Post by Stardrifter on Jun 14, 2015 21:48:35 GMT -5
by
Stardrifter
-Prologue-
The crisp night air hit his face hard, followed soon after by the sidewalk. He moaned in objection before struggling to get to his feet.
"Get outta here, Frank," a large, bald man shouted down at him. "And don't come back if you can't keep your hands to yourself!"
Frank heard the door slam behind him. His feet were uneasy beneath him, but he finally managed to stand up. At only twenty-four years old, Frank could easily pass for thirty-four. Dark half circles lie underneath dull blue eyes. A thick five o'clock shadow covered a weary face. His dirty blond hair was thick and unkempt, sticking up in all directions as if he just rolled out of bed.
After rubbing the side of his face, trying to make the stinging go away, he reached into the pocket of his brown leather coat and pulled out a flask. A quick swig did more to cure what ailed him.
"Fucking bastard," Frank mumbled to himself. "She wanted it."
Continuing to drink from his flask, Frank stumbled down the Chicago street, mumbling to himself about the injustice done to him. It wasn't the first time he'd been kicked out of the strip club and it likely wouldn't be the last.
The street was unusually busy for midnight on a Tuesday. He didn't even notice the disgusted faces of those he passes. He stopped looking at those months ago. Despite his high level of inebriation, Frank had done this so many times he could find his way home with his eyes closed.
"Hey, watch it!"
Frank sluggishly raised his eyes to see a man standing beside him. It took Frank a moment to realize he had walked into him. The man, dressed like a punk rocker from the 80s, stared out from behind his sunglasses, waiting for an apology or a fight. Frank couldn't be sure.
"Hey sorry man," Frank managed to slur out before moving on. He almost walked into three more people standing in front of him. Two more men and a woman, all dressed in the same dated punk rock gear. "Have...nice night..."
Frank moved on, thinking nothing more of it. He did, however, keep his eyes up. He also suddenly realized a great need to relieve himself. Looking at the buildings around him, he discovered he was still four blocks from home. There was no way he could hold it that long.
Spotting the alleyway two buildings down, Frank made his way toward it. As he went, his eyes focused on a man walking the opposite way. A long black trench coat covered a black tank top and black pants. His black hair was short and a goatee covered his dark brown skin.
As he passed, Frank looked up to find the man staring him right in the eye. He didn't slow down, but simply made eye contact until he passed Frank on the left. It gave Frank an uneasy feeling, but he shrugged it off and headed down the alley.
The full moon shined down into the dark alley, reflecting off the the closed windows and puddles of who knows what. Spotting a dumpster, Frank made his way over, putting his empty flask back in his coat pocket.
"Ah, so nice," Frank whispered as he relieved himself behind the dumpster. At that moment Frank couldn't remember feeling anything so wonderful.
Just as he was about to zip up his fly, a hand grabbed Frank's arm and swung him into the dumpster. He barely caught a glimpse of the man dressed in punk clothes he bumped into earlier before they shoved a rolled up sock in his mouth and a bag over his head. Frank did his best to struggle but more hands clasped onto his arms, slamming him hard into the dumpster.
"Stay down and stay quiet," a voice shouted down at him. "Orders are to take you alive, not in one piece."
"Whose orders are those, I wonder?"
The second voice was deep, rough, threatening, and with the slightest tinge of a British accent. From the way the hands on his arms tightened suddenly, Frank guessed this other person was not with them.
Suddenly the world around him erupted into a cacophony of violence. The hands on his left let go, while the hands on his right arm dragged him down onto the ground. All around him were sounds of fighting. Hard smacks, loud impacts, grunts, and cries of pain. It was all so much that Frank couldn't even hazard a guess at how many there were.
"Behind you," a man's voice shouted.
"Got it," a woman's voice replied.
The unmistakable pop of gunshots cried out in the night, causing Frank to flinch. The hands on his right arm finally released him, allowing Frank to scramble to remove the bag over his head. What he saw before his eyes was like something out of a movie.
Three of the punks from earlier were fighting, the fourth nowhere to be seen. Their opponents were a young man and woman Frank had never seen before, and the man in the black trench coat from before.
Frank tried in vain to push himself away from the carnage, but the dumpster behind him prevented escape. Had he not just relieved himself, a pool of piss would likely have formed beneath him.
The black man raised a pistol, but the punk he was fighting kicked it aside, causing it to fire harmlessly into the ground. The man countered with a dagger in his left hand, which was blocked. The punk kicked out the leg from under the man, knocking him to the ground.
The punk went in for the kill, only to be kicked away at the last second. He fell onto Frank, scrambling to right himself. The punk's face came just inches from Frank's, when Frank noticed something he hadn't seen before. A set of fangs adorned the punk's mouth. Not just some slightly pointed teeth, but outright fangs.
A bloodcurdling scream escaped from Frank's lips. He desperately fought to push the punk away, only to have the man suddenly explode into glowing embers. They fell over Frank, covering his clothes and entering his mouth. He spat in revulsion, dry heaving threatening to turn into straight up vomiting. He looked up to see the black man standing above him, his dagger where the punk's heart was a moment ago.
Frank began to feel the blood drain from his face. The world started to spin around him. The barely held down vomit finally won, covering the alley under him. His arms turned to spaghetti and he fell down into his own filth. The last thing he remembered was the dark eyes of the man standing above him, burning into him as if they could see his soul.