Mr. Monk and the Curse of the Werewolf
It was a dark and stormy night in India.
In America, it was light and sunny, but that would change. After about six hours the sun set and the moon rose. A month ago, the moon was full. Tonight, the moon is full again. A person is sitting on a rooftop. That person looks at his or her watch (okay he's a him,) and waits for his adversary.
A rope is strung by the oak tree, waiting.
A gun is loaded with gleaming bullets, waiting to be fired.
A knife is sharpened, glinting in the moonlight, waiting to be plunged.
A ring of torches connect to a pentacle of turpentine, waiting to be lit.
A vial of poison sits at the center, waiting to be used.
A club, named Arget, waits for a head to smash.
The ground lies below, waiting.
A man drags his kill up to the top of the roof, unknowing that he is domed to die. Clouds drift over the moon. The man, clutching his gun speaks. "Hello Romulus, it's been a while."
"You? I thought surely that you of all people would have shown sympathy, would have shown mercy." The man with his kill steps backward, and the first man lights a match. The torches burst into flame, fire consuming the torches and the one called Romulus.
"No! Please, you can't do this!" Romulus shouts.
"Watch me," says the first. He draws a knife from its sheath, and cocks the gun. The knife and the bullet meet in Romulus's heart. The club comes down with sickening precision. Romulus looks up at his killer, in a wordless plea for mercy. He receives only a vial of cyanide, shoved down his throat. A scream of agony is silenced by a rope that squeezes around his neck. After waiting for 12 seconds, the first man cuts the rope, and Romulus hits the ground, very dead.
Note: Sorry this was so short, but any longer and you would know far to much about the case. Sorry!
