Location: Holiday house, Ocean grove
External noise: Crappy television news, Big Bang Theory, shark documentaries, and the first 5 minutes of Jaws.
I walk the streets of a city, past nameless faces and faceless names. My gaze is caught by none; no-one catching mine. I take a seat, and only then begin to observe, to watch, to enquire: Who the hell are there people? Why are they here, where are they going, what are they doing? Why don't they stop for a while; and people-watch with me? I have a job to be doing, but as I look at my watch I decide I have time. Time to watch the people; time to observe life. My job has more to do with ending life than preserving it; but perhaps through my observations I can reconcile with it.
A slim girl, light red hair untouched by dye or products, rushes past. What is she doing? Is she visiting someone, perhaps?She clutches a large bag, beige and unremarkable, but for its immense size. What is in the bag? Perhaps a gift? Schoolwork? It reminds me of a bag carried by my father once, containing medical equipment to maintain a recent wound. I settle on this idea, it appealing to my more morbid sense; but before I can make any more inroads into fabricating for her a fictional background she disappears from the mall.
I seek out another target, spotting a dark man in a light suit, eyes concealed by expensive sunglasses. He has an impressive build, like that of a bodyguard or a boxer, but my mind decides he's deserving of higher regard than that. This man, I decide, is here as an enforcer, a representative of some monumental secretive body. He answers an expensive mobile phone, enhancing the illusion, his words drowned out by the hubbub of the crowd. Another suited man approaches, and as the dark man in the light suit continues to talk soundlessly he hands this man, pale in a dark suit, a small package from the pocket of his jacket. I smile, for my description has continued to perfect itself. Could this be a drop, perhaps an exchange of payment? Instructions from faceless overlords? I smirk with the appropriateness of it all, but at the same time mourn that the man's work may never be complete.
My attention shifts again, to a woman dressed in black pants and a Black Flag t-shirt. Her punk attire strikes a chord with me, but I immediately notice the incongruities in her appearance. She is perhaps 35 or 40, but is dressed like an angsty teenager. I decide she must be in a band, or attached to one in some way. Perhaps she manages a club or a music store. Her powerful walk and presence indicates that she is definitely not an employee, or caught eternally in her teenage years. As the woman stands and watches a busker cover Jeff Mangum, I decide she is a music critic, working for a magazine or a website, and taking in the local scene. And with that definition I am satisfied.
Looking at my watch, I sigh. The time has come for me to go to work. I take out my own phone, an expensive model like that of the dark man in the light suit. I input a number, known only to a select few, and within seconds I can feel a rumbling beneath my feet. The sounds of the mall stop, moments before a sound far greater than any of them overwhelms all. Within moments, flames rain from the sky. My work is done; my life complete; and I can only hope that the red-haired girl; the dark-suited man and the punk lady could obtain as much satisfaction as I had.
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Come on; even I didn't see that coming.
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