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'Cutthroat Chronicles,' a Collection of Assassinations by an urban Gun-for-Hire.
Introduction: The 'Cutthroat Chronicles' detail examples of real "Hits" within the server, by my character Phillip Hortz, some of which have been altered for clarity, or for the sake of bettering the story. The objective here is to exemplify correct motives and methods of a well-roleplayed criminal, specifically a Hitman, which is beyond cliched, and terribly misused in most roleplaying communities. Enjoy, and please, post comments as you will. ((As well! Police Officers who have a decent rank, feel free to use these to aid your investigations into murders my character commits inside the server, so long as you roleplay it well, and double-check the facts over with me.))
Case #1, "The Emergency-Room Murder." Killer: Phillip Hortz.
--14/11/08, aprox. 8:30-9:00pm EST--
The Emergency Room's reception lobby still echoed with the sounds of squeaking shoes throughout the nearby corridors, a Janitor wiping away down the hall, and a Security Guard near the front desk, his grey hair greased back as he shared coffee with a young medical student who aided the receptionist. It was getting late. Business was slow, now that the daytime shootings and mundane calls had slowed down by some miracle, and only a handful of patients, let alone medical staff were around. The sound of a rolling wheelchair closed in from behind the doors into the ER.
Phil Hortz kept his head low, a clipboard in his gloved hands, a baseball cap on his head, and a half-rolled newspaper in his lap. The winter attire seemed normal, but the sunglasses might have drawn suspicion. He kept quiet, and as the Security Guard checked out into the back room, he figured he had some leeway.
With a sharp clack, the doors to the emergency roomed kicked open, as a young doctor wheeled out a patient in a cheap wheelchair. The patient, his arm in a heavy cast, seemed out of it, his head down, and an IV cart at his side. Hortz lowered his shades for a moment, squinting at the doctor. A smirk crossed his face, as he pocketed the sunglasses, still keeping his head turned from the front desk's security camera as he approached the doctor, clipboard in his left hand, newspaper under his right arm.
"Yo doc!" he called coarsely, nodding at the man in the wheelchair. "I'll sign for him."
"You're his ride home, then?" the doctor asked, looking down toward the blank clipboard Phil presented.
"Not exactly," Hortz said, reading the name-tag of the doctor, and smiling with the new-found conformation: it was his mark. "You're not much on making friends in this town, are you, John?"
"Sorry?" the doctor asked, confused. "I dunno what you're talking about, sir, but-"
A sudden, booming gunshot discharged, and the doctor doubled over to his knees, crimson spilling out his stomach and leeching into his turquoise scrubs. The newspaper smoldered and burned from the muzzle flash of the .38 revolver Hortz held in his hand; dropping the singed and smoking remains of the paper to the floor, and taking the gun into a firm, two-handed grip, the killer prepared for the coup de grâce, muttering closely to his mark in a hushed breath.
"Officer Hernandez sends his regard, ya little cock-sucker. See you in hell, Johnny boy."
Doctor John managed to grasp the barrel of the revolver with a limp, blanched hand, but it was all a moment too late. The revolver's hammer snapped home, bringing life to the next round with an energetic 'Pop!', and sending it rocketing through the skull of the victim.
John's lifeless corpse hit the floor, oozing dark red across as patients, visitors, and medical staff plunged into chaos. Keeping his gun low as he put his sunglasses back on, he crossed toward the back exit, into the parking lot. Among the shouts of panic, he heard the jingle-jangle of the security guard's belt, then the ominous snap as the rent-a-cop removed his pistol from it's holster.
Turning back, Hortz let off two shots in the general direction of the guard, one shattering a door of tempered glass, the other putting a hole in the drywall. Tackling a nearby patient off his crutches to cover him from the gunfire, the security guard abandoned any ideas of returning fire; unlike Hortz, he seemed to have at least a trace of regard for the innocent bystanders in the lobby.
As the gun-smoke cleared, and the receptionist phoned 9-11, the guard stood up, rubbing his head; two doctor's helped the tackled patient over to a chair, as team of surgeons already surrounded the body of the deceased, all with hopeless expressions. The rear exit still swung slightly, as the guard holstered his weapon, breathing out deeply.
"Holy s*it..."
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_________________ ~They're gonna hang me in the mornin', before the night is done,
They're gonna hang me in the mornin', and I'll never see the sun.~Maxwell Murder wrote: Gordan and Praphet, you are the two halves of God.
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