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 The Revolutionaries

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PostSubject: The Revolutionaries The Revolutionaries EmptyThu Apr 05, 2012 4:21 pm

I appreciate any feedback from this short story, from anyone. It's my first. I know reading long portions of writing online is a bit laborious, so i thank you for the time you commit to it.


Agent Nathaniel Watson and his partner in training, Marcus Hamilton, drove along down the busy afternoon freeway. It was bumper to bumper and Watson could identify the flashing emergency lights ahead as an indication of a car accident. He tried to get a visual of the severity of it, but he had no genuine interest in it. His mind was on the case and the killer that had been evading him and the FBI for nearly a year. Four murders. All highly reputable, wealthy and successful business executives, but with no veritable connection to one another and residing in different states. He had already earned his media name-THE CORPERATE SLAYER. As a veteran, agent Watson was more disappointed in his colleagues’ inability to approximate any solid pattern of the killer other than the similar social status of his victims. He knew it was just projection however, and that the disappointment in himself for having not even obtained anything more than a rough idea of who this killer was much less what he was trying to achieve with his selective murders, was the reason for his self-deflection.

Oh he was trying to achieve something alright. What it was, Watson was stumped on. The killer was clever. Too clever. And the nature of his murders was stirring up a kind of social buzz that was beyond the media. Laymen of all walks of life and education, through internet discussion forums and general word of mouth, were beginning to talk about him like some kind of revolutionary, which only made Watson ever more frustrated in himself that, others, completely ignorant in the details of the case somehow understood more about it than him.

Who was he? Dammit.

Traffic slowly footed along as they neared the scene of the accident. Then Watson’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking him out of his brooding. He extracted it and checked the message. It read:
I’M WAITING AT THE PARK. JUST MAKE SURE YOU BRING ME MY SCOOBY SNACK, I HAVEN’T HAD BREAKFAST YET.
Watson smirked, than pocketed his phone again.
“Jesus, are you fuckin kidding me?!” Hamilton exclaimed, looking out the window.
“It’s all pulled over on the shoulder and people are just rubber necking!”
He was right, there were no road blocks and traffic was clearing up as they passed the accident.
“Unbelievable.”
But Watson didn’t care so much of the trivial inconvenience.
“Let’s just get to the club” Watson said, “I need to meet with Ryson, and you and I need to get our heads together on this before the Chief starts pestering me again for progress reports.”
Hamilton looked over at Watson, the annoyance of the accident still streaked across his face. Hamilton was younger than Watson given his trainee position, around mid thirty and with too much ruthless ambition to rise through the ranks of the department. Watson had trained a few up and coming detectives in the past with the same typical and frankly, boring qualities, but Hamilton was intelligent and knew how to cognitively comport himself when case studying was necessary.

Watson recalled a time when he had feelings of intense ambition like those of his trainee. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It probably was. At 45 years of age, he was worn out with the criminal chase. He needed some relief, but not like retirement golfing or sitting on the dam beach. Just some kind of mental balance that had been on a perennial tilting since his acceptance of this profession. A lifetime of work just threw a man out of balance, out of whack.
“I still can’t believe were going to a place like this.”
“Believe it and get over it.” Watson said.
“Yeah well I can’t.” He said stubbornly, “What are we picking up over there?”
“You’ll see.”

They drove along and Watson remained disappointed.

*****

They soon arrived at their destination. Watson pulled into the spacious half deserted parking lot. A large looming neon sign read “White Pony”. It was a Strip club, one of the more popular ones in the city that in the hierarchy of risqué businesses, with its Vegas style architecture, and high class women, earned the title of a “Gentleman’s club” than any of its hole-in-the-wall shady counterparts could attain.

They parked and Watson looked to his partner with a marked sincerity.
“Okay”, he began, “Ryson is a very good friend of mine. By and far he has assisted me with complex cases that demand more than geographic experts, and forensic DNA analysts. This case requires a deeper insight that he can provide.”
“Okay.” Hamilton said, “what’s his experience? Does he have credentials?”
“No, he works as a freelance writer.”
Hamilton blinked, confused.
Watson anticipated his trainees’ assumptions but continued on.
“He’s never worked in law enforcement, but he’s one of the most perceptive and knowledgeable people I know AND trust.”
“So we’re seeking help from a guy with no experience and no professional expertise in this matter? We’re seeking help from a fuckin Joe blow? You kidding me?”
“He’s anything but a Joe blow”, Watson said, “for all I know he’s something else altogether.”
“An alien?” Hamilton asked mockingly.
Watson ignored that, and they both stepped out of the car and began walking toward the entrance of the club.
“Are you gonna tell me what we’re supposed to be picking up here yet?” Hamilton asked.
“As wise as Ryson is, and as willing as he is to assist me with cases, sometimes he makes requests for things that help him fulfill certain…needs. Like VIP passes to his favorite strip club. ”
Hamilton went from mockery to bewilderment.
“You mean he comes to places like this?”
“Regularly” Watson replied.
“Christ,” Hamilton said, “We’re beyond desperation at this point. This is downright insane.”
“Take it easy,” Watson assured, “His carnal indulgences are not a mark of his intellect.”
“Whatever you say, I just hope I know what I’M doing.”
They approached the entrance and Watson opened the door holding it open for his partner.
“Shut up and just go inside.” He said.
Hamilton shot a defiant look at Watson than, knowing his place, listened and entered.

