Street Feeling

10 - The Authority

Churches sat, freezing, in his old house. He hadn't left the whole day. The feeling was terrible, as he knew he had work to do and places to be, and that it was urgent. But he felt paralyzed, even more so motivated to not do anything just because there were things to do.

His hands were propped up on his knees, leaning forward, perched on the edge of his bed. Not nicely made, it was trashed and ruined on purpose. Actually, for the job, it was perfectly made. He wouldn't hold himself to any less of a standard. It had to be in his character. Had to be. So did the room. Provided to him, but he had to make it his own. It was "normal" enough. Drum set, dresser, desk, bed, television, record player, Atari, ironing board. Garbage can kicked over, hamper upturned. It wasn't his instinct to put it this way, but it must be so. Must be so, because that's the kind of person Patrick "Churches" Rothschild was engineered to be. Believably messy, almost as if Patrick Rothschild hadn't been precisely designed and cut down to the hair of how he should act and think and work and play and speak and sleep and blink and breathe and and and and

"GAHHH!" Churches exclaimed, boiling over, frustrated. He kicked his legs violently, flailing, throwing himself onto the bed, his fists hitting the mattress over and over and over, anger building, never being released, just increasing within him more and more. I have something to do right now! They'll know I'm not on task! Air hissed as it escaped outward from his nose, brow crumpled, eyes stinging from holding back tears he had not been brainwashed to produce.

He let out a strained noise, a grumble, before standing with such a force that maybe the rest of the world could feel the contempt that drove through the ground, through the crust, through the core, drilled downward from the soles of his feet. He marched to take his flannel coat and scarf and white cap off of the rack, not bothering to do it in the way that Patrick Rothschild might have done it. After he did this, he was about to march out, downstairs, toward the door, when he realized that, stupidly, he forgot to put on his socks and shoes. Palm to forehead, cursing himself, he walked and knelt to his dresser drawer. He put on one of the maybe eight pairs of white socks, all stained yellowish brown in the exact same way, all with exactly one hole in them in the exact same location. He considered this for a moment. Sidetracked, his mind wandered. Should I check that safe again?

He crawled on his hands and knees through a small space inside his closet. At the end of the dark cranny, there was a space with some headroom, although minimal. He sat up on just his insteps and dialed in a combination on a large steel box. Three, five, zero, one, two, five. The sequence was probably etched in the bone of his skull. The door opened.

Inside there was all the same things that there had been before. Cyanide pill stock, rope, a few pistols, and his backup wire. Looking at it, he was tuned into the idle buzz of his regular wire and felt a little dizzy. Also, there was his fake suicide note. He figured if anyone saw the rope and pistols and cyanide and then that little slip of paper, they might not figure him out. Sure, he'd spent a little time on the funny farm as penalty, but that was a small price to pay compared to risking the mission. He picked up this note and read it again, for what may have been the hundredth time:

"Those reading this,

I am very sorry I had to leave. To put things bluntly, living in Coventry, living in this gray landscape, is hell. Worse than hell. All the vampirism and just utter ghastliness of this devil's kingdom is so life draining and depressing that I've given up. I've retreated to god's great mercy of heaven. I cry for my father, and I cry for my mother. I hope the news of my death never reaches them and where they live in Wisconsin. And if it does, let them be happy because I am happy. It's not their fault this world is down the drain. But that's not what I ask of those left. What I do ask is simple. Rid Earth, and if not, Britain, of those damn vampires. They killed me. They're the ones who really killed me. I can't stand them anymore. They're ruining this country.