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General

It was March nineteenth, a Thursday. Melting snow causing small rivers to appear on the sides of roads, carrying garbage and God knew what else to the storm drains. The city was quiet, some might even say that the city was asleep, if such a thing could occur. He lay awake in bed, listening to the rain droplets patter on the third floor window belonging to the bedroom of his apartment. He turned to look at his alarm, 3:57AM, it reported in red pixelated numbers. Today was the day.

He stretched as the first beeping beckon of his alarm announced that it was time to get up. The illuminated red numbers now reported 7:00AM. He flicked the switch to silence the alarm more by instinct than sight before rising to a sitting position on his bed. He swung his feet over the side of his bed and planted them habitually into his perfectly worn-in slippers. Walking easily to his small kitchen, dressed in a robe, he pressed the button on his coffee maker and stepped away to start his morning shower. As he stepped into the kitchen, finishing buttoning his top button, the last drop of his morning coffee topped off his cup. “Perfect.” He said quietly to himself as he grabbed his cup, slipped on his loafers, and closed his door behind him. 

“Good morning Horace, it must be 7:30.” The lady speaking smiled, her tone was friendly as she winked. 

“Of course, Cheryl-Ann.” The man in the button down and loafers responded easily. The lady smiled. “Always is. I figure I don’t need a clock as long as you’re in town. Anyways,” she grabbed his mail, the paper always came in at 7:25AM on Thursdays, “Your paper and - oh, a package!”  He reached for the mail with his left hand, taking the box first and tucking it under his arm, and the paper second. 

“See you next week!” she called after him as he stepped out of the post office and to his vehicle, a pristine blue sedan. He opened the package carefully, picking at the tape confining the contains of the cardboard box until he could pull it back in unbroken strips. He then grabbed each flap of the box and pulled it back to open the box. Inside lay packing peanuts, and under their concealment; a clear bag of small white pills, and a simple business card. The business card informed only of an address and time. 

Horace dressed in his finest blazer, with matching pants, a white button down shirt, and his leading loafers. He hummed as he slicked his black hair back. He stared into the mirror, checking his work, Today is the day. He placed two pills in the inside pocket of his jacket, slipped a blade in his pocket, and grabbed the business card off the counter - just to be sure. 

Horace glanced at the business card and stopped the blue sedan two blocks away from the address detailed on it. He slid the card in his pocket, and glanced at the car’s clock before stepping out of it, 9:00PM the clock reported. He walked the two blocks, the city lamp posts highlighting an attractive man walking confidently in regular intervals before plunging him into darkness. He stopped at the address on the card. Neon blue light bathed him as music thundered from within the building. Today was the day. 

A burly man looked him over and stepped aside. Horace entered the building. He walked down a set of stone steps and found himself facing a bar. People were gathered, pool tables attracted crowds while others sat along the bar, their focus on televisions broadcasting whatever sporting event was on that night. The only difference with this bar than any old bar was found in its occupants - there wasn’t a single woman in the place. Though when one looked more closely, it wasn’t just the lack of females present, all the men were incredibly well dressed and sported the most expensive of accessories. There wasn’t a wrist not sporting at least a Rolex. 

Horace scanned the place quickly, and spotted his target, a man in his fifties with a greying moustache. He swooped in like a hawk. Smile plastered on his face, he sat next to the man at the bar and beckoned the bartender for a beer. “Who are you cheering for?” Horace asked, nodding in reference to the television. 

“Lions, Detroit.” the man answered shortly. Horace nodded again, this time at the man. 

“I’m a fan of them myself too.”     

“Oh really? Nobody likes the Lions unless they have a reason to.”

“I grew up in Detroit,” Horace lied easily, “How about another drink?” 

The man nodded, offering his hand to shake, “Timothy Dempsey.” 

Horace took it. “Jonathan Summers.” he smiled easily at him then beckoned the bartender once more. The bartender arrived with their drinks. The two men talked for an hour while one drank like a pig and the other sipped away at one glass. Mr. Dempsey grew more talkative as he drained drink after drink. He spoke of football, of his loneliness, and of his sins. 

With the last drink, as he passed it to the man, he slipped the pills into it and they dissolved speedily and soundlessly. Horace glanced at the clock on the wall, it showed 11:00PM. Horace then left the bar, though he only didn’t have to wait long before his new acquaintance was thrown out of the bar for his apparent drunkenness. By a block and a half, Mr. Dempsey needed a shoulder to lean on and Horace was waiting to offer it to him. When they reached the blue sedan, he needed to be nearly lifted into the passenger side. 

Horace brought the car to life with a turn of a key. He drove to the bridge just outside the city and parked the car. He guided a barely conscious Mr. Dempsey to the edge. Horace was about to let go when the older man’s instincts seemed to cut in. He shook his head and turned to Horace with the look of an enraged animal who had been caged. “You...Jonathan…you’re trying to kill me.” He then lunged at Horace, seeming to understand that he was fighting for his life. The ketamine was however, still in his system and the attempted attack was sloppy, managing to grab his legs. The two men fell to the edge of the bridge. 

Horace grabbed the knife from his jacket’s pocket and released the blade. Hearing the click, Mr. Dempsey reached up and slapped the knife, causing Horace to fumble with it and cut his hand. “Killing me won’t bring back those kids.” Timothy Dempsey hissed his last words as Horace plunged the knife into his back, then his chest as he rolled with pain, releasing Horace and rolling right off the edge of the bridge. He landed very far below with a resounding splash!

“Today was the day.” Horace muttered aloud before stumbling back to his car.

It was March twenty sixth, a Thursday. He stretched as the first beeping of his alarm began, announcing that it was time to get up. The red numbers reported 7:00AM. He flicked the switch to silence the alarm and swung his feet over the side of his bed and planted them into his slippers. Walking to the kitchen, dressed in a robe, he pressed the button on his coffee maker and went to shower. As he stepped into the kitchen, finishing buttoning his top button, the last drop of his morning coffee topped off his cup. “Perfect.” He said quietly to himself as he grabbed his cup. He had to walk to the closet to grab another pair of loafers - less worn-in and familiar than his old ones - before leaving his apartment.

“7:31.” Cheryl-Ann frowned. “Horace, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever been late in the five years you’ve been here. I might finally have to get a clock.” 

“Slept through my alarm.” He smiled. She fetched his paper, reading the headline aloud “Escaped child-killer found stabbed to death in river.” Fear flashed in her eyes for a moment as she held the paper out for Horace. He reached for it with his right hand and Cheryl-Ann frowned once more, noticing his left was hanging next to him with a bandage wrapping it. “You okay there, Horace?” 

He nodded. “Just another day.”



April 01, 2020 07:52

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