What was originally going to be a stroll around the block turned into a walk through the city.
The neon signs illuminated the building. Model J's and Daimler Double-Six's zoomed by. Music played in the distance. People chatted and roamed the streets. Everyone was dressed in casual wear, including Lincoln: a long-sleeved, white collared shirt with a dark blue waistcoat and slacks.
Lincoln around himself, absorbing the energetic commotion and scenery. The city was alive and he knew it. His heart throbbed with joy and excitement, but the fear still lingered. He made a pained smile with sorrowful eyes. Lincoln dug his hands into his pockets, hung his head and walked on.
Before long, the roaring noise of the city died behind him. The music and talking gradually become nothing but a murmur in the distance. A mumbling only he can hear.
The street lights flickered on with a buzz. Trees and grass enclosed his surroundings. He looked up and noticed he was at the park. His blind stroll led him to a large fountain in the center.
The curves and smooth surface of the structure made the flow of the water look almost magical. He stood there, looking at the water until his legs got tired. Lincoln found a bench near the fountain and took a seat. The sound of the water crashing was music to his ears.
He took a deep breath of the night air, filling his lungs until they felt like they were on minty fresh. He let out an aching sigh. No one was around. Lincoln was alone in the dimly lit park. The sound of silence was both calming and eerie.
Then the sound of crumpling paper caught his attention. Lincoln looked around. His eyes fell upon another person sitting on a bench, far across from him. His leg was crossed over the other. The article covered his face and body, but his gray striped fedora peeked over the tall height of the newspaper.
The man was reading the paper, oddly enough. He flipped another page and that's when Lincoln's curiosity gunned up. There was no way that the man was actually reading in the darkness. Even the park lamps weren't strong enough to brighten up the night.
Before Lincoln began unraveling the cryptic behavior of the nighttime reader, another man appeared. His arrival was sudden and coated in mystery. Both men were like ghosts, moving freely while staying silent and undetectable as humanly possible.
Lincoln took a look at the new man. He wore a dark burgundy coat with slacks, a red tie tucked comfortable inside his suit vest. His skinny body matched well with his bony arms and legs.
The skinny man waltzed over to the bench where the reader sat, the thunderous taps of his leather shoes ringing loudly. The skinny man stood a foot away from the reader.
Both men were completely negligent about Lincoln's presence or maybe they just ignored him. Lincoln favored the latter. The three were the only ones at the park and if Lincoln noticed them, then they noticed him.
After the skinny man failed at getting the attention of the reader, who only foolishly flipped another page, he cleared his throat in irritation.
The reader slowly lowered the papers, revealing his features. He had a thin pencil mustache with greased hair combed back. His face was chiseled and smooth, making him the perfect lad for the ladies.
Lincoln couldn't hear them talk. The cold winds sweep their words away, but their mouths moved as they continued chatting.
Lincoln, not finding any more interest in the men, turned his focus to the side. He looked up at the desolate black sky. The sun slept and in its place was the moon. The stars sprinkled the sky, twinkling like diamonds.
A sudden wave of disappointment washed over him. His face fell and his peaceful joy faded away. Lincoln loved staying outside but he knew he had to get home. His parents would be furious about his tardiness, but he was definitely asking for a death sentence if he got home any later.
Lincoln was lifting his weight, ready to get up and go, when he heard the two men arguing. Their heated conversation was a mumble in the wind. Lincoln was too far away to make out any of their slanders but noticed that the reader had folded his newspaper and placed it on his lap. His face was scrunched up with anger and his body tensed with a feeling of threat and security.
The skinny man was pointing and shouting and the reader did the same. They flailed their arms in exasperation. The skinny man sucked on his teeth. He took a few steps back and dug his hands into his coat, pulling out a shiny revolver.
The skinny man aimed at the reader's chest, forcing the reader to raise his hands. The skinny man pulled back the hammer, ready to shoot.