The entry way was dark and the raucous dance music boomed behind the other side. A tall bulky intimidating bouncer stood by the opposing door like a soldier. His powerful hands, meant to throw out any disruptive patron on his drunken ass, rested together in front of him. The hostess, a cute petite blond, sat upright, perky on a high chair with her legs crossed. She welcomed them.
“Hello gentlemen. How are you?” She said with a perky smile.
Her attire wasn’t overly revealing, but sharp and pressed. She wore a business suit with skin tight pants, and her well-endowed supple breasts pushed the buttoned jacket open enough to display her tantalizing cleavage. She was the signature representative of the sexually stimulating yet classy reputation of the establishment.
They both walked up to the desk.
“On your lunch break boys? We have a two for one drink special and a good steak menu.”
Watson leaned over the counter, reached into his coat pocket and flashed his FBI badge.
“Hopefully, the manager Mr. Tamond informed you of our visit. I’ve already spoken to him, we have an understanding.”
The girl eyed the badge than looked at the two men and smiled.
“Ah, you’re the bureau boys.”
“Yes.” Watson said returning his ID into his pocket. “You have something for me?”
“Just a sec…”
She bent over underneath the desk rummaging around for a few moments. Watson could see Hamilton eyeing her busty chest. She stood back up and handed Watson two glossy cards with a picture of a half naked woman standing seductively holding a bottle of champagne. Watson took them and pocked them.
“We appreciate it.” Watson said.
“No problem. What are the passes for? You guys mixing business with pleasure in the middle of the day?”
Watson smiled softly. “Oh, the passes are for a friend of mine who’s throwing a bachelor party.”
She giggled, “Well it must be nice for him having FBI connections. We’ve got some nice ladies here right now if you guys want some bureau discounts.”
“Well we’re a bit busy at the moment.” Watson said, “We have a corporate slayer on our hands.”
Her eyes brightened with interest.
“Oh you’re working on finding that guy? Awesome!” she said excitedly. “I’ve been seeing it all the time when I go online. He seems like one of those cool Hollywood killers”
“Yeah, I just wish it was really part of a movie instead of real life, and then I could probably take that discount offer.”
She grinned. “You know, I think he’s just some crazed murderer that wants to get noticed by killing people. “
“That’s a possibility. After all who doesn’t want attention these days, even at the cost of blood?” Watson said humoring her.
“Hehe, yeah I like attention but not that much.” She said coquettishly.
“We’ll be on our way now, and tell Mr. Tamond we thank him for his cooperation and for yours as well.”
“Okay. Well those discounts still stand if you ever want em’.”
As Watson turned to leave, Hamilton hesitated for a moment and looked at the girl.
“I’m just curious,” He said, “How much do those passes go for normally?”
“Five hundred dollars per pass, for an hour and a half with any girl of your choice.”
Hamilton’s eyes widened.
“Guys really pay that much? You serious?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, “A lot of guys out there that don’t have anything better to do with their time, or money.”
Hamilton glanced over at the bouncer who seemed like he hadn’t moved since their visit, and then he walked out.

*****

It was mid afternoon when they arrived at the Park. They exited the car and Hamilton followed Watson to where Ryson was waiting. The day had grown quite pleasant with a cool breeze. The playground swarmed with children and the public grills were all occupied by families and their carefree activities. They walked along a circular pathway that toured the park. The few ponds had the packs of ducks being fed pieces of bread by people and children. Others were riding bikes, or walking dogs. All these people, thought Watson, carrying on in their sheltered lives, enjoying blissful moments, and here I am, stuck trying to find a mass murderer, so they can live in peace. What did it mean? Did it really matter in the long run?

Early in his career Watson had a fierce dedication to the law and the feeling of solving tough cases and putting a supposed madman behind bars, sometimes even to death, felt to him like something of a cosmic victory. Nevertheless, the prospect of altruism was never too close to his heart. He did it because he was good at it, sometimes he felt noble for protecting society, but it was a fleeting emotion. The truth was it was really just a game, that he had enjoyed winning long ago, now it was becoming repetitive, as if he already knew the obstacles and how to overcome them. He had always had the aptitude to break a case within a few months, and this particular case was going over a year without even any good head way.
Maybe he would retire after this one. It might be fitting. Why not?

