A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

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Billy Moon
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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby Billy Moon » Tue Jan 18, 2011 11:45 pm

Only two weeks after making his New Year's resolution not to kill anyone, here was Tim again confronted with a situation that required him to break his promise. He had been resolute when he made it. His conscience had been after him since the incident with the little girl last December. And he had said never to do it again. But what was he to do now? Somebody needed his services.

Tim took a deep sigh and recollected the call he received the previous night. He had just been out with his friends toasting to his new life. After a long time, he actually felt that this time it was going to be real. He had gone home late that night, and he was just falling asleep when the ringing alerted him.

“I need you to do it,” came a soft voice, almost a whisper, as if the caller was ashamed about what he had just said.

Tim knew exactly what “it” meant and a shiver ran down his spine. Deep down, he had feared of this moment.

“Are you sure?” Tim hoped the caller would change his mind.

Then a long pause.

“Yes, tomorrow,” came the reply. And the caller hung up.

So here he was now staring hard at the sight before him, at the tools he would need to carry out the act he hoped would be the last. He wanted to disappear physically but only his thoughts left the room.


The voice brought him back to the present. He looked over his shoulder at the nurse who was standing behind him. He had discussed this with his chief and he had said it was the family's best option. They had sold off their property to keep her alive longer, and even then they still couldn't afford to pay for palliative care, and Irene was under intense pain. The emotional, psychological and financial pressures were becoming too much to bear.

“Doctor?” The nurse said again.

Tim turned to the family and nodded firmly. He adjusted his glasses and inserted the intravenous needle into Irene's vein.

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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby SMKrafty » Wed Jan 19, 2011 5:59 am

“No, I promised Marilyn. This year, no more,” Tim whispered.
“But you have to. She’ll understand,” replied Anthony.
“I also promised myself.”
“But if you don’t…”
“Why does it have to be me? Let someone else do it.”
“Who, Corrigan over there? You know he couldn’t hit a tin can sitting on a shelf full of them.”
Tim rolled onto his back in their hiding place, turning away from the store front and looked over at Anthony. “There are better ways of taking care of this.”
“Define better? A way that doesn’t bruise your tender conscience and someone else shoulders the responsibility of what has to be done? After all your successes, now you’re getting squeamish? What’s happening to you man?”
“Marilyn asked me to make a New Year’s resolution not to kill anymore. Besides, I’m tired of coming to the end of the year and counting down bodies instead of seconds to a New Year.”
Anthony sighed heavily. “All right, but you know you’ll be counting more bodies that could have been saved if you had done what you’re trained to do?”
“Why don’t you do it and share some of the glory?”
“Dude, I’m your spotter. I don’t have your nerves of steel. You have more lethal talent in your little finger than I do in my whole body. There is no one better than you. That’s why you always get the tap.”
The two men heard a commotion coming from the store front they were supposed to be watching and both eased up to peer over the ledge they were hiding behind.
“poop unicorns and rainbows, he’s got a wall of hostages,” whispered Anthony peering through his binoculars. “With that nine mil he can take them all out before the ground pounders could do more than give him a haircut and then they’ll probably take out two of the three hostages in the process. You’ve got to do it. If you don’t you might as well start counting with those three bodies ‘cause if you don’t take that shooter out, it’ll be just like you shot each and every one of those hostages.”
Tim clenched his jaw and hissed as he settled his body into shooting position and peered through his sight at the line of hooded hostages.
“You get to explain to Marilyn tonight at dinner, why I had to break my promise,” whispered Tim as he scoped the first hostage, and then the second and then the third to see if they might spook before he lined up on their captor. As he sighted in on the third hostage he suddenly moved back to the second. He raised his head from his weapon and scanned the small parking lot next to the store. He lowered his eye to his scope again and studied the second hostage.
“Jesus Christ,” Tim whispered and then quickly sighted in on the gunman. “I’ll keep my promise next year, dear.”
He slowly drew in his breath and held it as he aimed between the second and third hostages.
“Wind?” Tim whispered to Anthony.
“So, you’re finally gonna man up?” replied Anthony.
“Wind, Goddamit,” whispered Tim as he held his position.
“1 to 1.5 knots right to left,” replied Anthony looking at Tim and wondering why he all of a sudden got focused.
“Just…hold…still…my dear,” whispered Tim as he eased his finger back on the trigger.
Anthony flinched instinctively as Tim’s rifle discharged and then quickly looked through his binoculars to measure Tim’s success. He watched as the gunman fell backward and hit the ground and then the ground pounders move in and quickly remove the hostage hoods. He suddenly gasped and looked at Tim.
“The middle hostage is your wife!” exclaimed Anthony.
Tim just kept sighing heavily with his back to the wall and his head pressed hard against it.
“I don’t suppose she’ll be too upset about me breaking this New Year’s resolution,” said Tim with half a smile.

