Mindless writefaggotry

>>54653102
(ignore that last bit after cont., my bad)

Weapons, bribes, discrete medical treatment, fake ids, travel. I basically have to reinvent my past every time someone connects the dots.

I haven't used my real name in two years. It starts to fuck with you.

Croshen's death throes are going to make me need to go into hiding for 5, maybe ten years. I'll need that money to stay under the radar.

I assess my situation: it's fucked. I could take firearms from his personal collection, but they'd only slow me down, and anything connecting me to this place is a death sentence.

It wouldn't be too difficult to rig the self-destruct to trigger after a few minutes, but there's no way I could get clear. Besides, there are innocent people in here. Maids. Security. Cooks. They may have served Satan's lovechild unknowingly, but that's not enough in my book to warrant killing them out of convenience.

I have standards, or so I tell myself.

I told myself that after my first kill.

Bright shining star of a student in high school, athletic young girl, senior, about to graduate and head to Notre Dame on a karate scholarship.

She somehow pissed off the daughter of the local drug dealer, and the bitch and her family beat her to death in front of her high school to send a message.

I was paid 30k by the victim's father to ruin that family. The mother and father? Dead. Their pissy little daughter who smashed her head open with a baseball bat? Died screaming and on fire. Her older brothers? Taking the fall for a small drug empire with no money to bribe officers for favors or cellmates for protection. Everyone who took part in the beating is either dead or wishing they were.

I was a pretty fucked up fifteen year old.

I swore that would be it. Enough cash to get out of my crazy fundie parents' house and start a new life.

But word gets around, money gets spent, and there are plenty of scumbags who need to die.

Nineteen now. Feel like forty.

(cont.)

>>54653274
The police have the building surrounded, and I'm more than fifty stories up. Not a really good situation. It's like painting yourself into a corner or locking yourself out of your car- you tell yourself you're smarter than this, yet there you are.

Wore a sky mask with a latex face underneath on my way here. Sweaty, itchy. It won't fool anyone up close, but no one's seen my face. Yet.

They're no doubt moving up the elevators and stairs, and my heart starts beating faster.

Sloppy fucking job. Bullet holes everywhere. Sent the help scrambling for safety. Probably barricaded in rooms...

Disguise myself as the help? No clue where to find a uniform, and they'll be interrogating everyone in this building for months. I don't have months, let alone days, before I need to vanish from the face of the earth.

Hide? They'll comb every inch of this place. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they find Croshen's personal collection of porn, but...

Laundry chute.

If it works, I'm home free. If not, I have six bullets left, and I'll only need one.

I hear an elevator ding. I tear off all my clothes save for a white t-shirt and some boxers, and jump in headfirst.

It's one more entry on my list of "Things I did not think through."

I bang into the chute's metal lining several times, busting my lip, banging my head, bruising my ribs worse and nearly dislocating my left arm.

Dirty towels and clothes don't quite cushion me as I break the hamper. I drop the gun and rip off the glove I was holding it with.

I feel like I've fallen down four floors at least. Police will be concentrated on the penthouse- following the trail of carnage.

Four floors down, fifty more and the entire police force of New York to go.

I decide to play it safe. Head down a floor, wait in a bathroom for an hour, then go down another or two. Try to shuffle out among the other guests and help...

I turn a corner and stare down thirty assault rifle barrels.

I piss myself. It feels right.

Decent overall, but I think nineteen is a little young. Bump it up 2 or 3 years (18 and 22) and it sounds a little more believable.

Make it mean a little more. You've got the story and the action down pretty solid, but it's missing a soul.

Hands in the air, I hope they'll just put a bullet in me and save me a very long, very embarrassing trial, when one guy lowers his gun and asks,

"Kid, are you okay?"

Kid.

Oh. Right.

I'm not wearing Kevlar and black tactical pants, I'm bloody, shoeless and in now wet boxers.

A wise man once said, "When given options, always choose crazy. No one plans for crazy."

So, of all the aliases I use, of all the names I've had over my career, as I shake and stammer, I decide to use one I haven't in a long time.

My real name.

It's easy enough to concoct a sob-story. I ran away from home at 17- that much is true. The part about being kidnapped and held because Croshen wanted to watch a boy die, not so much, but they take a look at Croshen's collection of soul-destroying shit and my story about how he was beating me to death for his 'enjoyment' is a lot less impossible.

I tell them about my parents and the beatings, the insane modified bibles, the madness that could fill a book, and they get me clean pants and a ticket to a half-way home in my home town.

I go to therapy sessions. I 'remember' horrible, yet vague details. I volunteered names I 'heard' to a detective who promises to buy me my first beer when I'm old enough.

The moment I can access a computer, I arrange a pick up of a card to an account that is now 50 million richer. The people at the halfway home are overworked and exhausted physically and emotionally. No one thinks twice about the birthday card I get from my 'uncle'.

The news talks about the death of Nathan Croshen. Charities he donated to disavow him as the source of his billions is revealed. Politicians promise there will be hell to pay for anyone involved in the ring, domestic or foreign.

9 PM, on a warm summer night, it's lights out.

By 4 AM, I'm booked on a flight to Seattle under a new name.

My brand new smartphone informs me I have several new coded job offers. They'll have to wait.

I need a three day nap.

BIIIIGGGGGGG

BAAAAAD

BEEEEETLE BORGS

>>54653704
Thank you. I was beginning to think I was talking to a brick wall.

Very rough draft, this. Just germinating an idea. Thanks for critique.

>>54653724
Believe me, I know how painful it is to not get a single reply. But definitely keep going. You could do quite a lot with this premise.

Pretty good OP

>>54653724
That's some good shit here, op

You´re doing gods work OP