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Short Stories Miscellaneous Stories Weeping Weapon
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Weeping Weapon |
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| Written by Robert Quintin Penn | |
| Sunday, 16 September 2007 | |
| Last Updated ( Sunday, 04 May 2008 ) |
A man of six feet, five inches, sat in the apartment, cleaning a Remington 700, the wooden stock in brilliant condition, despite it being three decades old. The barrel, a smooth pitch black metal, blended in with the darkness of the room and of the table. The bolt, which was lying on the table, reflecting the image of his eyes. Once the man finished, he put the gun together, and such a magnificent machine was this.
The Remington waited, locked up in the gun safe, barely used but ten times, and only for hits in the densely populated area, where the police could reach him quickly. It was a deadly accurate weapon, and he was an accurately deadly man. Not once had he missed a shot, not once did he slip up in his work. Not once had he been caught. To the people living in the apartment, he was thought of as a man of few words, a loner, but they knew, maybe it was just and inkling, to not mess with him. Whenever he left the apartment, he was draped in a trench coat, a form fitting shirt, leather gloves, BDU pants, and a pair of combat boots. All black. Compared to any other man, he was big; big and scary. Every time he exited, he had a long case in his hand. Those who saw it assumed it to be an instrument, but then again, did they ever hear music from his room? The Funeral March, TAPS, and Moonlight Sonata was all that came from that dark corner of the building.
From the roof of the adjacent building, the sky was visible, the stars shown down upon him, the wind blowing slowly, moving some hair away from his view. A few snowflakes fell down onto his coat. It was a night one should be inside, drinking their hot chocolate, relaxing in a chair beside the fire, cherishing the moment of solitude, the moment of the warm flames splashing heat on their skin. Alas, his job was a 24 hour one, and he had taken it. He saw the target in the window, the only one lit in the entire building. Out came the Remington, set on the bi-pod, the scope precise, and the bolt back. He put one .223 into the chamber, and locked the bolt.
Looking through the scope, he saw the woman, barely in her 20's, sitting at a table, her hands joined together, her elbows on the table, and her head bowed. She was praying. He hesitated. His trigger finger was hovering, quivering above the trigger. After taking a breath or two, the man steadied his finger, and turned the safety off. X and Y axis met, the cross-hairs square on her forehead. It was lined up, it was ready; he could make the hit, find the customer, and get his money. The gloved finger touched the trigger, slowly squeezing, getting ready to pounce at any moment.
The young woman looked up, and for a split second, their eyes locked. Through the scope, his eye widened, and his finger accidentally pulled the trigger. Her head craned back, and then she fell from her chair. She was dead. The man, who had no emotion what so-ever, felt a tear flow down his face. For once he regretted a contract killing. Quietly, he got back to the street, trying not to cry out.
Another man, dressed in a suit, came forth with an average brief case. The man saw this, and he knew what he would do. “As I promised, 10 grand. You do very well with your work, Mr. Schmidt” He brought up the brief case, opened it, and showed all the bills, neatly organized. Schmidt knocked the case out of his hands, drew a knife, and plunged it into the man's neck.
At the apartment, he locked up his gun, sat on the bed, and gave himself two options: commit suicide, or go to a church and attempt to find a God.
Comments (3) |
 09-20-2007 17:56, :grin ;) :upset :( :cry » Reply to this comment... 09-21-2007 07:13, :? :cry :( :upset :eek :sigh » Reply to this comment... 10-03-2007 04:17, It was good. I really think it needs to be developed more. Why all the sudden is he wanting to find God? Why after all those kills did he cry? Where is this emotion coming from. Good Story though! » Reply to this comment... |
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