Alright, alright, lets continue on with the conversations from and about “Shadow Within a City.”
Last blog we took a look at Glenn, well people Glenn is a detective of the Midwest City Police Dept. By the looks of the last piece he appeared to be the stereotypical “burnt out cop.”
But not everything is as what is seen (or however the hell you say it)
Then again, being a cop for as long as a time Glenn was at a point the human soul can become burden beyond help. To witness such agony, betrayal, death, ill-nature environments a person can only bear so much to flirt with their “breaking point.”
Is it like Joseph Conrad’s version of Mr. Kurtz from “Heart of Darkness?”
I guess you will see on August of this year, yes 08/2012. I must say if anyone hasn’t had the chance to visit F. Kenneth Taylor’s blog, please do so (http://fkennethtaylor.wordpress.com/tag/f-kenneth-taylor/). This passage below has all of his creative style immersed throughout it.
Here’s another one for the pondering of thoughts to from a conversation….
“Man, what the hell’s your problem!?” yelled a thug wearing a police uniform and badge.
“I. . .N-need to. . .S-see BloodOath—Now! Look at my arm!” he quickly retorts.
“Your funeral, but follow us,” replied a second thug, also in uniform, and armed with a gold-plated .10mm Glock. “Hey, if you wanna report your arm as stolen merchandise, I can help.”
The uniformed thugs, rookie Ghost Squad members, Sgt. Mike Barnes, and Sgt. Jimmy Picketts III, erupted into laughter, as they strode at a moderate pace to the service car that would lead them deep into the bowels of the train station, and eventually, into Ghost Squad’s lair. A third thug, and Gangland member, covered the rear, constantly glancing back at the entrance. The ride on the blackened rail car was quick, but unpleasant, as it leaned, squeaked and squealed along the age-old tracks. Both sergeants showed no remorse or concern as to how the thug boss acquired such a severe injury as they lead him to the private chambers of Lieutenant Periluss Simms. The petrified thug boss momentarily forgot he’d lost an arm, as he stared at Simms’ massive back. A single, long, bleached ponytail was the only thing visible upon the feared, yet respected brute, also known as—BloodOath.
“S-sir,” cried the thug in sheer panic. “We didn’t see, I mean didn’t get Det. Higgins.”
Silence was BloodOath’s reply, as he drank unknown red juices from a copper goblet with his back still turned to the thug boss.
“BloodOath, it was a monster! Something solid black! It. . .He was like—A shadow!” The thug boss shrieked. “He—Whatever the hell it was killed my men. . .and cut my damn arm off! He claimed to be a shadow killer—Coming for you.”
“Very seldom do I get to drink my wine without asinine pheasants disturbing me at daylight’s submergence,” spat BloodOath, back still turned to his underling. “I savor my fine wine, Cubans—Cigars, not people, you inept underling, and I eradicate imbeciles who perturb me while doing so.” He lit a cigar, and took two puffs before exhaling through his nostrils. His eyes glared at the wall as he took another sip of his wine. “It seems I don’t understand the nature of this visit,” he continued, taking another puff. “I recall demanding results, yet, you bring me insignificant and irrelevant rhetoric, as your self-deemed, satisfactory justification. Why?”
“BloodOath, please. . .I won’t fail you again, but this. . .shadow killer is serious! The muthafucka’s crazy! He isn’t human! Do you hear me now!?”
“As I thought, and spoke of momentarily, you believe this turn of events—your excuse, justifies your failure,” replied Blood Oath as he tilted his head calmly, drinking his red wine, and staring at the swastika on the wall.
Before the thug boss could finish his sentence, in a single motion, BloodOath sliced his head from his neck with a double-bladed ax. The thug’s body fell sideways, as his head rolled in the opposite direction near Sgt. Pickett’s’ feet.
“Sergeant Picketts,” spoke a jovial Blood Oath. “Dispose of this refuse swiftly, and leave me.”
Finally, he finishes his wine, while glaring at a severed pig’s head laying on a wooden table and gathers his thoughts. Something’s not right, he thought. I supposed Brand should be informed as a precaution. At that moment, he felt somewhat at ease, as if he was eight years old again. He sat in his chair, head buzzing a bit from the wine as he smiled a great smile, pondering of years passed. He thought of Lynn, a woman who he cared for so fondly. Her soft lips, perfect body but her will to stand by him even when others were afraid to or didn’t want to. His eyes closed, a tear started to form as the memory was too painful for him. No one saw this side of him, as his face was wet from much silent crying. He stopped, opened his eyes slowly and saw the same wall he was staring at before, right before he killed his foolish underling. He wiped his face clean with a nearby rag, the smell of dead fish lingered from the recent kill. “It’s a weakness I can’t afford—as of now I feel like a rich man because of it…..fucking…
……justification of murder….
…..p-please forgive me, Lynn.”
Lets chew on this passage for a bit……..
But feel free to spit it out if the stomach can’t handle such sustenance…