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Re: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby Louie51 » Wed Jan 19, 2011 5:57 pm

A Broken (Deadly) Resolution"

"Tim, what have you done?" Mom said, rushing into the house.

"What are you talking about, Mom?" Tim asked.

"Wasn't your New Year's Resolution not to kill again?" Mom said.

"Oh, you mean, Tiger. Well, he was just lying there and I couldn't stop in time." Tim said. "I didn't mean to run over him. Would you rather I'd wrecked the car, Mom?"

"No, Tim, but I'm getting tired of your excuses for everything." she said. "When are you going to get with the program, Tim?"

Seething, Tim says."I'm going out Mom, I'll see you later."

(Tim leaves the house, jumps in his car with a sigh of relief and speeds off.)

I'm getting so tired of this bull poop unicorns and rainbows, maybe it's time to move out. Wish I had the money, guess I'll have to settle for any old job instead of freelance jobs.

(Tim's thoughts are running wild with no place to go. My old friend Kevin, maybe he can help me. He drives along thinking about what his mother said.)

'Get with the program,' she says, 'what's she talking about anyway?' he's thinking as he arrives at Kevin's.

"Hi Kevin," Tim says. "I need some advise."

"Come on in and have a beer, maybe that'll help." Kevin says. "What's going on now, Tim?"

"I accidently ran over our pet cat, Tiger, and Mom is all over my hide," Tim said. "I didn't even see Tiger last night––my vision was not too good."

Kevin asks, "How long are you going to live off your Mom, Tim?"

(Wounded by these words, Tim responds.)

"What?" Tim says. "I guess I deserve that, but without a job I can't move out. Guess I'll just have to get her another pet. I wonder if she'd like a pet crab. My grandparents have one and they really like it."

"Hum-m," Kevin says, "I don't know, but your Mom, I don't really think so, Timbo. Why don't you take her some flowers and ask her what she would like?"

"Hey, that is the best idea ever, I'll do that. Thanks for the beer and the knowledge that led you to solve my dilemma," Tim said as he hurried out the door."

(Tim arrives home with the flowers for his Mom.)

"Hi, Mom," Tim says and hands her the flowers. "Mom, please forgive me for killing Tiger, although I didn't mean to. Can I get you another pet?"

"Thank you, Tim, for the flowers, and yes, I think I would like a bird this time. That is something I really don't think you could kill, do you?" she asked. "A bird chirping its' song would be music to our ears, don't you think so, Tim?"

"That sound great, Mom, when do you want to shop for one?" he asked.

"How about in a couple of days? I should think about it for a while?" she said. "I may change my mind after I sleep on it. Good night, Tim and thank you for the lovely flowers."

(Curtain falls as Mom leaves the room, with her face buried in the flowers, while Tim collapses on the couch.)


