Post by Dante on Feb 28, 2005 17:06:51 GMT -5
Part I - Page 1
Part II - Page 1
Ashen Articles - Page 2
Part III - Page 2
Part IV - Page 3
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It so happened that, on a bright, sunny Saturday, somebody clothed entirely in black was sneaking along a road which was unfamiliar to him, standing in the shadows of the hedges that the harsh sunlight might not strike his eyes. Glancing again at an address written on a scrap of paper that might have been torn from a notebook, workbook, or larger scrap of paper, he turned his head to the right, for better to look up the drive of a house whose address was written, in a pencilled scrawl, on the aforementioned scrap of paper. It also happened that this figure, sporting sunglasses and red hair utterly in contrast to the sunglasses, was wearing a backpack, or possibly a rucksack, but that was of little significance at the time. While it is certainly accurate to refer to this figure merely as “this figure,” or perhaps “somebody clothed entirely in black,” it is perhaps easier simply to refer to him as “D.” And thus it was that D. walked up the drive, and rang the doorbell of the not small house which the drive ended in. Within the space of a minute, the door was answered, by somebody whose name happens – or to be accurate, happened – to begin with the letter J.
“Oh,” said J., looking confused. “What are you doing here?”
D. looked behind him, and then to his sides, and then behind him, before leaning close to J. and whispering, “That’s rather a delicate matter, friend J. May I be permitted to enter?”
“Yeah, sure,” said J., still perplexed, but nevertheless having the good manners to hold the door open for his guest. He also had the good manners to show his guest through to his living room, and offer him a drink – an offer which was declined, for the guest D. produced a bottle of water from his rucksack, and proceeded to drink from it.
“So, what is it that you want?” asked J.
“Well,” answered D., without answering, “I have a need, which it is to my understanding that you may well be able to sate.”
“Are you talking about-” J. prepared to ask, before being cut off before reaching the question mark which usually adorns the end of a sentence which is a question.
“Quite,” said D. “Rather hypocritical of me, certainly, given my past proclamations against you and your – your trade. But I was rather interested in the whole business, really – you know how this whole adolescent-experimentation is.”
“Quite!” mirrored J. “I didn’t think you were into weed.”
“Well, there you have it,” sighed D. “I am. And I have a craving. You must provide me with some, and quickly, if you please. I have plenty of money, if you demand it of your associates.
“I think I’ll demand it of you,” said J., in a huff. “But if you’ll stop your campaign against me, then of course I’ll get you some.”
“Thank you,” said D., without agreeing to anything. J. turned and disappeared through a doorway, proceeding to some back room. He stood at one of the desks which were within, and started to gather the drug which D. had requested, entirely unaware that D. was now standing behind him, with a contemptuous look on his face, and a large metal crowbar in his right hand.
J. may have been aware when he was struck with the crowbar on the head, or he may not, for unconsciousness may have been instantaneous. D. took no chances, though, and hit J. twice more, a wide Cheshire grin spreading across his face. When he was satisfied, D. knelt down and wiped the crowbar off on J.’s shirt, before returning it to his rucksack or backpack and withdrawing, in its place, a large bottle of some foul-smelling liquid and a pocket-sized box. The contents of the bottle were quickly poured over J., and on the plants which were upon the desks, and there was some spare after this, which was put on the curtains and carpet, for it was a very large bottle which held much of the liquid. Finally, the supply was exhausted, and the bottle was returned to the bag (for a bag it was, truly, as all rucksacks and backpacks are). This was where the pocket-sized box and its wooden, stick-shaped contents came into play, but D., as he always did, burnt one of these to the end without using it, because he enjoyed the look of the flames. Finally, he set to work with the matches quickly, before taking his leave of J.’s home as the fire started to spread to the point where it became dangerous.
Reaching the bottom of the drive, D. glanced around, wondering if anybody was watching him, but nobody was. Very few people had ever cared about what D. did, although if they knew that he committed crimes, perhaps they would have taken it upon themselves to pay closer attention. But D. was happy, which was not usual, but very usual considering the circumstances, which were becoming increasingly frequent – that is to say, the things which made D. happy happened more often. It was a childish happiness, sure enough, or perhaps a mad happiness, for what else could make D. chuckle to himself so, if not childishness or madness? But D. was not in the mood to contemplate whether he was childish or mad; he was in the mood for going home and consuming large quantities of orange juice in celebration, which he promptly did, and though such promptness may seem odd, nothing happened on his way home, so it is not worth mentioning, other than that he glanced back frequently to see how much of the sky was filled with the smoke he had created.
