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A few Books.
A little writing since I plan on being a writer.
Private Eyes
There are a lot of things that can drive a man to do things. Greed, fear, pain, remorse, revenge. A man is driven by these things to complete any set task before him for his own reasons, rarely does a man do what's best for someone else and will only cost him something he loves.

The room is a smoky gray color, the walls are concrete grey, cracked in some places, and the paint is peeling in others. At the front of the room is a single oak desk, painted a deep, dark, brown. It shines in the light, it looks clean. Atop the desk is an old computer, like a huge white brick with a screen kind of like a bubble. A cigarette butt is sitting in a huge glass ashtray, the kind of ashtray you see in those fancy hotel rooms. In one corner of the room is a mountain of clothes, a striped t-shirt had scaled to the top of the mountain and was blazing it's red and black color to the whole room. There's a lamp shining it's light on the ceiling --- which in turn shines it's light across the room giving it the illusion of being well-lit despite there being many dark corners in the room. In the other corner of the room is a leather couch in very poor condition, with patches of fabric sewn into it hastily and with shaky hands. Beneath the couch are the stuffings of a sheet, white, with a floral pattern. There's also a pillow cast away into one of the dark corners. It's also white with a floral pattern.
Behind the desk sits a man with a pale complexion, his eyes are pale blue -almost silver- and his hair is beginnign to grey at the temples. He's not old, but he gives the impression of being twice his age, an affliction set on by being under so much stress. There are small bags under his eyes, further implying his old age. He's about thirty, with a snarl for a mouth and little pockmarks covering his face. There's a cheap plastic name card, bought at a Wal-Mart, that says, 'John Hale.'
The windows behind me don't shine in much of the light from the outside world, they're dusty, and little specs of dust can be seen floating around in the little light that the windows actually produce. They're practically grey and black with dust, save for a clean swap carved away by a finger. Even then, the dust was beginning to come back in that place, covering up some evidence of the finger crawling through the dust. The desk is covered in papers, almost hiding the wooden material beneath them. In the corner of the desk is a turned over photo, gold edges and scroll work decorate it.
His office is in bad condition, he knows it, the janitor knows it. Why he didn't just pay the man was clear to John though --- he just didn't trust him. When you live in a city anyone you know could be paid off to grab anything from a room and use it as blackmail. Beneath his desk was a .45 caliber pistol, it was in a hidden drawer under the belly of the desk. The drawer had a few dents in it on account of him bumping his knees on the material.
John worked as a PI, a private investigator in case you weren't away. As a PI, it was his job to stalk people, get information, find out their secrets and their lies, then report it back to whomever had hired him for the job. Most of the time he worked for jealous wives of husbands, who were sure their spouses were cheating when they went out with their friends for a drink. John had split up many marriages, which were supposed to last forever according to every one of them he'd worked for.
John lifted the picture up to get a glimpse of his dead wife, something that always managed to bring a pang of pain to his heart, yet he had to do it. He was afraid that he'd forget what she looked like -he never did, but he was afraid he might and lose the picture. He was sure that if that ever happened, he wouldn't be alive much longer.
Her smile was warm, dimples in her cheeks like little bowls in a field. Her hair was curly, black, long, it flowed over her shoulders and ended with golden dye. Her eyes were big doe eyes, full of sweet, sweet, innocence. She was an angel, and that was her name. Angel was gone now, though. Her face in this photo was all that remained as a monument to her short time spent here. John smiled, a painful, pitted, flaked, smile that faded as quickly as it had come. Beneath her photo was her name embroidered in gold. "Angel. Forever, until the end of time, and then some."
God, reading that was hurtful. It was like tearing open a closed door and seeing sunlight after being locked in the darkness your whole life. The sudden pain of seeing the past, of flashbacks like gunfire, bullets through his heart and soul. He could remember the picnics, the kisses, dinners, movies, loving. It was all gone now. Angel was gone.
John set the photo down, glancing at the clock. He hadn't realized it, but a tear streamed down his cheek. It was almost four. He hadn't gotten a call at all today. Business had been slow since Angel died. She had been the one supporting him and putting up posters on sign poles in the middle of the winter. It was because of her undying support she'd been killed. It was part of the reason why he wanted to quit, but also the reason as to why he wanted to stay. She wanted him to do this, he couldn't quit now. If he did, it'd be like pissing on her grave.
The phone rang, suddenly. Cutting through the silence like a hot knife through butter. It rang sharply, like a police siren only more frequent. The phone was old, he had no caller ID, something he'd been thinking of replacing. He picked the phone up, twirling his finger through the wire. He sat back in his computer chair. He said hello.
"Hello," the voice said. It was vaguely familiar, feminine, laced with a slight German accent. John half expected her to salute the fuhrer. "John, it's been a vile."
"Yes, it has Adalwolfa."
"Ah, you remember mine name?"
"I dunno, was that it Annabelle?"
"Funny man," John could hear her breath smoke on the other end of the phone. He imagined she was sitting similarly to how he was. "I'd love to shut that pretty mouth of yours up."
"Come do it then, Adolf."
"No, I have better plans. Do you know of a man named Henrik Glad?"
"Unless he invented the Glad garbage bags, no I didn't."
"He's a very respectable client, you see. He's the one who supported the Underworld during out time of... Distress."
Ah, the Underworld. John was about to slam the phone on the receiver and end the call, but Adalwolfa said something that piqued his interest.
"I know who killed Angel," she said, almost yelling to keep him from hanging up. "I know where they are."
"Don't ******** with me, Wolfe, who is it? Where are they?" He was struggling to keep his calm. His heart was going a million beats a minute and picking up speed, it was like his heart was on a bullet train to vengeance, a no stop ride.
"I don't know who it is, but I know where they'll be."
"Shut up and tell me."
"You have to do something for me first."
"Unless it involves me beating you an inch to death just so you could get off, I'll be right over."
"Hmph. with an attitude like that you'll only get yourself killed going after them."
"Then tell me so I can die killing them too."
She told him.