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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby btmiller09 » Thu Jan 20, 2011 11:24 am

Only two weeks since the New Year had passed and Tim had already broken his first resolution: Don't kill anyone. Tim looked at the bloodstained note card and reread his scratchy handwriting, emphasizing each word: Don’t, Kill, Anyone.
If he were honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was a little shocked that he had lasted two weeks. Before the resolution, three days would not have passed without blood being shed and the addiction fed. “Two weeks” he thought to himself, flipping the index card in his fingers and increasing the blood stains on the pure white card, “only two weeks and my resolution has come crashing down.”
The body of the unknown victim lay just a few feet away, his feet pointing outward, one hand across his stomach and the other outstretched as if trying to grasp a helping hand, and his eyes were still open and looking at the ceiling. He never saw Tim hiding in the closet, and as far as Tim could tell, he never knew his final moments had come.
Tim looked at him and the familiar bloodstained scene. “I’m sorry who ever you are. I wish I could stop, but I can’t. I wish I could stop.” The man didn’t blink or nod in acknowledgement; he simply stared at the ceiling and waited for someone to grasp his outstretched hand. Tim covered his face with his trembling hands and cried. “I miss you brother, I miss you so much.” His tears seeped through his fingers and rolled down the backs of his palms, his words drifted into the silence of the empty room and faded away with no ears to gather them in.

Tim entered his baron apartment and threw his jacket on the mattress that sat in the corner and lay on the hardwood floor. He walked into the kitchen slowly, turned on the TV absent mindedly, and turned on the faucet. He vigorously washed his hands of the blood and memory. The sink turned a streaky red at first, than a soft pink, and then finally to clear clean water. Tim dried his hands with the wadded towel that lay on the counter and was covered by a pot that held last night’s spaghetti.
He glanced at the calendar; it had thirteen thick black X’s through the first thirteen days. Anger flooded his face and raced down his arms and legs. In an instant, the calendar was thrown to the floor and ripped to pieces. Tim stood over the wreckage like a boxer over his foe, his breath was heavy and his heart was pounding. “Man, why did it have to be you” Tim said to no one, “why couldn’t it have been somebody else’s brother? I need you. I can’t survive alone.”
Tim opened the refrigerator door with a jerk, clinking the bottle of Bud Light together. He grabbed two from the box of 12, twisted the top off, and guzzled the first one down. Taking the second, he sat down on his worn out recliner and stared blankly at the TV, his mind wondering beyond the news, weather, and sports.
“Today marks the 5 year anniversary of Danny Boone, a 23 year-old college student who was mysteriously gunned down in down town Philadelphia.” The newscaster told the story without passion. “His only brother Tim survived him, their parents were killed 4 years prior in the tragedy of 9/11. And in other news . . .” her voice was interrupted by the passing train.
Tim’s hands were beginning to shake and he gripped the armrest in a desperate move to gain control. “Why me brother? Why should I be the only one alone?” His anger was beginning to rise again and he took another drink of his cold beer. “Well, I won’t be, I will make sure others will suffer like I do. I won’t be the only one alone in this world.” Paul reached for the phone book, closed his eyes, and flipped through the pages; his finger stopped on page 567 and landed on the name Rick Hoffert.
“Well Rick Hoffert,” he took another drink, “I will see you in two days time.” His hands stopped shaking and his eyelids began to get heavy. “I will see you in two days, Mr. Rick Hoffert.” The bottle dropped from his hand and spilled onto the floor.

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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby Loureen » Sat Jan 22, 2011 2:23 pm


The knob on the front door chilled Tim’s hand for a moment, as he turned it softly and stepped inside.

“Coffee’s ready,” called Mary from the kitchen. Not waiting for his answer, she went on. “I tried to make those cinnama-thingies too, but they sort of died on the cookie sheet.”

Tim looked down at his stained hands. She’ll wonder why I’m not coming in. He dropped his keys and walked straight for the bathroom.

“I’m sure they taste fine, not dead.” He hoped it sounded funny and light.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, Mary’s baked offering sat on a small blue plate on the table and his steaming mug at his place.

“I’ll let you pour your own cream since I can’t ever get it right, Mr. Fussy.” Mary smiled. Tim did not.
“Rough morning?”

Saying nothing, Tim reached for the creamer, noticing a tell-tale streak on his right thumb only too late.
“What was it this time?” Casual, like she was asking about his golf score. She glanced from his hand down to the latest issue of “Cooking Light” and flipped one page, then another.