The wind was picking up and the tress rustled loudly. Watson was carrying a folder of some new documents of the case for Ryson to review. He felt like a salesman among all the other casually dressed citizens around them. Ryson hadn’t approved of Watson bringing Hamilton along for their meeting, but Hamilton had worked with Watson on this case and endured as much frustration as he had, so he felt Hamilton deserved to hear what transpired between Ryson and himself.
“So how did you meet this guy?” Hamilton asked.
“The internet,” Watson said, “I like to read fascinating articles and literature about certain subjects like anthropology or philosophy. I stumbled across his blog and read his work. He’s an essayist. He writes a lot of stuff about modern society, psychology and existentialism. I e-mailed him and we spoke and became friends.”
“Has he ever been published?”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Watson said with a smirk, “He publishes for various newspapers and magazines given his profession, but for himself he submitted one article about the, what he called, “spiritual impoverishment of liberalism”. The New York Times found interesting, so they accepted it, but then rejected it just before placing it in their magazine.”
“Why?”
“Politically incorrect.”
A bicyclist on the pathway was zooming near them and they stepped out of the way.
“He didn’t take the rejection well. He’s still a little bitter about it.”
Hamilton smiled, “So don’t mention his personal writing to him then?” He said.
“That would be a good idea.”
As they continued walking the path came to an open grassy area with posted table benches. Then he saw Ryson sitting at one at the far end of the path underneath a tree. He was wearing a black overcoat and facing away from them.
“There he is” Watson said pointing.
Hamilton looked on curiously.
“Now, Listen” Watson said turning to his partner, “Ryson is a very…traditional man. He has a lot of pride and principles. He doesn’t like that I brought you along, but, he’ll give you respect if you offer it in return.”
“Man is this guy really that special?”
“Even at my age, he’s taught me a lot about myself. He can be vague, and very blunt, but he always talks with a purpose. Just try to keep an open mind with him.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“You ready?”
“”Ready?”” Hamilton asked with a laugh, “Yes, I’m ready. I think I can handle it.”
Watson walked over to Ryson and Hamilton followed. As they approached the bench they both circled around in front of Ryson who appeared to be lost in some kind of reverie. He was in his early thirties with long shaggy brown hair that hung over his eyes. His age didn’t reflect much, but his hazel eyes said something more. He looked at Watson then at Hamilton.
“Hello Ryson.” Watson said.
“Nathan.” Ryson said with a nod, and then he looked at Hamilton, “So this is the ‘partner’?”
Hamilton batted his eyes at Watson with some slight expectation.
“Yes, I’m the partner.” Hamilton said. “Marcus Hamilton.” He offered his hand and Ryson shook it firmly but did not stand up. He gestured for them to sit down and they did.