He arrived at the place in the middle of the night. He was wearing his cold trench coat, which was gray and stained with dry patches and blood. Bullet holes accompanied most of the blood. He couldn't find his hat, but figured he didn't really need it. He wanted the killer to get a full look of his face when they died. He was wearing a pair of black gloves, they were leather, tight on his hands. He needed a new pair, these were stitched up in a dozen places, but Angel had patched it up and he didn't want to throw them away. They barely fit now, his hands had gotten bigger since then. Beneath his trenchcoat was his .45 revolver, it was fully loaded, in his pockets were six other shells in case he had to reload. In the other pocket was a knife, an old combat knife his dad gave to him from his time in WWII. Since then, John had made some customizations, such as attaching a pair of brass knuckles to the handle in case he wanted to hurt someone, but not kill them. They also protected his fingers from any attempts on his fingers.
The place he'd been told to go to was a huge storage shed, with tiny light bulbs hanging off the corners and killing flies that strayed too close. There were shipping crates beside it with the words "SOMBA" written across it. A few pallets and sheet metal were stood up in front of the entrance, an attempt to hide the doorway. It was a pathetic attempt. There was a pair of SUV's parked just behind the shed, black and very clean. You could practically eat Thanksgiving dinner on the hood. The windows were also blacked out and the plates were removed and casually placed on top of a small wooden crate, stamped similarly to it's much larger cousins.
John took the plates and dropped them into the sewers, where they'd never be used or seen again. Afterword, he siphoned off the gas, then popped the tires. He didn't want anyone leaving just in case he couldn't catch them inside the storage shed.
Once he was finished sabotaging the SUV's, he sneaked inside the shed. He crouched low so nobody would see him in their field of vision. If there was one thing he'd learned since becoming a private investigator is that nobody ever looked down. If they couldn't see you at eye level they wouldn't notice you. It always intrigued John when it worked. He wondered why midgets didn't just steal from a bank if they had this on their side.
In the middle of the shed, a single light was on. A bad move if you were trying to make sure nobody would come after you. If someone -like John- ever did, you'd be left at a huge disadvantage. Your vision would stretch as far as the light could go, after that the darkness surrounded them. He could hear some voices, one familiar and four others that were stumbling over themselves to get a word in. John maneuvered behind a wooden box and peaked over the top.
Two were dressed in white suits, very clean, with purple shirts underneath. their pants were also white, but their shoes were just normal running shoes that clashed with the rest of their uniform. The other two were dressed differently; one of them wore a jeans/t-shirt combo with a pair of running shoes, and the other one wore a jacket and a pair of black shorts with sandals. They looked like the biggest rag-tag group of mobsters John had ever seen. The only thing uniform about them was the red ribbon on their right breast. There were huge bulges in their shirts where a gun was hidden. The outline was obvious to John, surely the saw how stupid it looked before they came to this place?
The four men were standing idle, chatting, checking watches, and scrolling on their phones. John assumed these men weren't the brains behind anything. He waited until the real boss came in.





 
 
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