Lara Croft
Treasure Hunter
- Joined
- Jan 8, 2003
- Messages
- 86
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Alright, before you read this, I am *not* psycho. I wrote this for one of my friends who is, mildly, and I have to say it's one of the best pieces I've ever written. ^^ I'm really a very happy person, you can ask Damian.
With no further ado, besides the normal "I don't own Pokemon" nonsense...
A man sat in a high backed leather chair, his back to four prisoners hung crudely from a cinder block wall. Manacles made of tempered steel had apparently been poorly sized to each individual, most clamped on tight enough to cut circulation off from appendages and turning them a sick purple-black. Blood—some fresh and some merely stains—blotched the hospital cream tile in unsightly abstract puddles, a fair amount under each captive.
Hours upon hours of senseless and painful struggling had served only to tighten the bindings around ankles and wrists, finally cutting into flesh. The amount of time the four people had been hanging up could be judged by the blood on the floor; the bottommost layer was dried but obviously slick and untainted, and the quality of the blood deteriorated as layer upon layer collected in gruesome piles. Now, random plops of clotted blood splattered the floor in what looked like piles of black and diseased cottage cheese. The captives had given up struggle long ago, but every once in a while a moan of pain or an urgent whisper could be heard, breaking the rhythmic plopping and evil silence.
The dark man in the high backed chair didn’t care, though. He’d
wanted these people for too long and too badly to care. He wanted them…to die. They’d been the thorn in his side since he started his company of cutthroats, thieves, and murderers, but as his company grew, they did too. Suddenly every trainer on the damned planet wanted him and his company brought down and exterminated. Well, Giovanni was too smart for the little league brats along with their high and mighty Elite Four to give a rats ass. He’d had a frigging hard life and he’d be damned if some little group of people with a hyped up sense of justice was going to screw him out of the little success he’d earned himself.
Giovanni was in his own little world, the moans and sighs of defeat he’d usually revel in and then punish fell upon deaf walls instead as the dark man. He sat stroking a gun in his lap as if it were a pet cat, and just as harmless. No, what he held was just as dangerous as the man stroking it: both cold, both deadly, and both soulless. The gun was a relic, a six-shooter. Age didn’t take away potency, and the raven hearted man smiled with pure unchecked malice.
Giovanni’s strong point was his black heart. He was extremely intelligent, an excellent tactician, but none of that was worth crap unless one could execute. And hell, Giovanni could execute better than the generals in the army. That’s what he lead, really. An army out to throw hurt and pain back into the public that had inflicted the same emotions on him so many years ago. And now, he was about to experience his crowning glory.
Slowly, with inflicted suspense, the leader of Team Rocket turned in his chair to face his captives, still petting his gun. Shiny black hair caught light from the single halogen situated in the roof and reflected just as dark brown eyes narrowed instinctively as he undressed each of his hostages mentally.
“Lance, Agatha, Lorelei, Bruno.” Giovanni said, reciting names automatically from left to right, “The infamous Elite Four. The people who struck fear into my little bitty heart.” His grin was evil and his words were shot through with a sarcasm that was tangible. Each of the prisoners strung to the wall found themselves with a foul metallic taste at the back of their parched throats.
“What do you want from us?” Lorelei spat, her voice raspy from dehydration.
“Everything.” Giovanni spat quickly, and then continued, “You’ve made my life hell, and now we’re going to get even by playing a little game.” The man slid out the drawer of the small desk in front of him and pulled out a bullet, loading it carefully into the gun and snapping the compartment shut, giving the casing a spin to situate the bullet in a new and unknown position. The elderly Agatha broke his concentration, however, with a cough.
“SHUT UP!” Giovanni shrieked, his eyes going wild for a second before he regained his composure. It was that one second that the Elite Four needed: Giovanni wasn’t just evil anymore—he was insane. Agatha and Lorelei shrunk against the concrete behind them, trying in vain to protect themselves from the maniac that sat before them with a gun.
“Name of the game is Russian Roulette!” He yelled, aiming the gun at Lance and pulling the trigger before anyone could so much as utter a word, even if their parched throats allowed it. Lance winced, but the gun just let loose an audible click, and Giovanni frowned at it. “And I so wanted to kill you. Ah well, next round!” Giovanni gave the magazine a spin as he aimed the gun at Agatha. The insane man took a perverse pleasure in watching them all stiffen up. They obviously considered Agatha a mentor, a mother, a teacher…
And dead. The bullet left the gun and buried itself into Agatha’s head, killing her instantly despite the wail of Lorelei and the wide-eyed horror of Bruno and Lance. Giovanni calmly reloaded the gun with another bullet, spinning the magazine and leveling it at the beautiful and feisty Lorelei, refusing to let her or the two men mourn. Tears ran down her cheeks and Giovanni squeezed the trigger to find an empty slot. Giving an indifferent shrug while spinning the magazine, he leveled it at Bruno and shot again…
This time there was an explosion, and Bruno winced, prepared to feel a bullet lodge into his skull at any moment. Neither the pain nor the welcome darkness came, and Bruno opened his eyes slowly, not truly believing he was alive. Giovanni’s glare met Bruno, and the scent of smoking rubble caused the large man to turn his head, just to see the bullet lodged in the concrete next to him. He must have shied away as he winced, causing the bullet to miss its mark by centimeters.
“You got lucky this time.” Giovanni snarled, evidently quite upset over missing his kill. He slowly reloaded his gun again, giving the magazine a spin and raising the gun to his own head. “I want to play too.” He gave a psychotic grin, the grin that was pitiful as well as fear inducing and belonged only to the truly deranged, and laughed.
