AustinDickinson
They had all assembled to see what the commotion outside the ward was. All of them stood, mouths agape, chattering incredulously amongst each other. A small doctor exited through the double doors, and silence falls. "I am sorry" he whispers, "but the cyanide that he bit was real. This production will have to wait. Please inform the rest of the cast. Legally Blonde 4 is on hiatus."
The day would come when all the resources were exhausted. Even down to the flora and mitochondria that create us. The minerals that had lasted us and nourished us would eventually sour, and turn on us, for the plague was ravaging the very fibre of humanity's being. Amidst it all, the steel plated men looked on, automaton eyes glaring back at the organic frigidity drowning before them, with the buzz of their droning limbs sounding their victory call.
"The whole world joining hands" emblazoned across his uniform's insignia, the fault lines of his brow scoured in repose, his hands, clutching the manifesto of the men who sent him here, all seemed to ebb away. He had not got what he wanted, though he came for a good cause. His charity had clearly brought him a means to an end, perhaps in part, paid for by his own admission. For here he was. Here he lay now, gazing at the sky, breath short, eyes wide, a bullet in his chest, and chaos at his feet. Slowly ebbing away.
It came unexpected. Loudly bolting down the hallway, like a flash in a pan. Again, it had happened, again it would happy. A splinter in oblivion, of pastimes and good times. Unfortunately for Jon, that was all it was. Another reverie of a life he'd long since forgotten. He swept a greasy lock of hair from his eyes to see clearer, but the world was getting darker. Darker and, perhaps quietly, he thought: better.
He wanted to know the secrets. Why, and where, they had come from. He had always known the methodology, the practice and the effect, even the end...but the origin. That was what fascinated him. He wanted to understand his own fascination with this text. This was the only weighing factor on his endeavours, his unrelenting, vivacious curiosity with the obscure book, and his grim obsessions with why we do the things we do...he had adapted to fit the characters, to live as they did, all to adopt a beginning to his own motives, the kind performed in the middle of the night, vicariously seeing through devils' eyes.
The gun kicked as she fired it. She was aiming for the red dress. Her party stood behind her, breath baited. They cut quite a figure. A gang of girls, beautiful, empowered, and all at least overweight. They had not come for violence, but for justice. They had already taken out the lingere section, the customers had fled at the first shot, and now, they their 50. Cal Sniper Rifle was gunning for the sultry dresses. "It ain't size zero if I can hit it" she said, before firing off a round that swept through the forecourt of the J C Penney, and launched itself through the claret silk flesh of the dress's hem. "Got it. Size zero my ass".
He wound the rope once more, the slipknot curdling at the top of his knuckle. Behind him, stood a young guard, who blustered "twenty minutes, my lord". Funny, there were many knots an executioner had to know to be considered "educated", twenty ironically, and the slipknot was the first of them.