Fucking Crushed Alloy (foreignpetals) wrote,
Fucking Crushed Alloy

inner city kids.

Still No Answers For Mysterious Death.

PALOMINO Despite a long search, authorities are still puzzled about mysterious death of Jill Bankheart.  Her body was uncovered in a trash receptacle directly across from her house in Palomino Wednesday morning.  Aside from several postmortem lacerations on her stomach, which authorities claim were more than likely caused by raccoons, there are no signs of struggle or foul play.  An autopsy is scheduled for Thursday and funeral services will be held for the 42 year-old at the Regency Funeral Parlor on Friday.


                                                                                         . . . . .


The Presidential address was better than I had anticipated.

The crowd begins pouring out of the train, and the depot is, again, filled with laughter and conversation. Radios are making a comeback, so it isn't uncommon to hear jazz and rock and roll on the airwaves from different, portable sources.

I reach into my coat pocket and clench a small pen knife. She falls to her knees as soon as she realizes her throat has been split. I watch as she attempts to reach for the fresh wound, and I watch as her pupils disappear into the back of her head. She hammers the ground and the sound resonates in my ears as I extend my arm and dismantle the second victim's arteries. He falls against the concrete immediately and convulses, tripping the third victim, whose face falls directly into the blade wet with a growing pallet of blood.

I hear no one scream, but then realize the panic-stricken shreaks are more than likely being drowned out by the sustained ringing from the first kill. My coat becomes heavy with blood as I pave a path across the depot with the dead, still deaf to any new sounds. I feel a sharp sting on my shoulder and look back to see a uniformed police officer with a drawn revolver. As sure as I am that the gun is fired a second time, the bullet travels through my left cheek and out the opposite one, forcing me to retreat in pain as I went for the wrist of an infant in a stroller with the pen knife. I trip across the stroller as I map out my evasion. Finding no plausible escape, I surrender and fall to the depot floor, where I keep my eyes open and accept the blood loss will take my life.

I think myself dead until I regain my hearing as the police officer's foot steps near my fallen body to confirm the kill.  As he kicks me to my back, I have at both his thighs with a swift swipe of the knife.  He screams.  I then, in panic, embed the blade deep into his cranium and slip away through the tracks.

I leave my hat at the scene.


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