fang_uk (fang_uk) wrote in millenniumgroup,
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'To Each Death, An Angel' [] Interactive Fan Fiction []

'To Each Death, An Angel'
*Contains mild sex references, mild horror/disturbing imagery

Hi guys.
Not so long ago, someone posted enquiring about MillenniuM fan fiction, so I thought I would post a story I started over on TIWWA way back in april 2006. The section in bold was the one reply it received (is my writing really that bad?!?). Hopefully, you guys will bring your creativity and imagination to the table and be a little more extensive with your posted text.

Anyway, I hope you pick up the gauntlet thrown down here and run with it, I really look forward to seeing where you guys hopefully take it.

Namaste,
- fang


'TO EACH DEATH, AN ANGEL'


Rev.17: 8:

The beast that thou sawest was, and is not;
and shall ascend out of the bottomless pit, and go into perdition:
and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder,
whose names were not written in the book of life from the foundation of the world,
when they behold the beast that was,
and is not,
and yet is.


Tony Pantisa pulled on his gloves, grabbed the money, jumped out of the truck and sighed as it revved it's engine and pulled away into the foggy night. That was the second trick he'd pulled in what could otherwise be considered a poor evening. Normally, he'd turn fifteen to twenty Johns a night, no problem at all. But tonight was off - tonight felt totally off. Maybe it was the little pot that he'd had left that he'd smoked prior to being forced out into the rain. Maybe it was just because he was in a thoroughly rotten mood. Maybe he was just losing his touch.

He counted the bills out of habit more than anything, for it mattered little if he'd been ripped off now anyway. All was well. He smirked cockily and stuffed the wad inside his right glove and strutted off like he was cock of the walk.

It was late. It was getting cold. He pulled up the collar on his bomber jacket that had seen better days and better tricks, and hurried across the rain-lashed lanes of traffic homeward-bound. Well, it was home to him now - they had taken him in - they had made him feel welcome when everybody else had seemingly such a hard time even mentioning his very name.

The rain was getting heavier. He dipped through the cut wire of the fence, taking a shortcut he'd not used in months, but tonight was no night for the scenic route - direct was best. Clambering down the embankment he made his way across the industrial park concourse that hadn't seen any signs of life except graffiti artists in what must be a generation or two.

Dipping down a side alley, he paused for a moment and opened his jacket pocket to retrieve his cigarettes "fuck!" he exclaimed noting that this sorry looking excuse for one last smooth smoke was little more than a crumpled and sodden mess. He tried lighting it a few times, but his attention was caught by a shadow ahead. A tall man, 6ft or more, easy. Tony threw the cigarette against the wall, and his street-wise brazen bravado got the better of him.

"Hey! Hey! What's happenin', yo? ...You want some of this dude?" He grabbed his crotch more than a little suggestively and strutted slowly forward. No fear, not a hint. This was business.

The figure just stood, in silence, covered by shadow, covered by the night as Tony came forward.

"I don't charge much man, and I guarantee you that you'll get more than your money's worth, know what I'm sayin'? It tastes reaaaaaal sweet." Tony grinned, but his attention was suddenly directed from the figure to something swooping down upon him, and his grin fell as quickly as he did - heavily upon his knees "...CHRIST!" He looked up, the figure was gone. He stood up quickly, and brushing the moist dirt and oily gravel from his palms, he turned around to look back down the alley. Emptiness, rain, darkness. Nothing more - nothing less.

He turned around to begin running and was met by the figure. "What the..." It engulfed him, he tried to scream out for help, but his mouth was filled with a black, gelatinous mess - his screams muffled by it's blackness. He could see nothing, he could hear nothing, but he could struggle - oh yes, he could struggle just fine, not that it mattered anymore.

As the heavens brewed a storm high above, and his legs writhed beneath him, it carried him inside the rotten husk of the factory, and its steel door slammed shut with a force so violent it were as if it had been closed by Zeus himself. The only sounds that now remained were the swiftly subsiding echoes of a struggle from within and the gentle gusting of leaves against the factory walls...

*******

Frank Black turned off from the freeway and followed the frenzy of police lights flashing red and blue against the factory walls in the distance. Taking the dusty off-road track, his car rocked from side to side across the gravel and rain-filled potholes.

His eye surveyed the scene before his car had even come to a stop: 4 cars, 6 officers, 1 ambulance, 2 paramedics, Detective Bob Giebelhouse.

As Frank entered the abandoned factory, he beheld a grisly sight: chunks of Tony Pantisa strewn about like confetti at a church wedding.

"Watch you don't step on anything squishy, Frank," said a familiar voice. Frank looked up to see Peter Watts walking towards him, his hand outstretched. "It's good to see you, Peter, how've you been?" said Frank, shaking his colleague's hand. "I've been good, Frank. And You? How are Catherine and Jordan?" "We're all doing ok," said Frank, "although, I find living apart from them quite hard. How are Barbara and your girls?" "They're all good, Frank. Chelsea, Erin and Taylor are all enrolled in private schools. They're making Barbara and myself quite proud." Frank smiled at his friend, albeit, with maybe just a little bit of envy. "So, what do we have here, tonight, Peter?"