Time froze as Lincoln watched the tragic event unfold. His eyes were wide as dinner plates. Lincoln's heart thumped painfully, threatening to rip out of his chest at any moment. His sweaty brow grew cold and his legs buckled.
Seconds turned to minutes, and then to hours. Both men were stiff, looking like fixed mannequin dolls. Their calm and silent attitude countered Lincoln's exasperated tone. Lincoln felt a cool breeze push against his face and that's when he noticed a risky glimmer in the reader's eyes.
The reader quickly reached for the papers on his laps and flung them into the air. The newspapers, with the help of the wind, charged at the skinny man. The articles slapped against the man's face and stuck on like glue.
The skinny man clawed at the papers, desperately trying to unblind himself. The reader quickly shot up from his seat and swung his fists twice. One swatting the gun out of the skinny man's hands, another crashing against the skinny man's bony face.
The revolver bounced and skid across the ground until it landed at Lincoln's shaky feet. The boy took a quick look at the gun then back to the men. The skinny man was on the ground, his back against the cold ground, holding his jaw in pain as the reader looked down at him. The reader walked to him and sat on his chest. The reader held him down by the shoulder with one hand and drove his knuckles into the man's bony face with another. The reader's knuckles brutally sank into the skinny man's face with sick fleshy smacks.
The reader raised his fist, ready for another strike, but stopped. He curiously looked from side to side, with his fist still in the air, as a sudden realization washed over him. His eyes then fell on Lincoln.
Lincoln squirmed under his intense gaze. "You there," the man called nonchalantly. "Can you do me a favor, boy, and hand me that-"
The skinny man suddenly landed a right hook on the reader's jaw. The massive hit left the reader's head wobbling. The reader fell to the side and off the skinny man's chest.
Both men laid on the ground, limbs splayed out and faced up to the sky as if they were stargazing. The skinny man got up from the ground with an agonizing groan, making it evident that every move was nothing but pain.
The skinny man then mimicked the reader's action, hovering over the reader and sitting on his chest. This time, though, the skinny man wrapped both of his skeletal fingers around the reader's throat.
The reader's eyes shot open as he began to kick and spasm, frantically trying to remove the skinny man's deadly grip. The reader turned his head to the side, again landing on Lincoln. Pointing at the gun with a shaky finger, the reader said, "the… the gun".
Lincoln's heart skipped a beat. He knew instantly what the man wanted from him. The reader's face turned blue, still pointing at the revolver and repeated himself. "The gun… the gun," He managed to say with a raspy voice.
With a swift move, Lincoln picked up the revolver from the ground and aimed at the skinny man with quivering hands. The boy looked on as he noticed the reader losing the light in his eyes and his fighting spirit gradually slowing.
Lincoln steadied his aim and pulled the trigger. The roaring thunder of the gun sent Lincoln stumbling back, landing on his butt with a thud. When Lincoln looked back at the two men, they were both on the ground again. One was in a coughing fit and the other lifeless.
Lincoln brought the gun up to his face and looked at it with horror. Lincoln dropped the gun and backed away. He grabbed his hand with a tight grip, as if the gun was set ablaze.
The reader took in heavy breaths of air. The man looked at the lifeless body, then to Lincoln, then back to the corpse. The reader grunted as he lifted himself off the ground and walked towards Lincoln with a limp.
Lincoln's eyes shot open as he began to scoot back in a pathetic attempt to distance himself from the man. The reader quickly bent over and picked up the gun, marching back to the body. He aimed down at the skinny man's head, pulled back the hammer and shot. Gray matter splattered across the stone ground.
The reader kicked the body in its rib. "Bastard," he muttered. He shoved the revolver into his coat and walked around the man. He squatted and lifted the upper body of the corpse. "Hey, boy!" He shouted. "Give me a hand here and grab his legs."
Lincoln, not wanting to get on the reader's bad side, effortlessly agreed. The boy got up and timidly ran towards the body, lifting both of the man's legs. "Alright, follow my lead. My flivver's that-a-way."