The Watcher: Power of Attorney
"The Watcher is Off the Streets!" the headline exclaimed in bold, black print across the front page of the Seattle times. It went on to tell the harrowing tale of the police capture of " a shadowy threat to our wives, mothers, and daughters." The dark haired man holding the paper frowned, his forehead furrowed in thought. He studied the picture of the poor, disheveled man in the picture with the scraggly hair and wild eyes, the man whom the city believed had taken the lives of so many young women. The man who was really only guilty of one thing....Taking the dark-haired man's credit.
For this man is the Watcher. This pale, gray-eyed man with long, shiny black hair and Gucci shoes was the scourge of the city and the terror in the hearts of its female citizens. He silently sipped his Rolling Rock, refolded the paper, and set it neatly on the bar. He glanced at the bartender, standing on his tip-toes to reach the volume button on the television bolted to the ceiling of the dank, musty bar. The reporter was talking about the Watcher. The man watched with great interest, masked by the casual nursing of his beer.
Suddenly, a woman appeared on the screen. A beautiful woman in her early thirties with chestnut brown hair chopped sharply at her chin. She wore smart, black-rimmed glasses to match her smart black suit and set off by a blood red scarf around her throat. The caption under the lovely woman's face named her as the lead prosecuting attorney against the man labeled the Watcher. Bernice Sanderson. The man rolled the harsh name around on his tongue until it was as smooth as butter.
"We have this vicious predator off the streets," The beautiful attorney said, looking directly into the camera. Her dark brown eyes seemed to connect with the man's gray ones, through countless tubes and antennae to right there in the bar. "The Watcher will never harm another woman, as long as I have anything to say about it." The media burst into a frenzy as Bernice stepped down from the podium, showering her with questions and comments.
"Thank the Lord." The portly bartender said, turning to the man at the bar, "The Bastard's gonna fry!" The fat man said with a glimmer in his eye. He let out a hardy chuckle and turned back to washing glasses.
The gray-eyed man pulled out a few dollars and laid them on top of the paper, on the poor, unfortunate soul who would "fry." A half smirk crossed his normally neutral face. To anyone watching, it would seem as if he had just heard an amusing joke. Which in fact, he had.
"The Watcher is Off the Streets!" the headline exclaimed in bold, black print across the front page of the Seattle times. It went on to tell the harrowing tale of the police capture of " a shadowy threat to our wives, mothers, and daughters." The dark haired man holding the paper frowned, his forehead furrowed in thought. He studied the picture of the poor, disheveled man in the picture with the scraggly hair and wild eyes, the man whom the city believed had taken the lives of so many young women. The man who was really only guilty of one thing....Taking the dark-haired man's credit.
For this man is the Watcher. This pale, gray-eyed man with long, shiny black hair and Gucci shoes was the scourge of the city and the terror in the hearts of its female citizens. He silently sipped his Rolling Rock, refolded the paper, and set it neatly on the bar. He glanced at the bartender, standing on his tip-toes to reach the volume button on the television bolted to the ceiling of the dank, musty bar. The reporter was talking about the Watcher. The man watched with great interest, masked by the casual nursing of his beer.
Suddenly, a woman appeared on the screen. A beautiful woman in her early thirties with chestnut brown hair chopped sharply at her chin. She wore smart, black-rimmed glasses to match her smart black suit and set off by a blood red scarf around her throat. The caption under the lovely woman's face named her as the lead prosecuting attorney against the man labeled the Watcher. Bernice Sanderson. The man rolled the harsh name around on his tongue until it was as smooth as butter.
"We have this vicious predator off the streets," The beautiful attorney said, looking directly into the camera. Her dark brown eyes seemed to connect with the man's gray ones, through countless tubes and antennae to right there in the bar. "The Watcher will never harm another woman, as long as I have anything to say about it." The media burst into a frenzy as Bernice stepped down from the podium, showering her with questions and comments.
"Thank the Lord." The portly bartender said, turning to the man at the bar, "The Bastard's gonna fry!" The fat man said with a glimmer in his eye. He let out a hardy chuckle and turned back to washing glasses.
The gray-eyed man pulled out a few dollars and laid them on top of the paper, on the poor, unfortunate soul who would "fry." A half smirk crossed his normally neutral face. To anyone watching, it would seem as if he had just heard an amusing joke. Which in fact, he had.