I don't own Killer 7, but some days I'd like to think I could hire 'em. I came up with this little beauty at 12:00 the other night, telling my dad I was working on some homework that I was going to bed soon, but really…I must've been up to 1:00. So no suing.
Smile. The Bloody battle in Hotel Union.
"Unmask your heart. Then show us your smile."
Full moon. Ah, it was the most beautiful and perfect setting for the momentous event that was about to take place. The stage was set; the actors all in place and the center star of the show now present on the scene. And the smile. You could never forget to wear your inquisitive, genial smile. It always seemed to ease their nerves a little before the end of their act.
The lobby was quiet and devoid, but fresh with its lively red hue, and it made for an exceptional entrance. Little did those whispering walls know that they'd be screaming with a newer wet coat of paint. The 5 clocks on the wall above the front desk clicked and ticked in a creepy unison, the clerk seemingly unaffected by this particular phenomenon. The sent star whistled the cheery tune of "What child is this?" giving the serene impression of no harm to come.The 4-Eyed man turned with a half hearted smile, expecting nothing from what he saw until there was the distinguished flicker of gold.
4 shots in rapid succession quelled the breath of the already speechless man. Heart, 2 in the stomach, and a finally to his pastel forehead. It was a sincere work of art –maybe it was just I who could envision the beauty in the grotesque painting of red life.
The elevator ride to the second was short and equally sweet – just like the convict involved in the next act that set to come. The hallway though was less exuberating than its counterpart lobby – morbid combinational fade of deep blue and royal purple. Tints too refined for that little pain-in-the-ass-Punk that resided on this floor. Taking two lefts brought the apartment door face to face with theme, "203" blazing across the front of the entrance.
Amazing how that Brat could find his way around with ease even though he was born blind. He also possessed supernatural speeds that even put the Olympic medalists to shame. And his superior hearing was unmatched –it was sworn he could hear even the slightest breeze scraping through the cracks in the walls. It would be nearly impossible to sneak up on this freak.
But notice I said nearly…
Whistling as I entered his apartment room, I had casually walked up from behind, still smiling despite how his back was turned to face me. The little Brat was apparently distracted by the music of the city streets. Good –at least he would meet his end in oblivious peace of mind; but honestly, could the sharp boy have been so stupid as not to hear the jolly tune sung as I had come down the hall? Or not to have heard the door open or the padded footsteps along the carpeted floors? Even suspected that I was here to murder him today? Simply this killer could not have accepted death so soundly as he was giving off now. But time was wasted. Wasted standing here debating such meaningless thoughts and ponderances while he blindly gazed out the middle window of the three panes. He would be dead soon anyways.
Ah, Con. What a shame that we couldn't have shared our gruesome passions. What a pity your young life is to be cut short.
And my 7 shots through his shadowed backside sent him forward through the glass, now a lifeless arm dangling helplessly above the very traffic that had lullabied him to his superficial grave. His mouth moved in an inaudible whisper as the last shock of life coursed through his limp and paralyzed body, his pretty blood trickling down the untainted walls. Stains that would never be washed from the wall no matter how hard they scrub and scrape.
Third floor, residence to the former super star. Right twice and at the very end brought about room "306." Water was running, running in the bathroom. A shower, how suiting. A cleansing before the hour of reckoning would come about. But that hour was up now; he was down to his last fleeting moments in solitude. Entering the room unannounced and lest unknown to him, I eased into the bathroom and discreetly shut the door behind. The irony about it too –how he had lived the life of stardom as a wrester, and was now stripped of all resemblance to that career as he bathed in privacy.
Mask De Smith. The power of the crew, unarmed and unaware. 4 shots to send you to the bottom of the tub, lying face down in the dirty water as it funneled down the drain with the pale pink of your own blood.
Fourth floor, and she ran to her door. KAEDE Smith that is. Her large dark eyes became wider in fright when she saw the smile draw close.
The red tinged hall was the idealistic coloration. If you were as creative as I, then you'd realize my dream to paint the rooms red, especially in this particular corridor, was not completely in vain. If anything, the two drastically differentiated shades would rightly so compliment each other. You'd immediately see the difference between the two, even from afar.
The curtains were drawn tightly shut, only three lamps providing the lighting in the small room. Low and behold, as I round the corner in the room, there is no woman in white. Silent save for my catchy tune. No Barefoot in this sanction that she had scampered so quickly into. A bed, dresser, and armoire.
KAEDE, are you dumb? Did you think that I'd be so naïve as not to know where you are hiding? I enclose on her position and raise the gold revolver, tickle the trigger four times until I hear two hollow thuds resonate from inside the upright wardrobe that I had taken careful aim of. Reminded me when you drop an empty jug onto the floor. And just like that jug, she fell to the ground too, fresh red blood splattering the nearest wall and seeping into the clean rug.
Ms. Smith, why did you run? We could have settled it in the hallway like civil murderers, and instead you try to avoid the inevitable. That's what you get.
Blue and turquoise, ooh how pretty and chipper. Not what I'd expect from the Thieving dog in room 501. A small turn left and straight ahead was the bullet riddled door again. Coyote had fired the first shots –figured he wouldn't go down without a fight.
Creeping in I felt confident I'd corner the rugged agile man, but more cunning was I when I peered his reflection in the glass. Poised and pressed to the wall, his large modified revolver was held above his head. Never expected to catch him in his underwear. When you're sent off, it is best wise to dress for the occasion. Apparently he hadn't paid too much attention to the fate of his fellow syndicate comrades.
I didn't want to underestimate this witty associate, and so I backed out of his room without so much a word but merrily continued my song, hurriedly dashing into the neighboring room. Slipping through the glass I now stood on the shared balcony, tiptoeing into his turf. He peeked about the corner, expecting to still find me there, but I was one step ahead of this hound and took sight for his head, aiming for the gushing jugular. Two more shots would open up clots and decorate the greeny-blue room. Coyote was dead, but I wouldn't need his head cause Dan was the next trophy I was after.
Crimson and black, how suiting was that! The Conclusion of the Smith syndicate. Turn left, then right, then plod to the end, and there I was at room 601. Stepping in I continued to sing, never once worrying about how I'd find the tyrant Hellion. He sat casually in a chair, jet hair tussled and flared like himself, his trusty gun dangled by several fingers in the air.
"So, you must be the one they call the Bloody Heartland. You came to kill the Smiths, is that it? Rule of thumb: don't set your goals too high."
"What do you want? What do ya' want, huh?"
Voices that were so arrogant were sickening, but I admired his composure. I don't think he took me seriously though, he was just sitting so smugly in that armchair, relaxed and unthreatened. Too confident though. If this were a tragedy...oh wait, this is, isn't it?…well then, may Hubris be his best friend.
Enjoy the company Dan.
"You." I said flatly, both of us instinctively pulling the powdered barrels to one another's skull. We exchange glances, but I knew I had bested him when his brains spurted out the back with the consistency of curdled milk. Danny boy, sure was fun, wasn't it?
All wrapped up in one :)
"The day when laughter disappears from this world draws near."
But with me here, there will always be laughter, hence my name. I really, honestly enjoyed this peculiar game, and I wish others would play it just to appreciate its uniqueness. Please review, and if not, then I'll hire the Killer 7 myself…or maybe even the Killer 8…hehehehehehehe…