PART ONE: PHONE CALLS
A man in brown driving gloves, teal pants and crimson varsity jacket in a pig mask, holding a bloodied fire axe, wanders into a bathroom with spattered blood on the floor, and stops near the sink after dropping the axe. he is clueless as to how he obtained this mask and why he feels little to no guilt or responsibility for his unmentionable actions while or why he was wearing it.. He stares into the mirror, and his skull flooded with feverish visions of brutal murder, swinging a fire axe, and lunging with a knife into a man's forehead, bludgeoning anything that breathes with whatever he can find.
Seething with horror and disgust, he soon removes the pig mask, and stares into the mirror, revealed to be a blond man with a stubby beard matching the hue and eyes of blue, but discovers hide nor hair of his memory or identity to be found. Lost in complete darkness, he removes his gloves to wash his blood stained hands, and is both curious and disgusted to know how and where they were stained in this familiar hue.
After cleansing his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror, his visions returned, of a shotgun igniting from his hand, and swinging a golf club upon the head of a green haired man. His shock and disgust multiplies at the thought. Knowing not what to do next, he unknowingly opens the door he entered through, only to be treated by a dark, bug-infested room, where he is besieged by three masked strangers in similar chairs, illuminated by three different neon silver lighting.
A woman in a green dress, black heel shoes and wearing a horse mask, there was a blue light mysteriously shining behind her chair, a man in a rooster mask, who wore the same letterman jacket the stranger had on, with a yellow light glow behind him, two pot plants next to him, and a translucent table with a neon purple record player and a man dressed like a Russian mobster wearing a horned owl mask, and a red light behind him, implying his hostility.
The record player was blasting a haunting melody with dissonant guitars and in the deeper verses, the singer was repeating the words 'Silver lights' echos all around the room, but none of the masked figures notice, except for the stranger. Three names popped into his head, "Don Juan" "Richard" and "Rasmus". Not knowing who he was, nor the horrific things he may have done, the stranger dubs himself "Jacket" for his bloodstained coat. Then, the horse woman breaks silence;
"And who do we have here?"
Jacket is startled by her words.
"Oh? You don't know who you are?... Do you?... Maybe we should leave it that way..."
Jacket also breaks silence;
"Wait... What are you- Hey. You're right. I don't know who I am..."
"But I know you."
Richard interrupts.
"Look at my 'face'. We've met before...Haven't we?"
The stranger is uncertain of his lookalike's words.
"I don't know you."
Rasmus beckoned.
"Why are you here? You're no guest of mine!"
Jacket stared back at the masked figures, his head held many questions, but none with memory of who he was, or what he was capable of.
"You could be right about that, 'Rasmus". I don't know you, and you don't know me. And I'm fairly certain I wasn't invited here either..."
"Do you really want me to reveal who you are?"
Don Juan indulged.
"Knowing oneself means acknowledging one's actions. And as of lately, you've done some terrible things..."
"I don't understand."
Jacket replied.
"I don't even know what I did, and here I am, questioned by strangers in frickin' animal masks. Who are you people? What'ya want from me?!"
"You don't remember me?"
Richard reassured, gripping a calender from behind his chair.
"I'll give you a clue. Does April the Third mean anything to you? I believe that was the day of our first encounter..."
Jacket looks at the calender and thinks.
"I...Woke up in my apartment, to answer the phone, after that I saw a package at the door..."
"You look like you might be remembering something..."
As Richard finishes these words, everything fades to black, Jacket, of course, was left hopelessly confused...
April 3rd, 1989
Miami - Florida
Jacket wakes up in his apartment, stirring from his white bed, adjacent two tables with a lamp on the right table, next to a blue bed in case of guests, which were very few for some reason Jacket couldn't explain. A TV next to an NES was in front of the bed. He remembered something, he would turn it on in case he grew bored, but today, he felt, would be different.
Buttoning on his all-too familiar varsity coat, which concealing his Miami Dolphins T-shirt, and slipping into Nike shoes, he heads out the bedroom and into the kitchen. A checkered floor was the only thing interesting about it. Another memory had returned. Jacket hasn't used the cooking equipment there for a while, with a good reason, he was a terrible cook and he knew it. not one of his most fond memories, but it was a good start.
He walked through the hallway to notice one of his many dirty T-Shirts and walks to the living room, and leans over to the answering machine next to the couch and table then picked up the phone:
"You have one new message at: 6:30 Am." *Beep!* "Hi, this is 'Tim' at the Miami Sugarworld Bakery! I'm just calling to let you know that the cookies you ordered should be delivered by now. Oh, and a list of ingredients are included. Make sure that you read them carefully!" *beep!*
Jacket, of course, is clueless as to why he would have cookies delivered if he didn't actually order them. When he answered the phone, another memory returned. Somehow, Jacket KNEW he would get a call like this on April the 3rd.
Strange, yet symbolically compelling...
