Young Writers Society

So guys, this is my entry for Dog's short story contest (Or at least, part of it). Let me know what you think, and please. KILL IT WITH REVIEWS. Be murderous, but don't be unfair.

*Deep breath* here goes. . .

Prologue: A Fair Kill.

It was a cold night; a soft breeze blew through the streets, hinting of the coming blizzard.

James shivered and pulled his thick cloak closer about him. He stood in the narrow doorway, peering out into the deserted backstreet; he should be here by now!

Trash bins lay all about, heaped with stinking garbage, the asphalt street was dark and wet from the soft rain that had come early that afternoon. The light of the single street lamp glowed dimly, lighting a small circle of brick wall and trash cans.

There was a crash from the corner of the street opposite him and he started, staring into the gloom” Hey, you there?” He called.

There was no answer.

Carefully he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long thin pistol with a heavy black silencer on the end of the barrel” Mr. Mason!” He called.

He edged toward the garbage bin where the sound had come from, keeping his gun ready, but not threatening.

The backstreets of Gotham where not safe in any way, even for criminals . . .

Especially for criminals!

A large dark shape moved in the shadows suddenly, and leveling his pistol, he was about to shoot when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

His heart beat fast as he spun around, coming face to face with a man. The light was behind him though, and he couldn’t see any features of his face” Mr. Mason?” He asked carefully, keeping his gun ready.

“Mr. Brandon.” The other man replied in a strange, slightly high pitched voice.

James lowered his gun, he recognized the voice easily.

Earlier that day he’d been in his office at the railroad station, trying to get through the passengers through as fast as he could, when the phone rang.

He’d picked it up.” Hello, Gotham Central Station.”

The voice on the other end of the line wasn’t what he had expected; it was the voice of the same man as the one who stood before him.” Mr. Brandon?”

He frowned” Yes, Mr. . . .?”

He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Mason. I have something I need done.” The voice said, strange with that high pitched edge.” And I hear you’re the best man for the job.”

His frown deepened, quickly becoming suspicious. He hadn’t always been a law abiding citizen of Gotham, and if anything, he didn’t want to go back.” What kind of job?”

“A well paid job.” The voice had answered.” I’ll give you 500 grand if you get it done for me, meet me behind () at eleven a-clock Monday if you’re interested.” The line had abruptly been cut.

500 hundred grand was a lot for anybody, and the temptation had been too much, I’ll at least see what it is, he had decided.

“What’s the job?” He asked, now certain that it was Mr. Mason standing before him.

“I need someone . . . taken care of.” Mr. Mason answered.

James frowned.” I’m not an assassin.” He said firmly.

“You used to be.”

“That was a long time ago.” He answered, not thoroughly suspicious.” I’ve become a straight man; I don’t want my past back in my life.”

The other man stared at him, his face invisible, though strangely pale. He didn’t answer.

James fingered his gun more readily.” Anyway, who told you?” He licked his lips nervously.

He could have sworn that the other man smiled” A friend of ours.”

“Look, Mr.” James growled.” I don’t want anything to do with you. My life changed for the better, and I don’t want, or have, to go back.”

He would have turned, but had a feeling this wouldn’t be a good idea.

“What about your family?” Chuckled Mr. Mason slowly, that high pitched edge in his voice making the words sound threatening.

James heart beat faster,” They’re not part of this!”

The other man chuckled cruelly” Really?” His voice sounded slightly insane.” Do this job and I’ll give you 500 grand.”

James sighed; his present job was terribly paid. But he had had to live with it, the people who’d given him the job hadn’t asked him any questions, and that had made him content. But his family practically lived in the slums . . . if he was careful no questions would be asked about how he got the money.” Make it 750 and I’ll do it. But on one condition!”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Don’t make this a habit.” James growled.” I won’t be doing this twice! And forget you ever met me, got it!”

The other man nodded, it was pretty standard procedure.” I’ll give you two hundred and fifty now; and another five hundred when the job’s done.”

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a roll of bills, fresh and crisp.

James frowned and looked at them carefully; he didn’t want to be paid in marked or counterfeit bills.

But they were quite real, quickly he flipped through them. It was two hundred and fifty.

The other man glanced at him, his voice still strangely high pitched.” Don’t make a mess.”

“Who’s the guy?” James asked, nervously fiddling with the bills in one hand while his other held his pistol tightly.

“I want you to kill Bruce Wayne.”

James sighed.” He’s already dead? Remember, he –“

The other man cut him off.” He isn’t! Just do it.”

James shook his head, a small smile creasing his face. Slowly he leveled his pistol and pulled the trigger. There was a surprised cry, a splatter of blood on asphalt, and Mr. Mason fell on his face, with a bullet through his chest.

Quickly he searched the dead man’s jacket, and pulled out another two rolls of 250 thousand dollars each, then leaning over him, he started, the man wasn’t dead yet.” Why? Why did you do that . . . ?” He asked weakly.

James put the gun to the dying man’s temple.” See, I could have gotten that 750 grand by killing your guy, who I have nothing against. Or I could have just killed you, the real bad guy, and taken the money” He pulled the trigger for the second time.” Doing this, I do society a favor, and get paid for it.”

The man went still.

James glanced up and down the empty street. He saw a man a flash of movement and the dark shape of a man ran out from behind the trash cans, heading for the main street. He leveled his gun and pulled the trigger again. There was an empty echo up and down the street and the man fell on his face, dead.

James sighed; he’d promised his wife that he would never kill another man. That had been fifteen years ago, and he had kept up his promise . . . until now.

Slowly he turned, replaced his gun, and walked up the street and onto the highway; there he got in a taxi and drove away.

All he left behind was two dead men; and a spreading pool of blood on the asphalt road.