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your tears don't fall .. they crash around me.</center>
I have no idea how I ended up with this gig. Truthfully? I remember everything. I remember the bullet tearing into my head, and splattering my brain matter around. Well, it would make a wonderful drink. Brain matter. I would have to think what type of liquor would even try to make the taste come out right, and blow -- whatever. In all suits, I'm not even supposed to talk about sinful things. Or that's what the Guidebook to Angels say. I never asked for this, and I am not really liking it.
I never was religious, and I never will be. No matter if I come off with the white winged figure to those who can see. To everyone else -- well, have you ever seen that movie Constantine? Or read the comics, yeah. That's exactly how it works. One minute, you're normal. You're walking down the street, and you can get into clubs. You can drink, and have sex. And whatever else you want to do. You walk into a person who can see what you really are : You're fucked. It's a total circle, and it's vicious. I have yet to meet someone who knows what I truly am, now.
Though, I am considered dead. I've been to my own grave too, it's spiffy. I have one of the girls that used to work with me at the precinct clean it free from leaves, and mud. I think she had something for me, but I can't tell that. So, you can ask me what I do these days. It's not chasing the bad guys anymore. I'm no longer a detective, I wish I was. But instead -- sadly, I have to watch over people now, and it sucks major balls.
Or maybe, hm. The big guy can have me watch a really hot chick, and then I could sex her every night to make the monsters go away. That sounds perfect. Then again, I'm just an Angel by maker, not by choice. I was -- no. I am a man by choice, and by maker. And you all know what they say about men : We only think with our cocks.
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Two years ago. January 3rd, 2005
Stay in the safe house.
That didn't do any good. The safe house wasn't a holy place, nor was it something with bars, and a lock. It didn't have a key, and it wasn't going to keep the monsters out. Trent had been invited over for a drink, as Adrian mixed the gin, and vodka together. Hell, the woman did say stay put -- but never did she say stay put alone. Adrian needed company anyway, and he wasn't looking for sex. It wasn't the type of loneliness that a woman could cure, no. Adrian needed a buddy around.
Ringo had been by the door for quite a while, and that was unusual. He never stayed still. He was always bouncing around, or wagging his tail to get to his ass to lick. It was a dog thing, or that's what Adrian told himself day -after- day. Adrian needed something more then just liquor, and Trent had the goods. It was cut in lines, and they sat waiting on the stupid fake-wooden coffee table. Well, what the Department didn't know couldn't hurt Adrian's reputation.
The left over cigarette still spiraled its smoke into the air, as Adrian's nimble fingers held the tumbler, and poured the juices inside two plastic cups. "Sorry, Man. This is all that this place has." He mumbled, as he picked one up, and handed it over towards Trent. He licked his fingers after the man took the cup, and he sighed.
"Well, it's alright. Don't worry about it. " Trent spoke.
Jesus Christ. He did have a voice, and Adrian blinked a few times. During his months at the Lounge, Trent rarely ever spoke. Adrian thought he was a mute for the longest time, but he only lifted the plastic cup in the air as he cheered, "To catching that fuck, and holding onto our man hoods."
It seemed like a good toast. "What do you have on the suspect so far?"Trent bugged softly, as he crouched down into one of the chairs. His body slimmed back against the cushions, as he raised an eyebrow. He seemed feminine when he canted his head. Jesus, he was gay. Wasn't he?
"I'm not supposed to tell. But who gives a damn anymore. The profile is that he is trying to copycat the Zodiac killer of the 1960's. Though, he's added his own twist. Unlike the original, this rat bastard isn't coining his name from letters, or from stupid shit. Instead,he's carving the signs of Astrology into his victims ( Or knowing exactly what their birthday is, and killing them to fuel his own sexual frustration bullshit ), he's hunting them down by means of their birth date. He's also giving it a lust effect. Or she, whatever. It's an it for now. We really don't have a sex ID'd yet, but we will. Roberts has a feeling that we're close to catching whoever it is, but as for me : I don't give a damn just as long as the fucks at work don't steal anything from my apartment. " He explained, as he turned his back on Trent. He was one self - centered bastard, Adrian that was.