Part II - Page 1
Ashen Articles - Page 2
Part III - Page 2
Part IV - Page 3
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It so happened that, on a bright, sunny Saturday, somebody clothed entirely in black was sneaking along a road which was unfamiliar to him, standing in the shadows of the hedges that the harsh sunlight might not strike his eyes. Glancing again at an address written on a scrap of paper that might have been torn from a notebook, workbook, or larger scrap of paper, he turned his head to the right, for better to look up the drive of a house whose address was written, in a pencilled scrawl, on the aforementioned scrap of paper. It also happened that this figure, sporting sunglasses and red hair utterly in contrast to the sunglasses, was wearing a backpack, or possibly a rucksack, but that was of little significance at the time. While it is certainly accurate to refer to this figure merely as “this figure,” or perhaps “somebody clothed entirely in black,” it is perhaps easier simply to refer to him as “D.” And thus it was that D. walked up the drive, and rang the doorbell of the not small house which the drive ended in. Within the space of a minute, the door was answered, by somebody whose name happens – or to be accurate, happened – to begin with the letter J.
“Oh,” said J., looking confused. “What are you doing here?”
D. looked behind him, and then to his sides, and then behind him, before leaning close to J. and whispering, “That’s rather a delicate matter, friend J. May I be permitted to enter?”
“Yeah, sure,” said J., still perplexed, but nevertheless having the good manners to hold the door open for his guest. He also had the good manners to show his guest through to his living room, and offer him a drink – an offer which was declined, for the guest D. produced a bottle of water from his rucksack, and proceeded to drink from it.
“So, what is it that you want?” asked J.
“Well,” answered D., without answering, “I have a need, which it is to my understanding that you may well be able to sate.”
“Are you talking about-” J. prepared to ask, before being cut off before reaching the question mark which usually adorns the end of a sentence which is a question.
“Quite,” said D. “Rather hypocritical of me, certainly, given my past proclamations against you and your – your trade. But I was rather interested in the whole business, really – you know how this whole adolescent-experimentation is.”
“Quite!” mirrored J. “I didn’t think you were into weed.”
“Well, there you have it,” sighed D. “I am. And I have a craving. You must provide me with some, and quickly, if you please. I have plenty of money, if you demand it of your associates.
“I think I’ll demand it of you,” said J., in a huff. “But if you’ll stop your campaign against me, then of course I’ll get you some.”
“Thank you,” said D., without agreeing to anything. J. turned and disappeared through a doorway, proceeding to some back room. He stood at one of the desks which were within, and started to gather the drug which D. had requested, entirely unaware that D. was now standing behind him, with a contemptuous look on his face, and a large metal crowbar in his right hand.
J. may have been aware when he was struck with the crowbar on the head, or he may not, for unconsciousness may have been instantaneous. D. took no chances, though, and hit J. twice more, a wide Cheshire grin spreading across his face. When he was satisfied, D. knelt down and wiped the crowbar off on J.’s shirt, before returning it to his rucksack or backpack and withdrawing, in its place, a large bottle of some foul-smelling liquid and a pocket-sized box. The contents of the bottle were quickly poured over J., and on the plants which were upon the desks, and there was some spare after this, which was put on the curtains and carpet, for it was a very large bottle which held much of the liquid. Finally, the supply was exhausted, and the bottle was returned to the bag (for a bag it was, truly, as all rucksacks and backpacks are). This was where the pocket-sized box and its wooden, stick-shaped contents came into play, but D., as he always did, burnt one of these to the end without using it, because he enjoyed the look of the flames. Finally, he set to work with the matches quickly, before taking his leave of J.’s home as the fire started to spread to the point where it became dangerous.
Reaching the bottom of the drive, D. glanced around, wondering if anybody was watching him, but nobody was. Very few people had ever cared about what D. did, although if they knew that he committed crimes, perhaps they would have taken it upon themselves to pay closer attention. But D. was happy, which was not usual, but very usual considering the circumstances, which were becoming increasingly frequent – that is to say, the things which made D. happy happened more often. It was a childish happiness, sure enough, or perhaps a mad happiness, for what else could make D. chuckle to himself so, if not childishness or madness? But D. was not in the mood to contemplate whether he was childish or mad; he was in the mood for going home and consuming large quantities of orange juice in celebration, which he promptly did, and though such promptness may seem odd, nothing happened on his way home, so it is not worth mentioning, other than that he glanced back frequently to see how much of the sky was filled with the smoke he had created.