Well here we are. Yeah. Thought Watson.
They settled in. Watson placed the folder down and unbuttoned his suit coat to get more comfortable.
“How have you been?” Watson asked.
“Not as overworked as you I’m sure.” He said.
“You chose a good secluded spot.” Watson said.
“I figure if were already standing out like an interracial couple, it would be best to have a little privacy.”
Watson chuckled.
“How’s the Drinking coming along?” Ryson asked seriously.
“I’ve switched from beer to whiskey. So I think I’m making progress.”
“Jameson hopefully.”
“The drinking is fine, but my progress on this case isn’t” Watson said.
“So I’ve heard.”
Ryson calmly pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He flipped the lid and knowing Watson didn’t smoke, offered one to Hamilton.
“No thanks.” He said, “I want to live a little longer.”
“You mean long enough to know a little more comfort. That’s a nice sentiment”
Ryson lit his smoke and Hamilton just stared blankly.
Well we’re off to a good start.
Watson pushed the folder toward Ryson. “You’ll find some new police reports of his recent murder, and some other items in the back.”
Ryson opened the folder and lifted the papers. He took the two VIP cards and pocketed them.
“I hope for our sake you didn’t name drop me.” Ryson said.
“Of course not.”
“Christie is a good girl, but she’s dumb and better off as a hostess than a keeper of secrets.”
Watson had taken the time to highlight the most important parts of the reports. Ryson stroked some hair away from his eyes and began reading them.
Than Hamilton spoke, “So I’m just wondering, what is it…”
“Shh, shhh,” Ryson said sharply not looking away from the papers, “Please.”
Hamilton looked to Watson who gave an expression as if to say ‘just be patient’.
A minute or two passed as Ryson read quickly but critically, flipping through the report, and taking steady drags from his cigarette with an almost sullen expression on his face. Another few minutes passed and Watson could sense Hamilton becoming restless, until Ryson closed the folder and looked at Watson.
“The pattern is the same. He’s killed this one in his own home using a silencer.” He said.
“Still no fingerprints” Watson said.
“And you won’t be getting any from him, or any other bodily identification for that matter if you haven’t up to this point.” Ryson said.
“He kills them when their families are absent” Hamilton interjected, “Is there a reason for that?”
Ryson looked at Hamilton complacently. “Of course. He’s a clean killer. The ones closest to the victim are the most possible witnesses. That and that he may have a moral reservation for sparing the family the sight of his dead body, by phoning the police, being silent and hanging up after the dispatcher traces the address so the police and ambulance arrive promptly.”
Hamilton Frowned. “Did you just say, he was “Moral”?
“It’s possible that he is. He’s not out for thrill kills, he’s out for a cause.”
“He’s a violent killer. How can savagery be connected to morality?”
Ryson took a drag and grinned coolly. “Savagery?” He asked patronizingly. “It was ‘Hamilton’ right?”
Watson combed a hand through his hair beginning to feel a little uneasy. He was starting to regret bringing Hamilton with him.
“Yes, it was Hamilton.”
“Well, you see…”
“Merely because one takes another life, doesn’t indicate such a gross degree of excess that a word like ‘savage’ implies. One can act violently, but do it with a code of conduct. That’s what separates a man who stabs his victim 60 times in the neck, from one who shoots a calculated bullet through the head bringing instant death and then phoning the police.”
Hamilton leaned in a bit closer to Ryson. Already an air of confrontation was beginning to build between these two. Ryson never wavered and met Hamilton’s eyes dead on.
“So you approve of this killer?” Hamilton asked.
“My observations are for your plight, or they are for our benefit. You choose.” He finished his cigarette and flicked it away.
Hamilton was about to speak again, when Watson decided to abate the growing tension.
“All the victims work for advertising firms in high dictating positions. His second victim, who worked for a TV broadcasting conglomerate, oversaw and even created most of the campaigns for commercials and billboards.”
“Yes,” Ryson said, “And when he was killed their ratings suffered as did the content of their advertisements.”
“His first three all controlled content of advertising, his first for a radio station, his next two for TV shows, but his latest victim was lower on the totem pole in terms of prestige. He was the spokesman that worked for an up an coming computer company that sold and advertised a new laptop. When he was killed people began questioning what the new laptops were actually made for.”
“And what does that tell you?” Ryson asked.
“That he’s trying to somehow destroy the reputation of these companies or of advertising and products themselves.”
“You’re correct on the latter.” Ryson said.
“If that’s his motive,” Hamilton said, “Than why not target the companies that manufacture products that have had the most success in popularity, like Apple?”
“That’s too unrealistic, and he knows that. It’s more difficult to compromise the integrity of such well trusted products like Apple or Microsoft. You need to plant that seed of doubt when the product is fresh and getting on its feet, than people begin to think.”
“Think about what?” Hamilton asked.
“About what it all means.” Ryson answered.
Hamilton frowned and Ryson just sat sternly squinting in the sunlight.
“My task force believes he may have an either financial vendetta against these people
or he’s after the companies themselves. We’ve deeply investigated and background checked all the employees for the companies and none of them have motive or interest in personal gain against their employers.” Watson explained.
“Your colleagues are on the right track, but it’s not the company he’s after it’s what they specialize in. But you won’t find him in those companies. He’s smart enough not to have connections to them. But I do believe he has worked in a field similar to advertising, you might want to check smaller advertising or marketing firms.”
Watson folded his arms and slouched over the table. “Ryson,” He said, “all these crazy theories about him trying to bring down capitalism or destroy the media system in some Marxist pursuit.”
“They’re all misguided.” Ryson reassured.
“So then tell me…I need to know,” Watson rubbed his beard stubble, “What is he trying to succeed in? What is he after? I need to have a better grasp of who he is if I’m ever to catch him”
Ryson leaned back slightly and looked off into the distance.
“He is out for a cause,” He said, “It’s not the destruction of the system, as that is impossible, but more of a disruption, influencing a social awareness. Personally I believe his intentions are well-founded, but foolish.”
“What do you mean ‘well founded’?” Hamilton inquired, “Like how killing successful people is right?”
Ryson laughed.
“Yes, well he’s a humble killer Hammy, but it’s not quite as simple as that.”
“It’s Hamilton.” He said with disdain.
“Then if you’d like me to refer to you as such” Ryson said, “you’ll think more deeply about this.”
“Okay,” Hamilton said challenging him, “Then if you know so much about him than tell us all about it, considering you’re not working on the case night and day with twelve other qualified and smart people.”
“It’s the nature of advertising Hammy, and how it affects the psyche.” Ryson said. “Ask yourselves gentlemen, what dominates in our society? What uplifts the bored, nihilistic masses from their mediocre, unfulfilled lives?”
“Entertainment” Watson suggested.
Ryson nodded. “That is a prevalent influence, mostly for apathy, but it lacks the promise that certain images like say a picture of a fashion model trending a name brand suit would advocate.”
“And what promise is that?” asked Hamilton.
“The promise that you will become more than what you are. We live in a superficially image dominated world. There are images that are empty and trivial and there are some that have more of a purpose to drive people to consume and contribute to the system.” Ryson clasped his hands in front of him, “The goal of advertising is to make consumption romantic and meaningful. To feed off of the power complexes of individuals and give them something to strive for: A bigger house, a nicer car, a better job.” He chuckled softly, “The problem of course is that none of that shit has anything to do with a meaningful life, but it works wonders in keeping the status quo of placation and obedience, just like voting.”
“I vote.” said Hamilton, taking offense.
“That’s your problem.” Ryson retorted.
Hamilton was poised for an attack. “You know what I see in you?” he said.
Watson turned to him, “Easy,”
“Instead of telling me what you see in me,” Ryson countered, “which I’m sure is along the lines of something typical like arrogance or presumption, why don’t you tell me what you were wondering about.”
“What?” Asked Hamilton.
Ryson looked to Watson, “Your partner’s memory tends to slip doesn’t it?”
Watson simply shook his head. This wasn’t going well.
“Let’s try to stay focused guys” Watson said.
“He wants a shot at me Nathan, let him have it than we can continue.”
Watson inhaled and exhaled.
“You mean earlier?” asked Hamilton, with narrowed eyes.
“Yes earlier, that's right.”
“I was wondering, why does someone like you, who is supposedly so wise, go to sordid places like strip clubs?”
“Not for the same reason that you would go to the bathroom to take a shit.”
“Guys common,” Watson persisted.
“So it’s sexual frustration then?” Hamilton asked tauntingly “Well that’s a bit sad, but I guess we all have our little insecurities.”
“Sexual frustration. Yup, sure. You’ve figured out my underlying inferiority. You should also know that I have a two inch dick.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it” Hamilton said.
Watson simply stared down at the table waiting for the battle to die down. Ryson adjusted himself and stroked his hair away from his face again. He always had a musing affect.
