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Title: Blood Work

Written By: Elrickian

Edited By: MisterGray

E-Mail: chrisr07@earthlink.net

AIM: JimBelmont07

Started: November 25, 2003

Finished: January 22, 2004

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This fanfiction is based on Rockstar's newest game, Manhunt. This is not a comedy like my other two fics; so if your looking for the zaniness I had in MGZ, go away. Anyways-I don't own the rights to Manhunt, so please don't sue me. Also, I am not connected with Rockstar in anyway, so this story is NOT what really happened. Its just fiction, so deal with it.

This Fanfiction is rated R for a reason. It contains descriptions of strong, graphic violence/gore, extreme language, mature themes, and a scene of rape. This fic isn't meant for everyone, so please... I STRONGLY advise you not to read this if you get offended by any of the material here. If you do read it, try not to bitch to me about how bad the subject matter is in this, cause I warned you.

Finally, please review.

Prologue

May 12th, 2004,1:56 AM...

Starkweather sat behind his desk in his private office on the fourth floor of

his mansion. He was absolutely furious. Some would even go so far as to say mad; stark raving mad. How could they do this to him? HIM! Critically acclaimed he was, and now... Now they considered him to be filth... Common trash you find on the street... Perhaps it was his slightly unusual fascination with death that did him in? And even though it may be true that most people find the mysteries of dying to be quite the intrigue, few are attracted to it in the way that he

had grown to be. Sexually attracted to it, in fact. For every crimson spray escaping from some hapless chump's jugular, his own blood began to get hot. Every final jerking movement of a body's nerves a symphony of death to him, a tribute to the mysteries- the eroticism, the exotic nature of the un- life. The power, the power was what truly compelled him. These people, stars in their own right- they had been ripped from their lives, for HIM. He paid to see it, he was the customer- and the customer is always right. Apparently, however, society didn't quite see it his way.

So perhaps he had a collection of so-called 'snuff' films. Why the commotion? They were every bit a masterpiece as a Van Gogh, were they not? Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. And should some see beauty only in throats and heartbeats being stamped out, so be it then. Luckily however- at least luckily for him, he was able to get out scott-free due to his lawyer. A truly talented man, that. The trial a cynical tribute to the inner workings of the justice system, along with a lovely example of how swayed by money people tend to be. And should these people, these average citizens, happen to be members of the jury and witnesses...Well, no doubt the point has been made. However, none of this ruckus was of any particular help his movie career... No motion picture company would let him direct, certainly not. The publicity, and understandably so, would be terrible. But did they not see that it was worth the risk? This was art, to put it lightly!

He sat there, furious, praying that the woman who snooped through all his files and belongings would die a slow, and painful death... That bitch... How could she? It was her; she ruined him! All her, and nobody else. Granted, the films were his- but she had no right to access them; a crucial point in his trial indeed. Mock trial, more adequately phrased.

But then, and only then did a wonderful thought hit home. A wonderful, conniving, vengeful- but not entirely impossible thought. Too long had he simply held a passion, an appreciation for his precious pieces of death- art. Why not return something to the underground community that had made he himself so joyous through all the good times and all the bad? His lips parted into a nearly malicious, some would even say twisted sort of grin as this sunk in deeper, unfurling into a decisive conclusion. He could still direct. Yes, he could indeed direct.

November 15th, 2004...3:56pm

And soon enough, wouldn't you know, all was in place. Carcer City, the worst place in the US without a shadow of a doubt. A corrupt police force, overrun with criminals, a slum on every corner and a populace so accustomed to seeing gratuitous acts of gang-war violence that he would bet half of them honestly would not give half a shit if they saw a man die right before them. He figured that it was good he was quite rich- for death, or his brand of it, would not come cheap. The works he had seen, all lacking sport! A woman tied to a chair and beaten to death, small children suffocated with minimal violence...Truly, this would not suffice any longer. For he had money, and he knew people who wanted it. And who wanted it, one may inquire, more than those who have none? The poor? And what do the poor often do, to acquire money? Crime. And what would a fellow refer to a group of semi-organized criminals as?

A gang. Yes, gangs. Primitive, lowlifes, not a care for anything but themselves- could it really get any easier to manipulate them? He thought not. Turns out he was quite correct. The concept was simple- find some scum in the dregs of society, acquire this person, and capture every waking second of their struggle not to be killed by his goons. It was simple, yet truly a new-age Circus Maximus. Several minutes and phone calls later, things were starting to look up.

He felt his pants constrict somewhat. A smile followed. He couldn't wait to see the gore, and that would easily explain his erection- anxiety, but entirely in a pleasing way. A few minutes and hand motions later, Mr. Starkweather felt superb. Of course now his pants and hand were sloppy at best, but it was hardly a concern. The less-than-sane sort of smile perpetually working across his features refused to stop at anything short of commandeering his entire face as the stout man began for the nearest restroom; such a large mansion indeed had many. Soon... Soon he could finally direct again... And just as soon he would be able to see mass amounts of gore- and with this thought, he felt another urge coming on. Were it physically possible to smile in a more blissful way, he had yet to figure it out. Several seconds later in the restroom, he sat down on the toilet to relieve himself a second time.

(Next- Deal With A Devil)