Post by Elliot Rand on Oct 13, 2010 18:49:41 GMT -5
A man named Joseph Donnelly lay upon the cot, gasping, bleeding. At forty-five, he was Elliot's senior by a good eleven years, but at the moment, he could've given Methuselah a run for his money.
"Gotta . . . get h-home . . . Get home to . . . Ru-- . . . Ruthie . . ." he wheezed as sweat and blood glossed his waxy face.
"Uh-huh," Elliot Rand replied distantly, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle on his desk. The miniature radio droned the barely cognent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the city - not to mention the entire globe. Elliot took a tentative sip of his whisky, then downed it curtly as her sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of the uncorked chaos on the streets below. As he peered down, a crudely armored taxi cab collided into a stop sign, then did a clumsy doughnut and sped directly into a long broken into store front, the driver bursting through its windshield like a meat torpedo through the already shattered glass of the shop.
The sounds of screams and random gunfire echoed in the darkened canyon of office buildings, the sun long set behind the mountains in the nearby countryside.
"Gee, just can't wait to get down all up in that . . ." Elliot said, his voice oozing with sarcasm. "How 'bout you, mister?"
No answer came. Joseph Donnelly was long gone, his eyes glazed over and grey. He would not return to his pregnant wife Ruthie, or their basement enclave on the outskirts of the city limits. His chin rested upon his bare chest, blood oozing from both of his nostrils.
"Tch. Fine. Don't answer me."
Elliot took a seat by the torn naugahyde couch near the broken television set, taking a moment to scratch at his sensitive parts before kicking off his untied combat boots and crossing his legs on the opposite arm of the couch.
Just another day in paradise . . .
"Gotta . . . get h-home . . . Get home to . . . Ru-- . . . Ruthie . . ." he wheezed as sweat and blood glossed his waxy face.
"Uh-huh," Elliot Rand replied distantly, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle on his desk. The miniature radio droned the barely cognent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the city - not to mention the entire globe. Elliot took a tentative sip of his whisky, then downed it curtly as her sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of the uncorked chaos on the streets below. As he peered down, a crudely armored taxi cab collided into a stop sign, then did a clumsy doughnut and sped directly into a long broken into store front, the driver bursting through its windshield like a meat torpedo through the already shattered glass of the shop.
The sounds of screams and random gunfire echoed in the darkened canyon of office buildings, the sun long set behind the mountains in the nearby countryside.
"Gee, just can't wait to get down all up in that . . ." Elliot said, his voice oozing with sarcasm. "How 'bout you, mister?"
No answer came. Joseph Donnelly was long gone, his eyes glazed over and grey. He would not return to his pregnant wife Ruthie, or their basement enclave on the outskirts of the city limits. His chin rested upon his bare chest, blood oozing from both of his nostrils.
"Tch. Fine. Don't answer me."
Elliot took a seat by the torn naugahyde couch near the broken television set, taking a moment to scratch at his sensitive parts before kicking off his untied combat boots and crossing his legs on the opposite arm of the couch.
Just another day in paradise . . .