He thought to himself as he steps out the door, to be greeted by a cardboard box. The message was right about one thing, he thought; he would be getting a package. He easily opens it up and finds a latex rubber rooster mask and a paper that reads;
"The target is a briefcase. The Courier is hiding in Brickell Metro Station. Has hired at least eight men to guard it. Eliminate security and the Courier. Discretion is of essence. Unscheduled train will be there shortly with enemy reinforcements. Leave target at point F - 32, inside the dumpster Failure is not an option. We'll be watching you."
Who exactly would be watching Jacket didn't cross his mind, considering the more-than-obvious death threat in the papers. He remembered something again, it was faint, but he remembered why he would get this. He decided to ponder about this later. He headed downstairs into the front yard, where he saw his prized DMC DeLorean in the parking lot. This too was a fond memory that he instantly recovered. He spent all his life's savings on this beautiful car, and thought it would be respectful in hindsight for a test drive. He heads into the DeLorean and speeds off to his mysterious goal...
PRELUDE
THE METRO
Brickell Metro Station
Jacket drives up to the entrance of the train station, and gets out of the DeLorean. He knows that whoever's in there is expecting company, and knows he won't be easily welcomed. Knowing his faint identity would be at stake, he takes the rooster mask on top his head and pulls it downward, concealing his face entirely, and steps inside without a second thought.
A solitary man is there to greet him. His memories returned again, once more, he KNEW that he would meet people that looked like this; He wore a white pastel suit on top of a blue dress shirt, all very clean and strangely out of place in the dingy metro. Jacket is unsure of what to do now-what is expected of him after he puts the mask on? He clenches his leather-gloved hands eagerly and nervously awaiting what to do next about this stranger.
"Я не знаю вас. Вы здесь не рады ..." (YA ne znayu vas. Vy zdes' ne rady.../I don't know you. You're not welcome here.)
The man growls a sentence in some European dialect, probably Russian, before spitting out his cigarette from between his teeth and brandishing a baseball bat, bringing it back in a swing at Jacket's chicken-masked head. The man brings no definite answer to the question spinning in Jacket's brain, but he does drop a hint of what has to be done next: If Jacket does not react quickly enough, this man will kill him.
Fortunately for Jacket, he dodges the mobster's bat and his fist lands a straight punch to the commie bastard's ribs, the body shortly after falls to the checkered ground on his spine. Jacket grabs the wooden bat and smashes the Bolshevik's bald head open with three swift, devilishly accurate hits to the face, a pool of crimson fluid pours out of the front and gray matter seconds later. Jacket stares down at his gloved hands in horror, stained a sickly shade of dark red. How long had that taken? Seconds at most? So quickly had he taken this man's life without so much as a conscious action; it was all reflexive. Never would he have considered himself capable of murder, and never would he have expected himself to feel anything resembling glad excitement. He shutters at the thought as he fights the urge to vomit.
As he walks up to find a medic, or at least somebody to apologize to for the murder, the bathroom door opens in front of him and a secondarmed man in a white suit emerges. Jacket has no time to dwell, he must act to survive. He grips the bloodstained bat tightly and forces all remorse from his mind. He strikes the next man down to the floor, the struggle is over in seconds, his brains spilling against the marble. Shakily, Jacket raised himself to his feet and stared down in horror at what was left of the man's skull. An angry shout same from above, drawing his attention to a nearby stairwell. Here went nothing. He dropped the baseball bat and snatched up a knife from the dead man's hand before bolting up the concrete stairs.
He went upstairs to be met by a book and several mysterious substances staining the magenta floor, he pays no heed and ventures through the hallway to see another mobster staring blankly at the wall, with a bat in his hand. Jacket knocks the commie down with his gloved fist, leaned down and slit the man's throat, his blood staining the neon purple carpet. He turned a corner, knife at the ready, as another gangster took notice and raised his lead pipe in a swing. Jacket gracefully dodged the blow and shanked the man through the stomach, who fell to the earth thereafter. Upon noticing another mobster approaching, he gripped the knife by the blade and threw it, landing square in the man's left eye, there was a screech of agony coming out of the man as he hit the floor and bled out in mere seconds. Jacket looked down at his blood-stained driving gloves as a terrifying thought crept into his brain: this was getting easier. Another memory popped into his skull, something about these murders specifically; He HAD done this sort of thing before. He had no time to think on it.
Another mobster brandishing another knife runs towards Jacket to avenge his comrade, thinking quickly, Jacket grabbed the pipe and threw it at the gangster's head, and fell flat on his back. He approached the man and, closing his eyes like a fearful child, smashed a lead pipe down on his skull. After three strikes, he stood up, nearly stumbling, and averted his gaze from the bloodied tile floor and looked straight forward through the eye-holes of the mask. With trepidation, Jacket stared down into another hallway, struggling to control his breath and heart rate.
"Hey член-лицо! Looking for this?!"
A man in a trenchcoat yelled to Jacket, this man also wore a fedora and neon red sunglasses that concealed his eyes. Two mobsters stood menacingly at the sides of another man, as well as this stranger holding a briefcase. As the Russians took notice of Jacket's presence, the masked killer took pause to identify his 'final' victim: 'The Courier' was holding the briefcase he was looking for, the one the phone told him about. The mobsters rushed towards him as he prepared to defend himself.