“Here’s a hint, living in a spiritually desolate age where human passion has been all but relegated to a taboo, sometimes paying for intimacy is the most realistic and even meaningful alternative.”
“So you’ve had bad relationships with women.” Hamilton stated. “I’m married, I love my wife and I don’t pay her money for her love.”
“No,” Ryson said, “You simply settle for a safety of heart through a renouncement of your own. The preservation of passion takes a risk, sometimes that risk is solitude. Your fear is not my concern Hammy.”
“You’re the one that’s fearful if you can’t step outside yourself to commit to someone else.”
“Love is not selfless, those who can commit to another fully, cherish who they are.”
“You’re just self-absorbed” Hamilton said.
“I think we’ve veered off the case long enough guys” Watson said.
Ryson stared at Hamilton than smiled a knowing smile.
“Your partner is competent Nathan,” He said looking at Hamilton, “but like a woman he’s emotional and dramatic. He likes to use dramatic terms like “Sordid” and “Savage”, attaching shock value where none exists. He has the ambition of a boy longing to be a firefighter and the beliefs of a man longing to be accepted by those of his culture.”
Hamilton went from a look of hostility to one of being dazed, than to Watson’s surprise he uncomfortably looked down and away like he was under a spotlight of interrogation. A gust of wind moved in as if to sooth Hamilton’s frayed ego. Watson’s chin rested under his folded hands as he glanced at Ryson who returned with a somewhat demure expression.
“Ok,” Watson said with a sigh, “So you said he was foolish, what do you mean by that? You think he might slip up soon or give himself away?”
“I believe so. But willingly. Strong ideas can’t stay silent for long; you can bet he’ll be preaching soon. By foolish also, I mean his sights are set far too high. His Ideal is one of social revolution by inspiring a rebellion of things that people depend on and that have been indoctrinated to them their whole lives. If he is to accomplish such a grand uprising, he’s gonna need more than thought provoking discussion among average people, he’s gonna need an army and anarchy.”
“I thought you said it was just a social awareness he was after.” Hamilton said.
“For now it is, yes. But as his power grows, so will his boldness.”
“Haven’t all revolutions just been the replacement of one corrupt government for another?” Watson asked.
“Sure, The Bolsheviks and Jacobins are an example of that, that’s why I said the destruction of the system is impossible as a government will always be present. But what a revolution, at least in its purest sense means, is causing a rift in the decadence of a culture. To destroy common life-oppressing ideas and allow for a rekindling of traditional ones or a construction of newer ones. This rift is what allows a society to understand itself better or worse.”
“No moral utopia is possible.” Said Hamilton.
“And that’s the point you’re missing, morality is just a figurehead for the stability of a society, it doesn’t figure into anything. All pursuits are about change.”
“You don’t believe in morality?” Hamilton asked amazed.
“As a necessity, but not for anything genuine.”
“You mean to say people can’t be civil and compassionate?”
“Yes, they can, but for themselves and those they empathize with. Morality, humanitarianism, are collective doctrines that make for a more cohesive conformity to empathize. A blind empathy with no reason.”
“I don’t think our revolutionary empathizes with his victims.” Watson said.
“Perhaps not. But he respects death.”Ryson replied.
“Maybe you should join him then.” Hamilton said.
“Not interested. The leaders lead, and the followers follow, I’m just here to understand it all.”
“Sounds pretty passive to me.” Hamilton said.
“Than if it’s action you want, you will get it from our revolutionary.”
“The kind of alacrity I mean doesn’t relate to violence.”
Ryson raised his eyebrows. “Than what does your definition of it imply? One of social convention? If so than changing society is not for you, you should just stick to being a cop.”
“So in other words, a person has to be evil in order to accomplish good.”
Ryson bowed his head sarcastically. “Very good, now you’re beginning to look past the obvious.”
“I’m not agreeing with you, if that’s what you think, I think that point of view makes for a psychotic person.”
“To someone who chooses not to question that’s an appropriate answer.”
“I question everything,” Hamilton said defensively, “I’ve been questioning you.”
“You’ve been trying to question me,” Ryson corrected, “and I’ve given you answers that are direct but of course unaccommodating to you.”
“Personally I think you’re just as fucked up as this killer is.” Hamilton said.
Ryson laughed and brushed his hair back. “Well agent Hamilton, thank you.”
“Speaking of the killer,” Watson said pertinently, “We’ve tried to identify him through ballistics and DNA, which has proved almost futile. Do you have any ideas how else we might find him?”
“This guy is beyond leaving those usual breadcrumbs of self-incrimination. A good way to look for him would be online. Have you tried discussion forums?”
Hamilton scoffed. “Do you know how many people are online?”
“Then narrow it down, search any and all websites having to do with subjects relating to social movements or sociology. And then keep an eye on the users and what they say. There’s a good chance he’s already preaching on some of these sites.”
Watson sighed, “Well, it’s a long shot, but it’s worth it.”
“I’d like to ask a serious question to you.” Hamilton said looking at Ryson.
“By all means.” He said making an open hand movement.
“Do you approve of what this Killer is doing?”
“No, but not because it’s wrong, but because it’s grandiose.”
“You don’t think what he’s doing is wrong? You don’t think that killing people is wrong?!”
“Settle down, I can see that you’re not used to having your simple-minded beliefs stripped of their pretention, but we are in a public place.”
“I think what Ryson means, is that the idea of something ‘bad’ is relative.” Watson said.
“That, and that we use terms of divinity to explain away things we can’t understand.”
“Terms of divinity?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes, God and Evil are some terms with no other meaning than to say something is contrary to what we understand.”
“The idea of ‘evil’ has no religious definition.” Hamilton said.
“Not literally, superstition correlates to religion. All ‘evil’ means is something that makes us feel unpleasant or disturbed.”
“Murder doesn’t disturb you?”
“Does it disturb you?” Ryson redirected.
“Some forms of murder are extremely disturbing.” Hamilton said.
“So by that rationale, it doesn’t always disturb you, just when it’s taken to extremes. Am I right?”
Hamilton laughed self-consciously as Ryson looked at him calculatedly underneath his bangs.
“What about the idea of Good?” Watson asked.
“That’s more meaningful because it holds more ground to our choices, whatever is good for us, is good. But any idea loses it’s meaning or at least most of it when it’s objectified by a collective agenda.” Ryson said.
“I think the idea of a greater good, is more of an ambiguous one. At least that’s been one of my qualms working in this field.” said Watson.
“Exactly, that’s an idea taken into subversion.” Ryson said. Then he looked at Watson like an old concerned friend. “I can see some ambivalence has grown recently.” He said.
Then Hamilton looked at Watson with some anticipation.
“Maybe I’m just getting old.” He said solemnly.
“Probably. You should take up chess.” Ryson said.
“I’d rather just drink at this point.” Watson said.
“Tell me, what will you do if you do catch this guy? Find another one? And what then?”
“That’s what we do,” Hamilton said, “And what do you do, besides having tits rubbed in your face at strip clubs?”
“I write for people who believe in nothing more than the exchange value of my ideas for capital.”
“So if you don’t like your Job, then maybe you should take up chess.”
“I did and found that writing is at the very least more productive. I pretend when I have to, that’s the adaptation process.”
“So have you been pretending with us this whole time?” Hamilton asked.
“I don’t pretend unless I have to, if I can avoid it, I will. Or maybe I just hate pretending period.”
“I know what you mean.” Hamilton said.
“Do you?”
“Sure, chess sounds pretty fucking great.”
Ryson laughed.
“Perhaps you could write something to my department about the freedom of social change.” said Watson.
“If I included the intentions of our so called ‘killer’, maybe they would deem me as an accessory.”
“I could probably pull some strings and make it a credible contribution to the subject of right and wrong, I’ve got some seniority.”
“I’d rather just stick to the girls at my club.”
“If he starts bombing buildings, then I’ll call you.” Watson said.
“If he manages to accomplish his disestablishment in its entirety, then you call your mother.”
“Okay, we should be on our way now.” Watson said.
The three of them rose in unison.
“It was good seeing you again.” Watson said. Ryson shook his hand. “Anytime he said, take care of yourself.”
Then Hamilton offered his hand but said nothing. Ryson shook it and stayed silent as well, their exchanged looks were of nothing gained or earned, but well-mannered. Ryson rolled his shoulders in his coat, turned and walked away. They both watched him departing for a moment with his hands in his coat pockets among the sheep, than they turned and began walking down the path back to their car.
Watson noticed a mother nearby struggling with a combative child. The child was having an apparently bad temper tantrum, crying and going limp and pulling away from the mother as she strained and pulled back. She was having a difficult time; the child was strong and determined not to comply. Watson tried to remember a time when he was as rebellious as that. He did.
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PostSubject: Re: The Revolutionaries The Revolutionaries EmptyThu Apr 05, 2012 5:14 pm