She knows. But how? Without an answer, Tim took a swig of his java, feeling it singe his tongue and sear his throat all the way down. He wanted to ask for water then, but didn’t. He fingered a cinnamon twist, the brown sugar goo sticking everywhere, but couldn’t bear the thought of licking it off in his usual style. Tidy Mary hadn’t any napkins at the table today. Should he wipe them on his pants?

His pants! Why hadn’t he thought of them before? Of course she saw them when he walked in—covered with the evidence of struggle. What is she waiting for then? Why doesn’t she pick up the phone? Or yell or scream or something?

Like a mind-reader, Mary spoke again, “It’s okay, Tim. I’m not going to shriek and let the neighbors know. And I’m not going to make any calls.” Her voice shook just a little at the end.

“But how long has it been? All of two weeks?” She nodded toward the wall calendar, January still fresh with white squares. “What made you do it this time?” Her eyes met his in a challenge. “Don’t tell me he was asking for it.”

The words hit Tim like a sucker punch. He’d never told her, but each time, that’s what it boiled down to. That reporter who just couldn’t get her facts straight, wouldn’t act the way he thought she should. Asking for it. That steady mid-level manager who refused to fall in love with the woman Tim thought he should. Him too. Even a young child just too self-willed, too busy to let him draw him in detail. Had to go.

“I wasn’t going to do it again. Not this year. Not any year, I think.” But this morning, he couldn’t help it. Why didn’t he go to the gym like he said he would? One little idea had lured him, and he turned from High Street and the gym and headed straight for the loft apartment he knew so well. Images of what lay on the floor there dizzied him for a moment. “I didn’t plan—“

“—Let’s not go down this sorry road again, Tim.” She stood up, tossed her remaining coffee down the drain, and squared off with him.

“I’m done.”

Tim pushed his chair back. He took a step, catching his foot on the table leg. “You’re not in charge of that, you know,” he said, red rising from his neck to his face.

Freeing himself, he tore at her. Then again and again. Mary lay on the floor. Tim lowered himself to his haunches, looking at what was left of his dream girl. Sighing, he then gathered her remains and walked out the back door. Holding her tight, he climbed the stairs all the way to the loft apartment over the garage and pushed open the door with an elbow. He tossed the bits onto the floor with this morning’s other kill. And like a man in a dream, Tim got a broom, swept up the shreds of his new manuscript, and dropped them into the bin. He kicked his ink spattered printer on his way out.

“Last time I write an editor into my story,” he muttered.

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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby b1_ » Sun Jan 23, 2011 2:45 am

Timmy killed people, a lot. After breakfast and after tea, and all the times in between. Sometimes he even snuck out of the house after bed-time to kill people.

It's easy enough to kill people when you're a five-year-old, as long as no-one sees you. His mother had given him a needle for his third birthday, and filled it with poison on his fourth. His mother would take him to places and get him to squat down and start crying and people would appear. A quick jab jab jab and they were dead. His mother was so proud.

But this year his mother asked him to promise not to kill anyone, and he had promised. He hadn't killed anyone in two weeks - until now. Little Cindy from next door was lying on the pavement with her mouth open staring up at a knife handle sticking out of her head, a small puddle of wee under her legs. Cindy had been mean to him - she deserved it. Mother would not be pleased.

Timmy wondered if he could hide Cindy in the back-yard somewhere - perhaps in his play house, or under the porch. Mrs Whitemoore would probably want to know where her daughter was though; maybe he could kill her too. But mother would find out. She always found out when he was naughty. He would be put in The Chair. Timmy hated The Chair.

People on the street were starting to stop and stare. They moved closer. Timmy squatted down and started to cry.


Authors note: eek, I scare myself.

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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby b1_ » Sun Jan 23, 2011 9:57 pm

Sergeant Tim McKilrock was a government trained killing machine. He'd killed thousands of his country's enemies; his career had been distinguished. His civilian life, on the other hand, was a disaster.

He just could not stop accidentally killing people. He'd killed his bank manager last year by absent-mindedly slipping from a handshake to a judo death-grip; he'd killed several dates on the dance floor with mis-timed moves (he despaired at ever finding a girlfriend); and, oh, the bloody carnage whenever he played for his local football team.

