(no subject)
sandwich sits beside me. Even from here I can tell the bread's begun to harden. Blarg. I sip from the frothing cup. As much as I hate cans, it's no surprise that I use the old mug a college job boss got me from a trip to sip the amber liquid. Old records redone to new CDs play in the room. Music passed down by hippy parents to yuppie children. Parents who lived life and gave it to children who fear it, corrupting truths with greed and paranoia. That's what killed my kind, the primal instincts we claim to be human. That's why we don't have the Beats, the Hippies, or looking even further back, the scholars of the gardens. It's clinging to these old ideas that kills me. That and the smoking.
On that train of thought, I pull another from the pack and strike a match. I watch the flames waltz alone the wood for a moment, marveling in their passion, even in their fleeting moments, before I impregnate the fag and murder the parents. My mind seems clouded since she's left... It used to be being set up was an easy side-step. This time, it at least feels complicated. The answer's probably right there...
She hires me. I follow the poor man. He dies. Turns out he wasn't poor, by proof of the hundreds I've snatched from the corpse. Turns out he's been in contact with her. She doesn't tell me. Obviously, there's something there.
The phone rings. It's Georgie-boy down at the station, always ready the provide that next peice, the one I should already know...
It's a clip from a Noir style writing I'm doing. Set in a modern, yet-unnamed city. Sans a few things that need to be worked out, it's pretty much all outlined. Welps, tell me whatcha think? It's more of a character story than a plot driven one, and I'm thinking of adding other characters from my previous writings, but I need to avoid getting stretched too thin. I dunno, it'd be easier with art, heh. I'll decide later.