LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER VII

Behind the mask, he pledged his own loyalty to these transmitting voices that ordered him to lease a life never to be honest, but to give faithfulness upon each slaughter.

The night where they killed the parents of his partner became the idea of how Simon would etch this profession to his hide. It was a murky dream, a raining eve where these two lovers watched the news about a gal being found dismembered outside of their neighborhood. Shock filled them, horror is of unspeakable appearance, and shortly, there was the glinting of a knife from Simon's dream that blinded him. In a flash, the first crack of the thunder was obtrusive. The father, slumped to the couch with an open, pooling gullet, and a ruined heart. The mother, stowed the knife away from her eye. She died out of shock. No one heard what happened for how the volume was turned up, a mistake never bound to happen if left unchecked, but nonetheless, omitted to even be deplored.

Standing before them was a him, disguised in a fish mask that resembled as Mister Coral. He opened his eyes wide, took a deep breath. The pet goldfish blankly stared at his as his pores betrayed him for a break of a cold sweat, the thinning of his air way is conspicuous, and the heaviness of his heart was like a balled fist constraining his own emotions to feel even more. Simon jumped right up, hurriedly scampering through the bathroom to where he handled himself in supplication. Knelt to the floor, his hands, holding the gaping edges of the urinal as he hauled his own vowels down to the pit of the watery compost heap where his discharge is welcomed. It was Mister Coral that killed her family, and he was betrayed by his own friend that coaxed him to be one of the corporation's machines. Machinations of doom.

Another heave for such tremendous conspiratorial plan. And then flash, Mister Auburn hacked their pieces before feeding it to their own dogs. Mister Cerulean propagated such clean plan, and the get away orchestrator to such plan never to be doubted nor be taken as a risque thought. All of this, his own making as he vouched for his friends that they will be his loyal asset, such a twirl, such dismay, such contrieving, such allusion that made a fool out of him.

Down goes the nutritional information he had gorged. It was all for them. Soon after there was a loud knock that echoed through the room, then three bangs of the hand before it ceases. The door opened with a creak, yet footsteps were inaudible. Someone is home. The entourage mocked him, and the coloration of this vividly indulging atmosphere sagged, fifteen feet below. It was an enemy of his, and someone that threatens his own haven. Slowly, he got up, still shirtless, profoundly exposing his own masculinity inside of the bathroom. Simon retrieve one of his emergency service piece, a knife, hidden at the back of the urinal. Taped with an electrical adhesive to conceal his own contingency plan if ever he will be breached by his own kin inside the company. As each passing second became bothersome he immediately muffled his own steps and leered over at the door, expecting someone to come by, but then, there was none. Knife in hand, he picked up himself, up to his feet and easily made his own way to the living room where his eyes darted to the askew disparity amidst the damp grasping of this unnameable aura consuming his apartment. The sound of insanity was within him, like a drag of a door, no, a loud metallic screech from a far, and it was like  that drove him to think about the insidious killer hacking his own confidence.

Simon was confined by his own doubting for the unknown. Standing there, inside of his gaping flat, and then, silence visited him. The firmness of his grip, and the rawness of his own suspension drew nigh with he instinctively concluded the intention of the intruder. Simon evaded the terrifying slash form behind, spun around, and faced the undeniable terror narrowing his core with a surprise. Like a present, as in, it was a holiday christmas for Simon, but with a knife as a present instead of having a wrapped box with ribbons. It was a figure of novelty, foreign to him, an individual blackened by this terrifying aura, it was an empty shadow portraying to be a ma. Only its eye glinted through his hollowness, the shade wrapping him was immense that even the air around him seemed to be sucked, as well as the space. It was like a black hole from the cosmos, but a killer of all sorts. Sporting a dark-blue hoodie and a midnight blue cap. Joggers that are gray, and a butcher knife in which, snared such menacing outline that inspired cowardice to many, but not to the man that submerged himself to the great abyss of nothingness:nowhere. The two fought with their blades, slicing one another, the air, even so, their own shirts. Tearing through garments after garment, and each consecutively done slashes were feral and ferocious than the last.