The government cleaned it all up, of course - he was too valuable to the country's national security, they said - but the guilt was starting to tell. His New Year's resolution this year had been not to kill any more innocent people. His Unit buddies had given their full support, from a safe distance, or by phone.

He'd tried so hard to follow through these past few weeks. He went out of his way to avoid people in public, made sure he conversed from at least 5 meters away; he had even ordered a special full-body blow-up proximity safety suit from Japan, the poop unicorns and rainbows SUMO 3000 - damn hard to drive in though.

But this morning he had stumbled out of his apartment, half asleep, to grab his morning paper, and run into his neighbour, old Mrs Cranberry, struggling to pick up some groceries she'd dropped in the hall way. He'd offered to help without thinking; bending down his thigh muscles flexed outward with such force they blew poor Mrs Cranberry clean through her front door and into her living room where she exploded against the far wall.

After swearing in frustration he called his CO and requested a cleanup crew. His CO couldn't hide the resignation in his voice but promised to send the crew around, on one condition...

So Sergeant Tim McKilrock, government killing machine, decorated soldier, war hero, now waited in Mrs Cranberry's bloodied and crumbling living room, fully inflated, zips secure, and speculated that perhaps civilian life was not for him.


Author's note: Timmy vs Sergeant Tim McKilrock, cage match to the death, this Friday on ESPN.

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Re: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby tvkwriter » Wed Jan 26, 2011 4:53 pm

New Year Resolution

Only two weeks into the New Year had passed and Tim had already broken his first resolution. Don’t kill anyone. Disgusted, shaking, he sat down in the dirt next to the body and waited for backup, the ambulance, the coroner, and everyone else to arrive.

“It’s not my fault. They can’t blame me. I get no karma from this,” he said to the body.

The woman lay sprawled in the dirt, her arms flung out on each side, and her long golden yellow hair covered her face like a silk veil. Her dress had ridden up barely covering her backside and panties. Tim couldn’t even reach over and pull it down a little bit. Don’t touch a thing at the scene especially if you’re involved. Oh, yes, he was involved and he wasn’t going to touch a damn thing.

He still held onto his gun and hers was still in her right hand. He was looking at the dark red blood pooling out of her body when the cars finally arrived. Sirens screaming, lights flashing, dust thrown up clouded the air as they slammed brakes and slid on the dirt to a stop.

Karen, his partner, was the first out of a car. She was followed by the Area Sergeant and the District Area Commander, a Lieutenant. A cop in trouble call got that kind of response.

Karen ran up only to skid to a stop a few feet away. A look of horror widened her eyes and had her mouth drop open. “My God, Tim, It’s Beth, your wife.”

“I know,” Tim said softly. “I know.”

“What the hell happened here,” she asked, squatting down, but not moving closer. The Sergeant and the Lieutenant stopped to stand beside her.

“Honest to God,” he said looking over at her. “It was suicide by cop. Me, her husband.”

The Lieutenant walked over and carefully slid the gun out of her hand with his foot. Not touching it, he bent over looking at the revolver’s cylinder. “It looks empty to me.” He turned looking back at Tim.

“It’s my backup piece. It’s always loaded and kept in the house in a safe place. She told me she’d been taking her depression meds.” He looked over at her body face down in the dirt. “She’d asked me before to kill her as she was suffering so much. I said no, no way. I couldn’t do that.”

The two men came over and stood on either side of him. “Get to your feet, Tim,” the Lieutenant ordered bending down and taking Tim’s gun out of his hand. “You had better hope she left a note or something at home.”

Tim reached over and pulled her dress down to cover her with a little more modesty. Then he stood shakily to his feet.

“You’re hit,” Karen said, stepping up to him and pointing to the bullet hole in his sleeve and the blood now dripping off his hand. Shocked, Tim looked at his hand and reached up to hold his arm.

“I really loved her,” he said, as they escorted him to the ambulance and helped him into the back.

