Post by Christopher Savage on Dec 23, 2010 16:21:15 GMT -5
There was just something about a sunset that never failed to make him sigh in complete contentment. Forget the glistening colors, the hush that fell over the land as that glowing orb slowly sank below high peaks, and the way the earth just lit up as each ray of light floated down onto its hardened surface; it was the smell that captured his heart.
The smell of a new start; of the chance for a new beginning.
…Or, in his case, yet another freaking day to do the exact same thing that he always did.
Yee-frickin-haw.
“Hey, buddy, move it!” A voice yelled from somewhere behind him, followed by the loud honk of a car horn. Ah, the lovely sound of New York City. “Move it, or I’m gonna run you down!”
Turning his head to look at the owner of the very large truck currently pointing itself at his body- standing in the middle of the road as it was so that its owner could watch the sun set behind the high buildings until it reached the peak of its cloudy throne- he could only shake his head sadly. As the truck inched itself forward, he took a few steps toward the sidewalk opposite him, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks and watched as the vehicle slowly trudged down the almost completely empty road.
Gods. Sometimes, it just didn’t pay to get up in the morning.
And on the 600 mornings before this one.
Standing taller than the average bear, the man- dressed in a simple white suit, the shirt half unbuttoned to reveal evidence of nasty scars that littered a dark chest- stood out against the dark colors and skimpy wear of his fellow pedestrians. He reached a hand up to rub at his bearded chin, looking up at the sky as an airplane flew passed by with a pair of incandescent grey eyes.
Who would have thought that a civilization born out of bloodshed, cannibalism, dirt and distrust could build such cities? Such structures that stood so tall, they could blot out the moon itself? It just never ceased to amaze him; the sheer ingenuity of a race of people who were seemingly born to kill.
People, he was quite happy to note, that were exactly like him.
Pausing to buy a paper from one of the many corner stalls, he made his way slowly to a nearby park bench, reclining on the splintered wood with yet another sigh of complete contentment.
It was the start of a new day, a new chance. Would he use it wisely, as the philosopher would ask? Would he help the sick, feed the hungry and give charity to the poor?
…Or would he do exactly what he was doing now: read the front page of the New York Times, and absently wonder when and where yet another Hunter was going to try to cut off his fool head. Really now, he should listen to his secretary when she cautioned him to bring an armed guard when he felt the need to walk the streets alone…but it was just so cliché! Given that he’d spent the last fifty years on his own, working the criminal underworld until it knew him intimately, all of this ‘guard the King!’ crap was getting on his damn nerves.
He couldn’t even snag a willing red head without a whole bunch of gasps and starts, fer chrissakes. Sure, he tried to make sure that his people didn’t attract unwarranted attention from the local Stakes (a pet name for the Hunters) by eating their neighbors…but hell, that didn’t mean HE had to become a freaking vegan.
He was the King, for crying out loud. So, why did he feel like such a damn prisoner?