Prillan always said it would be fight or flight... If I stay here, I'm dead... If I run, I'm dead... So it would be wiser to fight!
Jacket is left with little time to react as the mobsters holding pipes rush towards him, and is given little choice to run, but to fight back. He strikes down the mobsters with his pipe, and soon corners the stranger and doesn't hesitate to beat him to the floor as well. He takes the briefcase from the bloodied hand of the stranger, but hears and feels a quaking rattling the building, the train has arrived; he thought, and an unscheduled one at that. Jacket crept his way back down the stairs to find two men rushing in from a train to check on the two corpses on the ground floor. They, too, were wearing white suits.
"Chort!" One exclaimed upon seeing him.
Jacket rushed forward and struck the man across the head with his briefcase before he could attack, knocking him cold against the wall. He brought his leg back and smashed the mobster's skull open against his heel, spraying precious blood on both his foot and the bricks, as the second let out a cry of alarm. The second mobster rushes up to him, but Jacket dodges his foe, and knocks him cold against the olive green floor, and Jacket splits the communist's head in half with three swift strikes from the wide end of the briefcase. Tired but satisfied as his enemy keels over. Jacket rushes out of the station, gets inside the DeLorean, lifts the mask up to the mouth, finally catching his breath, pulls back down, looks both ways for MPD cruisers, and drives away unnoticed from the scene of the crime...
After a short drive across town, Jacket brought his car to a complete stop at a dingy hotel. With the briefcase in one hand, and clenching the other, he crept into an alleyway going around the building to find an open dumpster waiting for him. Cautiously, he placed the briefcase inside and closed the lid, letting out a relived breath at the fact that he had completed his mission. He took his mask off as he leaned up against the wall for a much-needed break and reached into his pocket for a toothpick. Before he could bring it out, a raspy voice from around the corner caused his chest to clench.
"Who's there?"
Aw shit! Civilian!
Jacket held his breath, ducked to the wall beside of the dumpster and hoped that the man waiting there would leave.
"I can hear you! I know you're there!"
No such luck. He put his mask back over his head and prepared himself. This homeless man was a witness, and as the seemingly secret message on the paper had told him, discretion was of essence. But as far as Jacket knew, he had been anything BUT discreet, seeing as he just left a mess of blood and bones in a public train station. Backed in a corner and unarmed, he has little choice but charges up to the assailant he instantly dubs 'The Bum'.
"Hey! The hell are ya doin'?!"
Jacket doesn't answer to the likes of The Bum, he runs up and punches him in the gut, grabs the wooden bat, and bashes the old homeless man's head in with three swift hits. But shortly after, he succumbs to his headache. He removes the chicken mask and his headrush grows more painful by the minute, the aroma of his rampage is simply too much for Jacket. The smell of blood, piss, garbage, gasoline and nicotine flooded his nostrils and he shakes for a while.
Oh god, my head... Make it stop! Make it stop...
The young man reeled over and retched in a corner next to the homeless old man's corpse as tears stung in his eyes. He struggles to catch his breath again, and tried to keep his mind off of the ungodly acts he had just committed as he dashed off to the DeLorean, still traumatized by his fresh wave of memories, and sped away...
Stopping at a corner store, he sat and attempted to catch his breath as he took off his messy driving gloves. Glancing into the shop, he could see his old friend wave to him from behind the counter. The prospect of a little company-and that of getting wasted to really keep his mind off things-sent Jacket into the store.
"Hey, man!"
Jacket's bespectacled friend greeted cheerily as he put his magazine down. He was Prillan Raketgatan, Jacket's oldest friend, and the only one he seemed to really remember, but everyone he thought he knew shortened it to 'Beard', an appropriate nickname indeed. He was just as friendly as Jacket remembered.
"Haven't seen you around." He smiled wryly beneath his bushy facial hair.
"Thought something might have happened to you."
Jacket walked to the back and brought a case of beer to the counter, the cheapest he could find, remembering he was short on cash, then gazed blankly over Beard's head. His halfhearted smile soured.
"You seemed really down after losing your girlfriend. Don't remember seeing you after that..."
His voice trailed off as Jacket took out his wallet and began rooting through it so he could pay for the cheap alcohol.
"Maybe we should talk about something else,"
he said bashfully before forcing a smile.
"So, out for a midnight snack, huh?"
"Yeah. How much?" Jacket mumbled, making eye contact only momentarily.
"Oh, don't worry about it," his friend said with a look of sympathy. "It's on the house."
Jacket raised his eyebrows skeptically before tucking the beer under is arm.
"Thanks," he said quietly as he stepped out into the night.
"Good to see you sir!" Beard called out after him. "Have a nice night!"
With the men he had killed still fresh in his mind, he put the alcohol into the driver's seat and began heading back to his apartment. All of those awful memories would be gone soon, he hoped. He was wrong. DEAD wrong...