them helpless, and then to talk for some indeterminate amount of time. Then, just when you least expect it, he'd pull the trigger mid-sentence, and you'd lie there, dead, thinking you're alive, waiting for those last few words.
He was the single most merciful killer in history.
posted by Dylan at 3:17 PM
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