"Yes Frank, to the grisly matter at hand..."


*******

"Tony Pantisa..." Watts exhaled the words matter of factly, now somewhat immune to the visceral nature many a crime scene can ellicit. "We found a blood donor card in his wallet - with the exception of his head, which is mounted on that iron pole over there, it's about the only thing we do have right now Frank. Anyone would think a pack of wild dogs made that mess, to be honest, it's hard to know where it started and where it finished. 17 years old, no fixed address that we can assertain. School kid by day, hustler by night...such a damned waste." Watts paused for a moment, reflecting, and biting his lip as he always did when lost in thought.

Frank surveyed the scene as intensely as he listened. The horror, the shock, the flailing limbs, the torture, the increadible torture, the fear - the horror from screams that would never come...from rescue that would never come...

"From what we've assertained so far however, he was placed into foster care at the age of 8, we're still seeing if we can trace the history on that, but that's tied up in a whole lot of beurocracy and paper pushing. Well liked at Sevenoaks senior high and well known in the local homeless community - couple of drifters nearby knew his face and that he was turning tricks to keep warm, no surprises there in this neighborhood, the whole place gives me the heebee jeebees. No previous, apart from a caution. Pretty much a clean slate really. Just one bad judgement Frank, and then....then this" Watts caught his breath and shook his head, for a fleeting moment thinking of his daughters.

"That judgement was never his..." said Frank - another flash, a struggle, the sobbing and desperate pleading, the rattling chink of chains being locked in place, a hand...a cleaver....

Peter turned to Frank, and lowered his voice "What do you mean Frank?"

Frank stooped down, eyeing the dusty floor that now looked more reminiscent of a Pollock painting than some abandoned warehouse. He looked up, and asked: "Peter....where are his hands?"

Master of multitasking, Giebelhouse finished his coffee, placed the cup on the trunk of his car, wiped his mouth and finished listening to yet another member of the squad reporting in, still nothing - he wondered why they even bothered telling him that at times. All the while watching Frank Black and Peter Watts deep in conversation at the edge of the crime scene. He placed the napkin in the cup and made his way over - maybe these guys have got something, because currently, they didn't have squat.

"Peter...Frank." Giebelhouse sidled on up, unlocked the door to their private conversation and invited himself right on in.

"So tell me Frank, what's your angle? You gotta have a thread for me, right? Talk to me, gimmie somethin' tangible to work with here" Giebelhouse could almost have sounded desperate to an outsider.

Frank stood up and raised a somewhat quizzical eyebrow, but knew it was just Bob's way and shook his hand as friendly as ever. He then reached inside his jacket for some sterilised gloves and put them on. Hey, Bob may come across as somewhat aloof and by-the-book, but Frank liked the guy - he knew he was reliable as clockwork, and in this day and age, well - that was really saying something.

Frank reached inside his jacket again and pulled out a pair of medical tweazers and carefully made his way through the crime scene with a look that resembled confusiion, yet was in fact deep concentration and focus - closer towards the pole, towards the poor kids severed head.

"NO HANDS" Peter loudly and coldly proclaimed. Heads turned in their direction, and suddenly as if by magic, there seemed to be a flurry of new and envigorated activity at the scene.

"WHAT? ...No what?!?" replied Bob as his brow furrowed more than a little.

Frank approached the wide grimace on the pole.... the death mask of a 17 year old boy. One unlucky soul, but not the first - and not the last. He placed the tweazers carefully towards the boys mouth, and gently prised the mouth open. No tongue. But a slip of paper in it's place. He frowned, pondering. He pulled the paper carefully from Tony's mouth and held it up to the light: 'Pantisa'.

"Frank. What do you have?" said Peter as he and Giebelhouse made their way towards him.

"The kids tongue - it's missing too, but I found this. It was stuffed in his mouth...it's the kids name" sighed Frank

He stepped back from the situation and looked around, then looked up. Peter and Bob looked at the slip of bloodied paper, Bob was bemused, trying to take it all in, to make sense of it all - any sense of it - Peter queitly comported himself with his usual look of complete calm.

"Flashlight...FLASHLIGHT!" Frank cried out.

"Will someone get some damned light over here!" shouted Bob.

The flashlight was passed from a cop to Peter, to Bob....to Frank. He grabbed it swiftly, with an urgent impatience, turned it on and shone it towards the roof above.

"Well, there's the hands" said Peter with a sigh - in a way that in any other situation could have been considered comical. He just stared upward, with his hands folded across his chest as Giebelhouse looked up - then threw up.

Frank turned around and stared out - out away from the scene, towards the freeway and the city lights. "I think you've got a trophy killer on your hands, and this one's got something to prove...he's judging them on what he considers their immoral and wayward lifestyle. He's gathering his flock for their reckoning day."

Suspended high above them, a pair of severed, manacled hands, continued to swing on rusty chain in the cold night air...

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