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CATEGORY: This week, the category is NOIR.
And so without further interruptions...
They called me a killer. They called me a stone cold killer for what I'd done. Look at me with those sneering eyes, scrunched noses like a nauseating stench and pursed lips as to not let another peep out until they dismiss my presence. It's the same in all this tragic miserable corner of the world. Twenty-twenty-seven and the West coast is nothing but a stormy wasteland anymore. Like some perpetual blue nightmare we can't fucking wake up from. It makes people sick, those sick go out and do the kind of shit you'd expect Bret Ellis masturbate to when writing his next novel. I'd seen it, some guy loses it but keeps the world from knowing. Those are the truly dangerous ones, lost all their morals, their dignity and humanity; transformed into the rampant wave of psychotic bags of shit roaming around. I bet there's some guy sitting back in his apartment three blocks from here wearing his neighbors face while fingering his asshole, the television idly flipped to the home shopping network.
The rains cold today as I leave the bacon factory, managed to hold onto my credentials and weapon only for my "sterling" reputation. Reputation? Bullshit. I've killed more men than half the psycho's I end up killing. This last guy, he hadn't done nothing yet. He was about to, he was right there too. Had that look in his eye, like some demon moved on in and replaced the lights with a gaping hole. Fine knife he had, sharp as could be, ready to carve into some poor old woman. Damn all things they couldn't find the old bag, only witness. Probably fled to the collapsed sewers where the police don't dare go no more. To many homeless, crowded in on each other, avoiding the floods and sickness. But that guy, I had to shoot. Dropped the full clip into him before he hit the ground. So fast but so clear, I shot twice and he just looked at me madder than hell. I fired twice again and he lunged toward me with that soulless look in his crazed eyes. I dropped the rest of the clip into his chest and he spun to the ground vomiting his lunch and fresh blood.
The rain cleaned up quick. Maybe that bastard God is trying to tell me something 'eh?
This city. It's not the one I remember. Everything's blue here. Everything's blue.