Friday, May 22, 2015

There's No Reason To Worry #1

Before you read the following, keep in mind that these will not be my only blog posts. I will still keep up with the normal "deep, intellectual" (and I know you're thinking in your head, "PFFFFFT, this blog sucks. Stop TAKING YOURSELF SO SERIOUSLY PRANAV!" and you would be right) blog posts. Also, it's kind of random and really badly written, so read at your own discretion.

They found him in front of the police station, dead. There was no sign of any bullet hole, bruises, incisions, or the like. It seemed as though the man had just dropped dead in the middle of the night, on his way to who knows where. The area was taped off with yellow tape, and police were milling about every which way. And in the center of it all as the body. Almost as though he was sleeping, the victim (was he really a victim though?) lay there sprawled out, limbs at angles so painfully strange that merely looking at the body caused shudders.
There was, however, a hand-scrawled note. ComE and get me, it read. Of course, the police had already gotten that note and sent it to forensics. That didn’t stop the man on top of building across from the police station from making his own copy of the note. An... unabridged version, yes, let’s call it that. And on this version, it read, ComE and get me. The russians and theIr allies are sCared of me, ProbabLy bEcAuSE they’re DroppIng likE flies cuz of yours truly.
The man on the building shook his head, spat onto the streets below, and was gone in an instant. Nobody knew he was there. Nobody knew where he went. Perfect. Across town, in a dark alley filled with rotting lasagna and the putrid odor of molding cheese, a man in a tall white chef’s hat fell. The Italiano’s was closing up for the night, and Giovanni was supposed to lock up and check out for the night.
The owners of Italiano’s saw the key still in the lock of the back-door of their precious restaurant. But more importantly they saw the night-shift guy (who knows his name?), fallen face-first on the steps leading up to the back door. The wails of the police cars rushing to the scene could be heard from all around. The black-clad policemen started putting up the yellow striped tape, but then they found another note, but could it really be called a note? A series of hieroglyphics (or what the college-dropout policemen thought were hieroglyphics) was engraved on top of the dumpster beside the body.  [insert drawing here]
The police stayed there for the rest of the day, talking, investigating, whatever police do. But as the sun fell beneath the buildings and exploded into a multitude of colors, they failed to notice the man on top of the Italiano’s. Once again, he looked from the dark outline of the message on the dumpster and back to the slip of paper in his hand. Once again he shook his head, muttering to himself darkly, “It’s him again. I know it...” Once again, he melted back into the darkness. Nobody knew he was there. Nobody knew where he went. Perfect.
Police were still dumbfounded by the sudden deaths of two healthy, average people. And they were more dumbfounded still when nobody had stepped up to identify the two. In the small town of Clare View Point, everyone knew everyone else, and when somebody knew came into town, everybody knew about it. So who were these people, and how had they met their end? That was the question on everybody’s mind. But nobody was able to solve it.

Stay tuned for the second installment!

--PRANAV