The Animal of The City

I

        It was a sunny afternoon, people driving and doing the normal things they normally do, but today would be different. In the shadows of tall skyscrapers, a single man stood in anger. Blood oozed from his chest, but the adrenaline kept him standing. His assailant cackled as he attempted to run away; but he never saw it coming as he fell harshly to the ground, pulled back to whom they tried to attack. A cry of scream and pain were quickly muffled, every action was hidden by the noise of the busy cars and trucks driving around. As the hours passed, as the street lights were slowly coming on, the man arose, covered in crimson as his large hands dripped with warm blood... He turned and ran, into the shadow of the night. A fallen man, lay deceased in the alleyway as the assailant became the victim.

    The body was found in the morning, while garbage trucks were making their rounds. The torso was scratched and pulled open, the arms and legs layed nearby. The limbs were bruised and broken, torn messily off the body. Newscasters were already flocking to the scene, to get it out to public of a brutal attack, and brutal murder like none had ever seen. Police had done their best to keep the newscasters and people away from seeing, but they had even some trouble. The local police chief put a call to the FBI, a gloomful tone as he spoke with a stutter.

“I-I.. Get the h-hell down here.. I-it might be.. God help us..”

He muttered somewhat shakily, as his open eyes stared at the large cold blood pool under the remains of some poor soul.. The photographers could barely keep what they ate for lunch in, it was violent, but so disturbing to see. Other police officers kept their focus on the crowd, trying not to vomit if they would have looked back; but the decomposing smell of flesh and trash was slowly burning the hairs out of their noses.

Cold blood ran in small rivers throughout the cracks of the dirty pavement, as a few FBI cruisers were dispatched to the the scene. Off out in the outskirts, in a small studio apartment lay a tired, worn, defeated man on a large king-size bed. His name? Aerith Atramento.. A private eye for hire, but ex-FBI agent with still some decent connections. His rather new phone buzzed quietly, the screen lit with excitement as he received a call. It was his old chief, Commissioner James Sparrow.

    “The hell.. What the fuck do you need now?.. I’m already fired, why fucking call me?...”

Aerith said groggily, as he answered his phone. He rubbed his face with dry hands, and yawned into his arms as he stretched outwards.

“Aerith Watch your fuckin language!.. Look I need help, You were the goddam best agent we had but just because the rumors going around.. I’m sorry but it had to be done.”

“You really fucking expect me to believe that Sparrow? I was clean, I took the damn drug tests every day and I was clean. What the hell do you need help with now?”

“I know, I watched you take them.. Look, Rith, we got a homicide on our hands. It’s not a clean one either.. God..”

    The chief replied, a gag like sound could be heard from him as he did his best to not retch.

“They just pulled.. A bowie knife, from the victim’s chest cavity.. Rith you need to get the hell down here..”

The phone hung up after another gag-like sound, Aerith let out a annoyed groan as he began to get himself dressed. Yet, in the back of his mind, floated the small amount of happiness to be finally doing something again. He took into his hands a remote and began to turn on the lights, having a electronic coffee pot automatically make coffee button on the side. The city was bustling with lively repetition of the same boring day, as he stared out the large dark curtained windows. He found peace in the freelance art and tattooing he sold from his studio, that allowed him to keep his place. Dressed in black camo jeans, and a tank-top, he threw on a thin suit blazer, and began on his way.

    The slim look of a black chromed 1969 mustang boss 429 sat in the medium sized garage where all the residents of the block kept their cars. It beeped loudly as Aerith’s hands held the keys. It was given to him from family, some of the good family he still liked.. He hopped into it and gave the engine a few revs, before taking his time to drive out of the garage. He hit a switch and the red, white and blue flashes of police lights began to show. He kept the siren off, and drove towards the scene.

“Goddam crowd. If only laws weren’t in the way. You’re holdin’ up my time!!”

He yelled as he got caught in what seemed slow traffic, but it was only due to the fact of a man, standing in the intersection, covered in blood. Aerith climbed out of his car, and squinted, trying to see what might have been. As he caught sight of the man covered in blood, he began a quick jog towards him. He weaved throughout the cars and raised a large black chromed desert eagle, and steadied it upon the being.

    “Sir? Are you alright? I need you to move your hands above your head,” Aerith said as the man covered in blood, only turned his cold, terrified eyes towards him, lifting his shaky hands into the sky. Aerith moved closer, taking the man’s arm, and setting him on the sidewalk.

    “Sir? Can you tell me what happened?”

The man looked up, turning his emerald colored eyes onto the man with the gun. His voice was gruff and dry, as he began to speak.

    “I was in my car.. driving, and it all came back.. The gunshots, the fighting, the fucking battle! I was on the cliff, sniping, then I watch them... Watched them fall..”

The man spoke with grief and anger, but it caused him to break down. He took his worn, bruised hands and cupped them, taking his face in them, a dry, scratchy, faint cry as everything came out. Aerith listened, and silently nodded as he looked around.

    “Sir... Sit and relax alright? I’ll find your car.”

Aerith’s voice was quiet, as he began to walk around, looking for a bloody broken car window. The rising sounds of honking car horns, were eroding his thoughts, as his shoe crunched upon the ground, glass, with little bits of blood, decorated the ground as his eyes traveled to the military humvee. The insignia on the door made him step back, The black ghost tattoo he once made for a squadron he led. “Could it be?.. No, it couldn’t! Nobody...Nobody made it...” Aerith screamed in his mind, trying to take back the calmness he once had. He hopped in, and started to drive the humvee over to the curb, where the man with a bloody fist had wrapped his hand in a black bandanna.

    “Sir. What is your name?” Aerith asked, the man looked up, “It’s Crowblood”