The Shape - Shifter Chronicles
by Zak Cole
Real dogs sniff blood. Remember that.
-Chris Hiller
Part 1: Two gangsters, both no less than twenty, walked onto Rouge Rd., in Thomston, Maine. Their names, however unimportant they may be, were Jamal Carter and Herbert Smith. Jamal was African - American, the only seemed to think he was.
Good prey. The shape shifter thought. It looked for other targets, but the two hip - hop lovers were the only ones on the street.
They will do.
Jamal was saying; "No foo' you lyin' like Clinton!"
"Don't accuse me of nottin', J!" Herbert replied.
"You stole that dere boom box. Man, that could get us in some serious trouble. You lyin' all the time!"
"I'm spittin' what I'm spittin'. I'm walkin' what I'm walkin', I'm ryhming what I'm ryhmin'!" Smith said, quoting one of his favorite rap lyrics.
"I'm goin' to my Pappa..."
"You a squeela, man?" Herb pushed Jamal.
"Whad do ya tink, foo'!" They continued to argue, and the shape - shifter, hiding in some nearby bushes, started the ritual that was necessary to complete it's task.
Zero in on something... evil. Something that you can use to your advantage. His telepathic vision searched through the minds of the two gang - bangers, trying to find something... it ended up being the boom box, what the two were arguing about. He focused on Herbert Smith...
There it is. This is getting so easy.
In an instant, everything changed. As if Mr. Smith was not in control of his actions, he swung the large boom box around his head. It hit Jamal in the small of his back, and broke his neck, killing him in a second.
'What have a done?" Herbert asked himself, the accent gone.
Got you now. Using only mental force, the shape shifter made Herb then hit himself with the boom box, and Smith fell next to his best friend.
Now, onto houses. It sneaked down the street, finally picking a white house with bay windows, # 22329. A man of about fifty was getting ready to take out his dog.
Free meat. As it was waiting for the man to come out, he sucked the blood out of his first two victims. Then, he focused on the man with the dog.
Smelling blood, the dog whimpered, but the owner paid no attention. He had to walk Pete fast, so he could get to the meeting.
A heart attack seemed most suiting to the shape shifter. As Mr. Alfred John Wegner walked out of the doorway, he felt a sudden ache in his chest. He thought it was only heartburn, but it turned into a throbbing, burning pain.
"Oh my God" He fell to the pavement, screaming. The dog stood beside it's owner, and yelped, which drew some attention Of course, it made no difference. The shape shifter had made sure that his cardiac arrest would be fatal.
The next street was interesting... but he couldn't get any ideas from which to draw from. Then, one thought came through very clear:; Terror of the Green Dogs. It found the source not far away. It came from a woman, making sandwiches in the kitchen.
Perfect, today is a good day indeed. But, she's inside... wait
He found his answer in the back lawn, and devised a plan.
by Zak Cole
Real dogs sniff blood. Remember that.
-Chris Hiller
Part 1: Two gangsters, both no less than twenty, walked onto Rouge Rd., in Thomston, Maine. Their names, however unimportant they may be, were Jamal Carter and Herbert Smith. Jamal was African - American, the only seemed to think he was.
Good prey. The shape shifter thought. It looked for other targets, but the two hip - hop lovers were the only ones on the street.
They will do.
Jamal was saying; "No foo' you lyin' like Clinton!"
"Don't accuse me of nottin', J!" Herbert replied.
"You stole that dere boom box. Man, that could get us in some serious trouble. You lyin' all the time!"
"I'm spittin' what I'm spittin'. I'm walkin' what I'm walkin', I'm ryhming what I'm ryhmin'!" Smith said, quoting one of his favorite rap lyrics.
"I'm goin' to my Pappa..."
"You a squeela, man?" Herb pushed Jamal.
"Whad do ya tink, foo'!" They continued to argue, and the shape - shifter, hiding in some nearby bushes, started the ritual that was necessary to complete it's task.
Zero in on something... evil. Something that you can use to your advantage. His telepathic vision searched through the minds of the two gang - bangers, trying to find something... it ended up being the boom box, what the two were arguing about. He focused on Herbert Smith...
There it is. This is getting so easy.
In an instant, everything changed. As if Mr. Smith was not in control of his actions, he swung the large boom box around his head. It hit Jamal in the small of his back, and broke his neck, killing him in a second.
'What have a done?" Herbert asked himself, the accent gone.
Got you now. Using only mental force, the shape shifter made Herb then hit himself with the boom box, and Smith fell next to his best friend.
Now, onto houses. It sneaked down the street, finally picking a white house with bay windows, # 22329. A man of about fifty was getting ready to take out his dog.
Free meat. As it was waiting for the man to come out, he sucked the blood out of his first two victims. Then, he focused on the man with the dog.
Smelling blood, the dog whimpered, but the owner paid no attention. He had to walk Pete fast, so he could get to the meeting.
A heart attack seemed most suiting to the shape shifter. As Mr. Alfred John Wegner walked out of the doorway, he felt a sudden ache in his chest. He thought it was only heartburn, but it turned into a throbbing, burning pain.
"Oh my God" He fell to the pavement, screaming. The dog stood beside it's owner, and yelped, which drew some attention Of course, it made no difference. The shape shifter had made sure that his cardiac arrest would be fatal.
The next street was interesting... but he couldn't get any ideas from which to draw from. Then, one thought came through very clear:; Terror of the Green Dogs. It found the source not far away. It came from a woman, making sandwiches in the kitchen.
Perfect, today is a good day indeed. But, she's inside... wait
He found his answer in the back lawn, and devised a plan.