Simon grabbed him by the jaw, banging him against the wall as he fought over with his strength to repel the pushing knife close to his own neck. In was a brutal fashion, dance of the blades, such sight to see between two Networks outdid such unthinkable warring with their animalistic intentions. The tables had turned, now, Simon was pinned, and with the cascading of each second he was almost impaled. Face first, simultaneously, he avoided the aimlessly approach of this Network's intention. In silence, they quarreled with their fist, ruining everything the flat had, almost push the sofa with each response that Simon made to defend himself. The man slumped to the ground, but quickly regained his own balance when he stood up. With haste, Simon was sliced to the chest, to his rips, and to his breastbone. But as a crony that seceded with his monotonous ways, Simon adhered his blade to the man's guts, twisting the knife around to deliver such excruciating pain. Both individuals staggered in desperation as they parred their own lust for such tremendous approach with their own toys. Simon sprang, sliced the thickness he bore. Off came the ID that the man had, on the ground, he held himself in divulgence. A man of all blackness, his name, Caps, satirical, but with the cueing of his own attire that is worth fawning. Howbeit, Caps was not an ordinary product of the company's toys, must've been that he hath sent to him by his friends in order to steadfastly emphasize how the code of killing, and pleasuring ELC was their top priority task. But in all seriousness, the truthfulness of this incredulity was just flippantly indulging. Underneath of this compromising discovery, betrayal became a tang taste when Simon knew what he was dealing with. In the fit of coldness, he drew his blade upright, mimicking a stance that propagated screams from his own memory. The nastiness of each cut was a shot of pain that numbed him, stirring him over to perform his utmost expertise. Disregarding was welcomed, and the violent approach of his rippling hormones is rewarded. Like a ravenous beast, his own change was made with his blade savagely raining smite to the innards of the thickened figure that occupied nothingness to his own space.

Towering him over with such wild approach, Simon fed him with his own darkness, the austere looking, emotionless wreck of the company's entertainment became a work of fear, and loathing that draped a cowl of concern over his own breaking. Stabbing through, battering him with his blade until the humane warmth of his blood polled over his hoodie. Caps pulled out his last resort to the silencing horribly done, a flash grenade, in all cases that he will be captured. With nimbleness, he pulled the pin and threw it at the corner to consternate such sadistically inclining man fixated upon his compelling gorge. A bang of a metallic can, and then whiteness commingled with a loud explosion as the pale color of the moonlight became full to blind Simon temporarily.

Footsteps were heard, they were like foxes that shuffled for an escape. Out of this blinding ploy, he nailed his blade on the floor before falling to his own refuge. The burning of his eyes was immense, but the damage he had cemented will be forever. Simon retreated back to his own cave, his own shelter, inside his core. In a daze, his own flat came to be a haunting sensation lapping with that thin layer of grayness. He became weak, stagnant, senile to such approach. Unavailable to even help himself with his moxie fading away. Yet from that awful situation he holed himself in, a miracle seemed to sang over his battered body. Miss Puce, in the flesh, staring down at him, dragging him single handedly inside of his own room. All by herself, a strength that is inexplicable, a such gaze that tantalized him upon his own weakened waking. But no matter how much he lugged himself over to fall for this trickery, he was banished from reality, swallowed by his own exhaustion. Blindness was delivered by fate to him, and it ate his eyes the moment that explosion erupted, even his ears, it dinned loudly that he became deaf as well. In such manner, even to his own demise, as if death would bereave him his own rest from his senseless, unrefined profession.

Simon Vincent is now compromised, betrayed by his friends, betrayed by his own cronies, betrayed by the elysian company. All figures will now want his head, and if so that masks are just for children, must be that overtime, it was Simon himself that outgrown the childishness of this unworldly probability making refuge. All bets to have this scumbag be killed under the watchful eyes of the ELC that he hath betrayed. Put a gun to his head, nothing would happen, really, it'll be his own death, and the heir's wanting to exterminate such crazed lunatic too much to be handled by their own strings. In apologies to them, strings were nicked, and it is only to his own self that control would manifest freely with his own terrible manipulation.