Drabblecrap

Grihn, I hated that man. Pompous arrogant son of a bitch. Why was it they always tried to feel her up? They couldn't be that drunk, could they? Did they think their inebriated attempts to woo those around me would hinder my professionalism? If they did, they were right. In a way.
I glared daggers into the back of his neck, a sick smile twisting on my visage. Because of my line of work, and the seriousness I take in it, I've made a general habit of containing myself. But Grihn, it was sweet honey-suckle revenge as his blood seeped onto my hand. You think it's funny to take advantage of a little girl? Screw you, you're not a god. Don't think you're better than her. Don't you dare think that a little piece of crap like you could be better than her because your parents could afford school. Could afford to keep you out of harms way, while you basked in your self absorbed world. Don't dare to think that gives you a right; gives you entitlement to whatever you want. Don't you ever touch her again.
He made a strangled noise, louder than I expected he could be. My right hand shot from behind him and clamped over his mouth to silence him. He was struggling; the imbecile. Crimson strained the ground as his heart beat quickened, propelling him, in his effort to survive, closer to the hand of death.
I usually don't use knives. They've proven ineffective, too messy, and they take to long. But I was out of ammunition for both my revolver and sig suer. It was with the ineffective tools that I would be forced to make due with. I twisted the steel handle, the blade wrenching in his spine. The weapon caught on a vertebrae. He screamed, a high pitched, piteous sound. It echoed. Damn. Someone was sure to have heard that. This was why I didn't use Grihn-damn knives! Ow! Grihn- he bit my hand! That little-...
I tried to pull the knife from him. It caught on something. A tendon? Maybe bone. I don't know, the only anatomy I know is where to shoot. He was screaming again; I gritted my teeth.
"Shut up," as I rammed my knee into his kidneys. "And take it like a man,"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


‘Listen to the Earth' my father had said. ‘Listen and you will find all that you ever needed to know.' My father had dispensed wisdom such as this on a daily basis. Then again, my father was a wonderful alcoholic.
I don't even know what made me think of him as I stared down at the paper. A face was plastered all over it. A boy, a young one, had gone missing. I didn't know him. I turned the page. The small home-town newspaper had nothing much more to report. The obituaries took up a grimly large amount of paper. Apart from that there were ads, personals, and the ever present article containing love-sick yuppies and pathetic social rejects who's only hope was to turn to ‘Dear Amy' for solace. I tossed the paper in a nearby trash bin.
God, this town was just as much a dump as when I had left it. Although the area was technically outskirts, by the image the words conjure the entire town was outskirts. Poorly watered, brown and green lawns. Dogs chained to fences. Children screaming at one another as they raced down asphalt seas on their duct-taped together skateboards. Houses separated by bare cinder block walls all looked about the same. Squat, long painted in different shades of white, or simply, not painted at all. Boards cover up windows; blow up pools rest in the tormenting sun. Children's toys, painted bright, garish colors, bleach white in the sun on the front lawns. Around back you can hear the television on the porch reporting the latest news broadcast, hear the loud calls of spouses to one another, the clinks of beer bottles on the cement. Trash cans overturned on the streets, sidewalks painted with spray graffiti.
Well, this was it. I was home. I turned down a street that was identical to the others. To my right, a row of houses fitting the description I had given before. The left held a fenced off area, containing unkept yellowed grass, reaching nearly my knees. It was a wire fence, just like I remembered from my childhood. It was technically barbed, but only in a blind sense. They were just twists in the wire, easily ignored by a teenager with a freshly nicked six pack from dad's fridge and a bag of marijuana bummed off of Steven's older brother. It had been years since I'd had a joint, hopped a fence or been to Stevie's grave. I just stole a beer from dad's fridge last week, but I don't think it counts quite as much as it did during my hooligan phase.  I hopped the wire fence and walked. I'm not quite sure what was going through my head at the time. There was just something about this place. Right in the middle of Anytown, Anyplace, USA, that made me come back. After years of trying to get away. I had to come back.
I ran through the field; I ran so hard through that grass I thought my legs were on fire. I ran until I was out of breath and just when the thought of stopping crossed my mind, I fell. Straight into the old ditch that I had forgotten about. I sat up and rubbed my head with the back of my hand.
"Fuck."
.   .    .
God I hated this place.