Interesting.

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PostSubject: Re: The Revolutionaries The Revolutionaries EmptySun Apr 15, 2012 6:01 pm

A Gift to Catharsis


The day was already broken into the fragments of yesterday. Today was a new day with new pain and new sunlight that beamed in through the windows of a bedroom long forgotten of life and beauty. Hunter Crow slowly awakened against his Will and squinted in the irritating light. He hated sunlight, he preferred clouds. It had been a long night of drinking and lamenting, he was a little dehydrated but he wasn’t hungover; he rarely ever was. He looked over at the girl Cindy who he had wooed at the bar he couldn’t remember the name of. She lay on her stomach naked, her mussed brunette hair covering her face which was buried in the pillow, as she slept peacefully. He rubbed his face, collected himself and climbed out of bed. His rough movements stirred Cindy awake. In the past he had always been caring enough with his lovers to get out of bed delicately as to not wake them, but now he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore. He put on a pair of boxer shorts and grabbed one of the many shirts strewn across the bed and floor, he didn’t bother with pants or brushing his teeth. He found a box of cigarettes, took one and lit up. Cindy stretched out a little and turned to Hunter exposing her breasts. She was young and pretty in her early twenties.
“Hey baby, what are you doing?” She asked groggily.
“Just go back to sleep.” He said.