Giovanni pulled the trigger…
~*~ Critiques and comments always welcome! ~*~
With no further ado, besides the normal "I don't own Pokemon" nonsense...
~*~ The Roulette ~*~
A man sat in a high backed leather chair, his back to four prisoners hung crudely from a cinder block wall. Manacles made of tempered steel had apparently been poorly sized to each individual, most clamped on tight enough to cut circulation off from appendages and turning them a sick purple-black. Blood—some fresh and some merely stains—blotched the hospital cream tile in unsightly abstract puddles, a fair amount under each captive.
Hours upon hours of senseless and painful struggling had served only to tighten the bindings around ankles and wrists, finally cutting into flesh. The amount of time the four people had been hanging up could be judged by the blood on the floor; the bottommost layer was dried but obviously slick and untainted, and the quality of the blood deteriorated as layer upon layer collected in gruesome piles. Now, random plops of clotted blood splattered the floor in what looked like piles of black and diseased cottage cheese. The captives had given up struggle long ago, but every once in a while a moan of pain or an urgent whisper could be heard, breaking the rhythmic plopping and evil silence.
The dark man in the high backed chair didn’t care, though. He’d
wanted these people for too long and too badly to care. He wanted them…to die. They’d been the thorn in his side since he started his company of cutthroats, thieves, and murderers, but as his company grew, they did too. Suddenly every trainer on the damned planet wanted him and his company brought down and exterminated. Well, Giovanni was too smart for the little league brats along with their high and mighty Elite Four to give a rats ass. He’d had a frigging hard life and he’d be damned if some little group of people with a hyped up sense of justice was going to screw him out of the little success he’d earned himself.
Giovanni was in his own little world, the moans and sighs of defeat he’d usually revel in and then punish fell upon deaf walls instead as the dark man. He sat stroking a gun in his lap as if it were a pet cat, and just as harmless. No, what he held was just as dangerous as the man stroking it: both cold, both deadly, and both soulless. The gun was a relic, a six-shooter. Age didn’t take away potency, and the raven hearted man smiled with pure unchecked malice.
Giovanni’s strong point was his black heart. He was extremely intelligent, an excellent tactician, but none of that was worth crap unless one could execute. And hell, Giovanni could execute better than the generals in the army. That’s what he lead, really. An army out to throw hurt and pain back into the public that had inflicted the same emotions on him so many years ago. And now, he was about to experience his crowning glory.
Slowly, with inflicted suspense, the leader of Team Rocket turned in his chair to face his captives, still petting his gun. Shiny black hair caught light from the single halogen situated in the roof and reflected just as dark brown eyes narrowed instinctively as he undressed each of his hostages mentally.
“Lance, Agatha, Lorelei, Bruno.” Giovanni said, reciting names automatically from left to right, “The infamous Elite Four. The people who struck fear into my little bitty heart.” His grin was evil and his words were shot through with a sarcasm that was tangible. Each of the prisoners strung to the wall found themselves with a foul metallic taste at the back of their parched throats.
“What do you want from us?” Lorelei spat, her voice raspy from dehydration.
“Everything.” Giovanni spat quickly, and then continued, “You’ve made my life hell, and now we’re going to get even by playing a little game.” The man slid out the drawer of the small desk in front of him and pulled out a bullet, loading it carefully into the gun and snapping the compartment shut, giving the casing a spin to situate the bullet in a new and unknown position. The elderly Agatha broke his concentration, however, with a cough.
“SHUT UP!” Giovanni shrieked, his eyes going wild for a second before he regained his composure. It was that one second that the Elite Four needed: Giovanni wasn’t just evil anymore—he was insane. Agatha and Lorelei shrunk against the concrete behind them, trying in vain to protect themselves from the maniac that sat before them with a gun.
“Name of the game is Russian Roulette!” He yelled, aiming the gun at Lance and pulling the trigger before anyone could so much as utter a word, even if their parched throats allowed it. Lance winced, but the gun just let loose an audible click, and Giovanni frowned at it. “And I so wanted to kill you. Ah well, next round!” Giovanni gave the magazine a spin as he aimed the gun at Agatha. The insane man took a perverse pleasure in watching them all stiffen up. They obviously considered Agatha a mentor, a mother, a teacher…
And dead. The bullet left the gun and buried itself into Agatha’s head, killing her instantly despite the wail of Lorelei and the wide-eyed horror of Bruno and Lance. Giovanni calmly reloaded the gun with another bullet, spinning the magazine and leveling it at the beautiful and feisty Lorelei, refusing to let her or the two men mourn. Tears ran down her cheeks and Giovanni squeezed the trigger to find an empty slot. Giving an indifferent shrug while spinning the magazine, he leveled it at Bruno and shot again…
This time there was an explosion, and Bruno winced, prepared to feel a bullet lodge into his skull at any moment. Neither the pain nor the welcome darkness came, and Bruno opened his eyes slowly, not truly believing he was alive. Giovanni’s glare met Bruno, and the scent of smoking rubble caused the large man to turn his head, just to see the bullet lodged in the concrete next to him. He must have shied away as he winced, causing the bullet to miss its mark by centimeters.
“You got lucky this time.” Giovanni snarled, evidently quite upset over missing his kill. He slowly reloaded his gun again, giving the magazine a spin and raising the gun to his own head. “I want to play too.” He gave a psychotic grin, the grin that was pitiful as well as fear inducing and belonged only to the truly deranged, and laughed.
Giovanni pulled the trigger…
~*~ Critiques and comments always welcome! ~*~
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