That was something he shouldn't have done. Trent was a respected man when it came to tending to bars, or when it came to making drinks. He was a man who loved his drinks, and whatever else he loved. Adrian didn't know much about the man, but still -- he didn't want to stay in this shithole any longer alone. Adrian shrugged, "Tarot cards, fucking Astrology signs -- where the fuck do these sick pieces of shit get inspiration for these messes? It's almost like they've seen them out of a movie." He paused. "Like a case last year, this woman took the whole Seven movie -- with Brad Pitt, and that one black actor too fucking far. She went on a rampage starting with people that she had gone to High School with, and chose seven. You know, for the sins and whatnot. Lucky for her, all seven were engaging in different vices. Anyway, this cunt rag went on to the children on the fifth-fourth street orphanage, and we finally caught her when she tried to set the place on fire. Instead, she swallowed the gasoline, and lit a match and swallowed that too. Well, you can imagine the rest." He made a gesture with his hands, as he started them with a ball, and then gestured an explosion, along with the sound effects.
He blinked for a few minutes. Wait a fucking minute. Lust murdering, and Astrology. It was a ritual practiced in the old days by Pagans, and whatever else. He canted his head before he allowed his bare feet to pad across the carpet. He was going towards the dresser, and that gun. He had something here. "Trent, what's your birthday, if I can ask?"
"November 17th. Detective, you don't think I'm the killer. Do you? After all, I'm just a bartender." He rose in his chair.
Adrian felt sick to his stomach, as he turned to face Trent. "There was two Zodiac killers. One from San Francisco, and another one from New York. 1969, and 1986 were their birth dates. Why have you been subdued for so long, and why here? Why now." The original Zodiac was into the Lust crimes, or at least his letters said so. Adrian's department had them in a file somewhere in the archives.
"You shouldn't trust people, Adrian. You let them in, and they'll hurt you. And just to let you know, I am not a sick piece of shit. I'm not sick. I am God."
Present Day.
You might be asking yourself, "How did you come to conclusion that Trent was the man." And I don't blame you. Usually, killers are friends, daughters, sons, fathers and mothers. Everyone has the judgment that they can kill another person, but half of the population decide not to. They know better, and they can react differently.
On my studies, the original Zodiac didn't ever speak. He wrote his words through pen, and paper. He didn't associate well with others, and if he did -- it only triggered his sense of killing. Just like any other murderer, a simple hand gesture, or the wrong look can set them off. One of the women who had been killed mentioned something about Darkness swallowing a person whole. It did when it came to her, I saw it with my own eyes. Darkness just isn't a place without lights, or without warmth. It's hard, and it's a cruel time. It's a time where every other sense is kicked off its track, and all your left with is sight. And even then, your sight is blinded because you're truly in that darkness that you had told yourself once before never existed. It opens your eyes, and peels back the whites. It probes your mind, and it's hard to come clean about wanting, and waiting for the light to come back into the picture.
Life isn't just a picture. It's not a breath of fresh air, and it sure as hell isn't comforting. I trusted my killer, and it was the wrong move. He had checkmate, and I was stalled for my pieces on the Chess board. It's all a game to those who can take another life. To Trent: Chess was life, and life was always Chess. Or that's how I see it. Every time I came into that lounge that he worked at, he seemed a bit distant. He was always looking at others, and never to the ones at his counter top. It seemed to be the look of an artist looking for his next masterpiece, or inspiration. Or a skilled Chess player thinking hard about his next move. If the Lounge had been a Chess Board, Trent would've held the highest regards for being the champion in this game of leaving, and coming onto his Board. Getting flicked, or damaged by another piece. Being moved around with the obstacle of life in front of you, and in the end : All you want to do is just dive off the Board onto the side with the other damaged pieces, and find yourself at peace.
Then you realize, Chess doesn't have peace until the last piece of the other team is taken off the board.
I was the last piece, and as you can see : I was taken off the board finally.
<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 02, 2007 05:41 PM: Message edited by: white lines do not lie ]</font>