He turned than and walked out of the bedroom. He flicked his ash on the floor. The house was a mess. Cigarettes butts lay scattered, ashtrays were full, old rotting petrified pieces of food next to unwashed plates and utensils and the floor was sticky. He hadn’t cleaned in weeks and had no intention of doing so. Well, he thought, at least there aren’t any pizza boxes which saved me from one cliché. Through the disorder one could see the house was indeed beautiful. The woods floors, if clean, would be gleaming and bright, there were attractive white sofas with plush ottomans, imported silk rugs, French doors and large windows with spacious rooms. It had a colonial style feel to it and would be ideal for social gatherings or any crafting work area if one wished to do something creative with it. Hunter didn’t want to do anything with it, but subsist in it. It was a dwelling place for him, nothing more. A place where he could spend his waning days in self-destruction and if possible regain some memories that he had treasured and long lost. The house and money had been an inheritance that he had neither asked for or deserved, or even really wanted. His whole life had been spent in failure, and dead-end jobs. He never attended college, and never made anything slightly above minimum wage. His life was wasted and so was his talent. The goal of escaping to a state of serenity where all the misery of his life and the endless struggle could be put to rest was, he thought, his only goal, and now here he was, after all the empty tedious years, surrounded by potential when his was gone. All he could do was endure it until it was over.

Why Sofia, why did you do this for me? What did you see in me? Why was I different to you?
He and her had shared so much together. All those long intimate conversations while she lay dying in her last days and hours in old age. He had opened up his heart to her and she had never violated anything that was in it. He loved her and she loved him, but why she had to give him everything she had tormented him.
He walked into the kitchen. He thought about a glass of water, but went for a beer instead. There was a time when he was health conscious, even to the point of excess. He had never drank so much in his life. Now he was used to it, the addiction. He took a long hit of the beer when he heard loud music from the bedroom. Cindy had apparently turned on the stereo. She was like all young girls, needing constant distraction.
“Turn that shit down!” yelled Hunter.
The volume stayed the same. He put his beer down and began walking back to the bedroom to deal with her, when the doorbell rang.
He went to the front door and opened it. It was Lacy and Justin, his brother and sister. Lacy was lanky with a demure appearance and Justin was a little stocky with boyish features. They stood side by side with somewhat concerned expressions. Hunter knew they were feigned however.
“What do you want?” He asked coldly.
His brother looked at him up and down. “You can’t even put on some pants? We’re your family for Christ’s sake.” Justin said.
Hunter ignored that, and walked back inside leaving the door open for them. They entered and followed him into the dining room. He took his beer back from the kitchen and took a seat at the table. They just stood there with their arms crossed looking around with judging eyes.
“Who’s here?” Lacy asked hearing the music in the bedroom.
“A whore I picked up last night. Now are you gonna sit down or what? You two look like you’ve stepped into a fucking assisted living facility or something.”
They sat down. They looked at him with contempt that he had grown all to accustom to being subjected to.
“Want a drink?”
“It’s eleven in the mourning.” Justin said.
“So you want one or not?”
“No we’re fine.”
Hunter finished his beer, got up and went back for another one. He returned and sat back down.
“Mom wanted us to come down here to talk to you. She’s wants to know why you haven’t helped her or us.” Lacy said.
“By help I gather you mean money.”
“Sofia never should have given you this.” Justin said.
“Sofia is dead.” Hunter said
“You’re the one who should be dead.” Lacy said.
“I am dead, just not in the way you want, but I’m working on it, don’t worry.”
Hunter took a long swig than slammed the bottle down. The music continued to blast in the bedroom.
“Hold on.” Hunter said. He stood up and walked back into the bedroom. He abruptly shut the stereo off. Cindy had come out of the shower and was standing in a towel in front of the bathroom mirror doing her makeup.
“Hey I was listening to that.” She said.
“Not anymore it’s annoying.”
“Is someone here?”
“Yes, it’s my stingy degenerate siblings.” He said.
“Oh! Your family is here, who is it?”
“Stop acting so fucking excited and just hurry up so you can meet them and see what human refuse is.”
“Okay, well if you want to talk to them I can wait a little bit.”
“Fuck that. If you’re in this house you’re gonna be a part of what goes on in it.”
“Why are you so pissed?” She asked.
“Just hurry up.”
Hunter walked back into the dining room and finished the remainder of his beer. Then he popped another one. He was in full drinking mode now.
“Now, where were we? So how have you been Justin? Still hoping to get ass fucked by that company you work for so you can get your bleeding promotion?” He said.
“Mom’s been crying and you haven’t even bothered to pick up the phone to call her.” Justin said.
“Her tears are for herself, not for anyone else. I'm immune to her shaming tactics.”
“You’re an asshole.” Lacy said
“Heh, you never were creative Lacy. I’ve been called worse things.”
“I’m surprised Sofia never called you anything bad.” She said.
Hunter took a long hit. “Don’t talk about Sofia.”
“She was your aunt that you had never seen or spoken to and yet you came around when she was dying to try to cash in.”Lacy said.
“And weren’t you off trying to cash in on you latest cum guzzling escapade with that jackoff painter and his pathetic reputation of a closet homosexual?”Hunter asked.
Justin shook his head in disgust, “I can’t believe Sofia did this.
What transpired between me and her you’ll never know. The fact that she named me the beneficiary was an unforeseen consequence of our relationship.” Hunter said.
“Have you even been to her grave recently?” Justin asked.
“What presumptuous fuckbags you two are. Have you jerkoffs been to her grave recently?” Hunter sneered.
Lacy than began to sob quietly. Justin placed his hand on her shoulder and gave Hunter a misty eyed glare.
“Sofia never should have given you this. Never.” He said.
“You mention Sofia’s name one more time and I’m gonna make your face more than what it is which isn’t much.” Hunter said.
“You would dare strike your brother?” Justin said wideyed.
Hunter laughed and took a long swallow of the beer.”Was that just an assumption that we share a loyalty of kin?”
Just then Cindy walked into the room with a cute courteous smile on her face that spoke of an ignorance of the situation. She was wearing a short skirt and her hair was still damp. She was a bit apprehensive but Hunter waved her in.
“Jerkoffs, this is Cindy the whore. Cindy the whore, these are my two jerkoff greedy siblings.”
Cindy’s smile disappeared entirely.
“I’m not a whore asshole, what the hell is your problem?!” She exclaimed.
“Haha, I take it this is your first time being faced with what you are.” Hunter said.
Lacy continued sobbing a bit more vocal now. Justin then stood up and straightened himself out. Hunter was a tall man and had already been in a few bar fights since his inheritance, he had never been a fighter but he adapted to his emotions and learned a few moves. He met Justin’s eyes and readied himself like he would with any stranger looking to handle business, but Justin was a bit shorter and had no genuine courage to take Hunter on. Instead he looked down to Lacy and back to Hunter.