“I guess there was at least one bullet in that gun,” The Lieutenant said. “She gave you no choice, but to do it and save yourself.”

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RE: A Broken (Deadly) Resolution - 1/18

Postby ALS » Mon Jan 31, 2011 7:37 pm

“Alice, we need to talk,” Tim’s voice came in, crackly. I looked at the clock next to my bed. 2:05 and the AM light was on.
“Tim, it’s two in the morning. Can it wait?”
“I’m outside, can you let me in?”
“You have key,” I said to my younger cousin. The cobwebs in my brain started to clear. “Wait, yeah, just a second.” I had changed the locks after what had happened last month when the dead guy had ended up on my kitchen floor. I brushed the hair away from my face as I got up and slid on striped pink socks out of my bedroom and down the hall. “Hi,” I said a moment later when I was staring at Tim’s freaked out face in the hallway of my building, floor three.
He pushed past me into the living room, his eyes darting, but he seemed calm.
“Tim, what’s up?”
“You know my resolution for this year?”
It didn’t take me long to remember what he’d told me at the end of our family party to ring in the New Year. It was about the same time, exactly fifteen days ago. I was one of the only ones that knew he was a professional hit man. “Yeah,” I said slowly, not wanting to step on any verbal land mines. “No more killing.”
“It didn’t work out.”
“Tim, what the-“ I looked at him, fully awake now. “You quit. You’re doing insurance now.”
“I know, but I was going door to door and I found a guy on the hit list I had before I quit. I had to shoot him.”
“Not if you hadn’t been carrying your gun.” I lifted the edge of his rumpled suit jacket. He looked at the couch then back at me. “Go ahead and sit down,” I said wearily. “Tell me about it.” I knew he wanted to. He always told me about this stuff even if I didn’t want to hear it, especially the last four years of his career when he’d been killing full time. He was twenty-six and had killed at least twice that many people. Only whiskey could kill the guilt I felt for him. I grabbed a bottle from the windowsill and poured us both a shot. “What?” I sat down on the couch beside him and pulled the chain on the floor lamp behind us, illuminating a ring of light around us.
He tipped the glass up, draining it all in a swig. “I told you I wouldn’t kill anymore, but it didn’t work out. I think I’m addicted to killing or something.”
“Tim, you can quit. You can see a therapist.” I reached for the coffee table and pulled out the drawer. “Aunt Kay saw that really good one to get past Uncle Warren’s murder. I know this guy has a lot of discretion and all that. Maybe insurance isn’t for you, but you can’t be a hit man anymore. Not if you want to get married and have a family.”
“I don’t know about that. Someone who’s killed so much really screws up relationships.” Tim reached for the bottle and I put my hand on his to stop him.
“I think one’s enough for a loaded guy.” I took the gun and put it on the coffee table.
“Alice, you’ve been really good to me. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I smiled. Then I looked at him and the gun. “Put that somewhere safe and you can crash on the couch if you want. I have a normal job to go to in the morning.”
He reached forward, fingering the gun. “How can I lead a normal life?”
Handing him the business card, I stood up. “I don’t know, but I’m not dating a shrink for no reason.” Tim nodded.
“I can’t believe how quiet you’ve kept. You’re really amazing.”
“I don’t think I can do it anymore, Tim. I’m glad you’re quitting.”
“Can I?” He asked me. I sighed. “Mind if I watch a little TV? I’m not tired yet.”
Something snapped. “You just killed a guy and now you want to watch TV? Who are you?” He stared at the coffee table. I grabbed the gun. “I’m putting this away.” I took a step away and then looked back at him, reaching for the remote. He wasn’t looking, I pointed it at him. One of the only times he would be on the other side of the barrel, and the last.
Note to self: Look at new couches.

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A Broken (Deadly) Resolution

Postby GreaLauren » Mon Jan 31, 2011 11:07 pm

Only two weeks into the New Year had passed and Tim had already broken his first resolution:

Don’t kill anyone.

