Chapter 2:
One Year Later:
The young teen slipped quietly from the darkened window, snickering to himself, clutching the Sony DVD player tightly under one arm. He dropped from the window sill, into the ally with a splash in one of the large puddles made from the rain.
"These folks make me sick," he muttered. "Can't even feed their own kids, but they can afford a Sony. Now Jones's got a Sony and he's in business." Quickly, Jones moved, stalking through the ally's deep shadows, watching carefully for any kind of movement that would indicate someone had seen him. When he was less than ten feet from the ally's exit, he chuckled to himself.
"Too fuckin' easy." And then he was out on the sidewalk, under the pale glow of the streetlight above. And that was when the figure suddenly appeared in front of him, nearly scaring him out of his skin. Jones let out a yelp, flinching back and dropping the Sony DVD player with a crash against the floor. The casing shattered into many large and small fragments of plastic, bouncing across the cement floor beneath his shoes.
He looked up at the man who'd startled him, saying, " Motherfucker, that was a hundred bucks, easy! You better-" but Jones found that his voice caught in his throat at the sight before him.
The man was tall, standing at roughly six foot four. His black hair was wild and slightly stringy, as if it had not been given proper care for months. The man was dressed in a tight, black, long sleeved shirt, leather pants and boots and a tan trench coat that stretched to the middle of his calves. His hands were snug in tight black gloves. All of these things, however, were shoved immediately to the back of Jones's mind. What really caught his attention was the man's face. It was covered in white makeup and black lipstick; the black outlining his eyes and stretching out to sharp points both on top and bottom of his eyes. His lips were painted black as well, the dark lipstick stretching up from each corner, giving the man a permanent, grim smile.
Quickly, Jones swallowed, finding his voice. "Man, you just cost me a hundred bucks, you'd better pay up." To prove the point, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and drew the switchblade, resting his finger on the release switch. But the man only smiled.
"Would you happen to know a man named Two-Bit, Mr. Jones? Two-Bit told me you could help me." The man said in a hoarse, raspy voice.
"I'll fucking cut you if you don't give me the money you owe me!" Jones barked. This only made the painted man smile.
"Two-Bit said you know some people that I need to find." He said.
"I...I ain't kidding man, pay up," Jones said, feeling his determination slowly beginning to dwindle under the sudden weight of dread and fear.
"Ratchet," the man said. "Lunkface, Dewey, Papa Arnold, Hector-"
"That's it," Jones shouted, moving before he lost his nerve. He depressed the switchblade's button, hearing the click of the blade releasing from the hilt. He lunged forward, sinking the knife into the man's chest, feeling the blood squirt out onto his cheek, then watching as it spilled from his body. With one strong hand, the man shoved Jones back, almost sent him falling onto his ass. He looked down at his chest, at the knife sticking out of him. Jones watched in horror as the man easily reached up with his right hand and pulled the blade from his chest, bringing the bloody knife and licking the sticky, crimson liquid from the blade.
"Man...you must be seriously hopped up to not feel that," Jones said.
"Pain," The man asked. "Oh, I know pain, I know it on a molecular level. I know what it is like to feel pain, don't you worry." Once he had licked the blade clean, he spun it in his hand, holding it hilt-out to Jones. "Would you like to try again?" Jones stumbled back, fell and stared up at the painted man.
"I...I think I'll pass," he heard himself stammer. The man found this funny. He threw his head back and laughed, cackled. When he had finished, he looked back at Jones. "Now, Mr. Jones, where was I?" He tilted his head to the side, as if thinking. "Ah, yes. As I was saying: Two-Bit said you would know where I could find a few certain individuals."
Jones gulped. "Two-Bit wouldn't rat me out, man..." he managed.
The man took one step forward, reached into the pocket of his trench coat. "Oh, he told," he said, producing a pair of (to Jones's horror) a pair of bloody scissors. "It took three fingers, but he told."
Jones began to shake. "Y-you're lying, man."
"I would have brought the fingers as documentation," the man said. "But Two-Bit had to eat those as well."
"Ratchet'd kill me for sure if I told you anything," Jones said. His hole body was trembling, he tried to scramble back. His hand slipped out from under him and he fell onto his back with a thud.
"Which will it be, Mr. Jones?" The man asked, taking another step forward. He held up the bloody scissors. "Fingers, or toes?"
Jones's hands flew to his head and he curled into a ball, shouting, "Okay, okay! Hector's always hanging out under the pier on Venice beach, Dewey's got an apartment by the beach and Lunkface works at Wild Four Pizza! That's all I know, I swear!"
The man gave Jones a gentle smile. He put the scissors in his pocket and lunged at Jones. The teen screamed, and struggled as the man clasped his face with his gloved hands. "Tell them I'm coming, Mr. Jones! Tell them that death is upon them!" Then he released the youth and stood, spinning on his heels.
"You ain't gonna kill me?" He heard the boy whisper. The man looked at him from over his shoulder.
"Why, Mr. Jones; I already count you among the dead." And then, like a shadow, he was gone.
Jamie paced back and forth silently in the old, dilapidated apartment, his coat strewn on the floor along with his gloves. Back and forth he paced, mumbling to himself. He scrubbed his hands through his hair.
"I'll kill them," he growled as memory after memory passed before his mind. He saw Adelaide, laughing and smiling, her perfect face the picture definition of beauty. How could someone hurt something that pure? "I'll kill all of them, the motherfuckers!"
If you're gonna kill em, you might as well get on with it, the calm voice whispered from the grimy counter. Jamie looked up and dead-stared the crow. He knew the bird was right, he would need to get on with this if he were ever going to be reunited with his beloved.
C'mon kid, the crow said. Let's get goin. And then he was gone, soaring out the window, not waiting for Jamie.
He moved quickly, grabbing the pistol off of the counter, next to where the bird had been, and hurried to the window. He jumped up and crouched on the sill only for a moment before leaning forward and letting himself fall. He descended quickly, slamming into the concrete below him on his back. He felt his spine snap, but felt no pain. Quickly, he jumped up onto his feet before laughing hysterically. He was pulled from his revelry by the bird's scolding voice.
C'mon! I don't feel like waiting all day! Quicker than a blink of an eye, Jamie cast away any kind of cheer or happiness and shoved the pistol into his back waistband. For the twelve street criminals, whose faces he saw even as he ran ever closer to Venice beach, it would be a night that would end much sooner than any of them expected. And anyone who got in his way would suffer the same, bloody fate as the twelve who had brutally murdered him and his beloved the year before.