“We need to go take care of Mom, and tell her that you you’ve forgotten all about her.” Justin said.
“You mean to bring her more pain. I didn’t know you we’re a sadist Justin, or maybe I did.” Hunter said.
“Why are you doing this to us?!” Lacy cried.
Hunter finished his beer and then hurled the bottle across the room with great force. It didn’t shatter but broke into two pieces and clinked and scattered across the floor. Cindy had backed against the wall shocked. Lacy looked up now, she was no longer crying.
“Well now there we go, all it took was beer bottle breaking to snap you trio of passive-aggressive pieces of shit out of your fake stupors!”
Lacy then stood up shuffling close to Justin as he held her, and then they made their way to the door. They didn’t look back at him.
“Come back anytime fuckbags! I’m having an orgy over her next weekend, tell your friends!” Hunter said.

They opened the door and slinked out and were gone. Hunter looked over at Cindy who was a little pale. He went back into the kitchen for another beer, but then for some reason decided on a glass of water instead. He poured it and then felt like going outside in the backyard. The backyard was large with manicured grass that had since over grown into weeds. There were some roses and orange blossoms and trees. He took a seat at the veranda that among all the other areas in the house, was still clean and well-kept. He sat there basking in the sunlight, when he heard Cindy approaching from behind. She moved in front of him. She was even prettier in the sunlight.

“Baby why did you call me a whore? I know you didn’t mean that.” She said.
“Of course I did.” Hunter said.
“You prick, I can see why your family hates you.”
“They don’t hate anyone, they just want things they don’t deserve and they try to use guilt to get it.”
“You have all this and it’s true, you don’t deserve it.” She said.
Hunter then took a gulp of his water and chucked the remainder of it right at Cindy’s blouse. She recoiled and stood there mouth hanging open in shock.
“You fucking asshole!” She screamed.
“Now go play wet tee shirt contest with the brain-dead frat boys at your college hangouts or wherever the fuck it is that you go to suck dick.”
She began kicking him in the leg. Hunter hardly felt the blows, he was used to pain. When she was done, she stomped off inside. He knew she would be gone soon. They all left eventually. He listened to the birds chirping and felt the wind and the warmth of the sun and his heart beating and the slow dull throb of the pain in his leg. He leaned back and closed his eyes not thinking about anything.




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PostSubject: Re: The Revolutionaries The Revolutionaries EmptySun Apr 22, 2012 3:59 pm

Regarding the first story,

the very first thing I noticed was how similar it's concept is to The Fountainhead: still, reminescing the parts of the dialogue said by Ryson I keep, for some reason, hearing "Roark".

The unlikely part of the story refers to the fact that an immoralist such as Ryson had a friend working in the FBI - but that's probably because I tend to think about all "lawmen" to be more like Hamilton, hopeless moralists, faithful servants of the established values, but most of all, blood hounds committing to their instinctual urge to run with the pack, hunt, chase and kill their prey.

Ryson is a typical calm-assertive Alpha, something rarely seen in humans, although rather spiritually old and exhausted - a failed natural leader.

Watson is a dangerous character, untrustworthy, cunning with potential ulterior motives. Considering the type of activity he chose for himself (being a cop) Ryson might be, presumably, keeping him as a friend as a way to keep an eye on him, as one should do with one's enemies. They might not be friends, but simply future adversaries, something they either don't know yet, or feel but are afraid to think about.

Hamilton is a WYSIWYG type, and needs no analysis. A tragic relief.

Overall, i'd give the story an A-. Wish that was just the first chapter.

Although the second story is also not bad, I was a lot less impressed by it and so didn't give it as much thought. Maybe later.
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