Tim panted, breath ragged against the chill of the night air. He looked down at his hands as they shook with rage. Clenching his fists he cursed under his breath as he looked back at the bloodied body floating down below. A boy, who couldn’t have been any older than seventeen, brushed up against a pillar of the dock.

 “You moron,” Timothy said to himself in a hushed voice. Why had he just dumped the boy there? That wasn’t his style; at least, it didn’t used to be.

The situation was a mess; a bloody, unprepared mess. The truth was he hadn’t even planned to kill the boy. To Tim, the boy was just some thug teenager trying to get a buck. He observed the boy’s clothing: a black cap with the letters NY in blue, accented with orange and white; a navy tee with Mets written along the front; baggy jeans with chains hanging down. Well, there had been chains; after he got done with the boy the chains weren’t attached to his garments any longer. He had recalled seeing the number 7 along the back of the shirt as the body fell into the water with a large splash.

As he looked over the boy’s almost unrecognizable features, he replayed what had happened in his head. This boy probably saw Tim as everyone else did: a pushover; a scrawny man with pale skin, ruffled brown hair, and forest green eyes. You look like an easy target, a voice in the back of his mind said. The voice was right; the boy had come up behind him with an unidentified object, pressing it against Tim’s lower spine.

“Give me your ****ing money, or I’ll make sure you never walk again,” the boy had said. Tim had stood still, except for his twitching fingers. A smirk played upon his lips as he realized that because of his height difference with the boy, he could easily unclasp the chain from his jeans. The boy was uneasy on his feet and the chains swayed lightly with his movement. He was swift enough to pull it off. “Well?” the boy asked with uncertainty in his voice as he pushed the object against Tim even harder. At this point, he couldn’t make out what the weapon was, or if it even was a weapon.

This had been the boy’s unlucky night. Tim was on a walk in the middle of the night, trying to shake away the rage that had been building up over the day. After making his resolution, he had been taking a nightly stroll. It seemed like the only thing he could do to keep his temper under control – calm the heat with the cold nights of New York.

Tim had unclasped the chain and whipped it from the boy’s belt loop, wrapping it around his throat within seconds after his demand. The boy dropped whatever he was holding and immediately grasped at the tightening chain. Tim’s pupils were huge, his eyes wide and crazed, the evidence of his rage being felt only by the lack of oxygen in the boy’s lungs and growing tightness in his chest.

He growled with a chuckle; he was clearly out of his head. Blood pumped adrenalin through his veins. “Well, I think you’ve ****ed with the wrong man, little boy; and now, you’re going to pay.”

As he continued looking at the body bumping against the pillars, he could see the result of his anger: a bruised and bloodied face, where Tim had begun pummeling him; elliptical marks around his neck showed evidence of how tight of a grip he had maintained on the chain. It wasn’t until the boy grew limp against the sidewalk that Tim had realized what he had just done.

It was then that Tim looked to the supposed weapon on the ground and realized it wasn’t a gun. It wasn’t even a knife, or baseball bat, or any other kind of weapon. What the boy had threatened him was the opening of some tall beer bottle he had probably gotten off a bum in the nearby alley. At this point, Tim had panicked and dumped the body in the nearby canal.

Kneeling down, Tim picked up the chain off the sidewalk and slipped it into his pocket. He had to clean up his mess; the less evidence, the better. Had he picked up the bottle? Better take that too, just in case. He couldn’t do anything about the blood; but as far as he knew, none of it was his. His thoughts raced. Emotions ran wild; anger, guilt, and worry. Tim, get a hold of yourself. This isn’t how you roll. You don’t kill teenage thugs. You don’t choke people with chains and dump them in the canal. Hell, you don’t choke at all! You like it quick and dirty, so you don’t have to deal with the emotion in their eyes, the fear in their screams and shouts. You do it for the revenge. This boy was nobody. “The boy was unlucky.” Tim said out loud, still wallowing in his thoughts.

The sound of scuffling shoes against rough pavement brought his attention back into the present moment. He had been seen. He glanced into the alley way at his audience, a silhouette running deeper into the night. With his hand in his pocket, fingers clenching the chain, Tim felt he only had one option.

He followed.




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