#all the dialogue was notated for me to reference. and the intentions behind each line too! drawing my own conclusions will be fun

[poptartmochi]

dmc youtube comments are either the pits of hell or the Greek forum of philosophy.. croikey

[ecotone99]

[HR] The Canvas

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO TOPICS FEATURING BLOOD, KNIVES, DESCRIPTIVE VIOLENCE, DESCRIPTIVE GORE, SADISM, SOCIOPATHIC THOUGHTS, AND OTHER THINGS THAT MAY TRIGGER ONE THAT HAS FACED TRAUMA INCLUDING THESE TYPES OF FEATURES IN THE PAST. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!

The scars are fresh and the blood was still splattered upon my face. Oh, how I miss the sight of myself in such a way. My hair, which was to my shoulders, twisted and locked and matted, is now neatly cropped close to my skull. I don’t look nearly like my image in this file, however I must play them. If they... if they manage to add up the quantities, I’m dead.

Deep in thought, Jake glares at the file, his head cocked slightly so the blaring sun in the window misses its trajectory and lands slightly left of his eyes.

“Jake? Have you got an idea of how you are going to task this? This man... he’s cold blooded. Notorious for not only assassinating, but enjoying his deeds.”

“Huh!?”

Startled, James slams the paper on the mahogany desk facedown and swivels his neck to look at the person who had addressed him.

“Deputy, I urge you to give me a warning next time you approach me like that. Take a seat.”

Jake turns to look at the man in front of him, a small framed man in his early thirties. His eyes have a discernible sparkle, and, despite the wiry look to his body, he seems somewhat athletic.

Meticulously plotting his endeavor to hide within his mind, Jake blankly stares at the deputy before cautiously commencing speech.

They don’t know me. They don’t know how intimately I held in my heart each murder. They don’t know the intricate steps taken to plan each deed, each foolproof shield to ensure that the slaughters took place without being incarcerated.

“Deputy, I believe a criminal such as this would reside next to a state highway. Perhaps I-70 would be a good option for him. If he wanted to kill without being caught, the highway is the best place for him to stage accidents.”

Jake merely chuckles to himself. Despite the heavy hints that he dropped as to he himself being a former assassin, the dense deputy before him just nods ignorantly.

“I plan to begin the search tomorrow,” Jake states, his eyes wandering to the window and sharply averting back as the sun stings his eyes.

“Yes sir,” the deputy sighs.

“And, sir, would you need any aid in this search?”

“Deputy, please leave your sheer ignorance at your house next time,” Jake states with a cold glare.

“I do not need any help. I can manage this myself, as I only have the search warrant. If the government spots us both searching in closed off and territorial areas, we may both be apprehended.”

What a fool. Clearly my notations are obvious lies, yet the dense fellow doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of the line between fact and fiction. This is why I have entrusted him as my deputy. I can get away with anything with this dense fool sauntering next to me like an unknowing donkey. Hell, I could walk out on the street and murder someone in cold blood right before his weary little eyes and nonetheless, he would simply eject his hilarious giggle and ask me if the man was a criminal. Then I’d gruffly reply yes, and the man would skip away, leaving me to my own amusement over the dead body.

The deputy saunters to the other side of the office and tugs on the doorknob momentarily before realizing that it was one build to respond to a push rather than a pull. At peace with solitude once again, Jake smooths a lined paper on his desk and grasps a ballpoint pen, the tip quivering in synchronization with his unnerved arm.

As the clock announces the termination of the workday, Jake gathers his items and forcefully stuffs them in an oversized bookbag, subsequently slinging it over his shoulder and carelessly lumbering out of the building. A crisp chill hits him, yet in spite of the crowd pulling their jackets close to their chests and shivering, he smiles and allows the wind to whip his bare skin. He runs his fingers over top of a recently sharpened butter knife, folded neatly as a contraption within his pocket. The blade makes a simple, clean cut through his finger and he raises the extremity, analyzes it, and smiles with approval.

“Sheriff? Perhaps you should head home for the night instead of… idling there with no notion as to what you’re doing,” chuckles a man as he strolls past a nearby park. Jake raises his fist and narrows his eyes in the man’s direction, but reproaches his actions and comes to a standstill.

“Dear citizen, maybe you ought to show some respect for your local Sheriff. You don’t know what they are capable of,” Jake mutters the second half of the statement under his breath, mentally chortling at the reference to his questionable past.

Jake hastily shuffles over to his flat, a small one bedroom, one bathroom combination of a house, with a barely functional kitchen. One ought to ponder whether said Sheriff shall be anxious over the newfound high-profile case, enlisting him to find, arrest, and execute himself. However, Jake eases himself onto the recliner situated midway through his living room, relaxed as one could be. He laughs nearly maniacally when a television ad mentions the dangers of hiring a hitman for detective work.

They don’t know what I am capable of. A rap on the door shall be turned cold, a spitfire of dialogue silenced. They have nothing against me. After all, I am their protector. Any charges against the Sheriff tend to be overlooked. As a matter of fact, the old Sheriff himself was a hearty gambler, his crimes overlooked twice before his impeachment.

Jake groans in effort as he sits up to power off the television. He saunters past the miniature refrigerator and helps himself to a serving of rich, deep chocolate pudding before descending the frigid cement stairs into his basement.

“D-don’t hurt m-me! P-please I beg you!” A man groans with a labored exhale tailing it. Jake grabs the man by the collar and smiles nefariously.

“It won’t hurt a bit, my friend.”

Jake smiles. He hadn’t considered the sheer pleasure he would feel from returning to his questionable ways as an illegal assassin. Perhaps he shall abandon his imprisonment as Sheriff and continue his prior exhausted career. Jake pulls the hilt of his knife off and lets it clatter to the ground. Muffled screams eject from the man’s smothered mouth, his eyes watering profusely. Jake internally chides himself for executing such a careless and, frankly, lazy slaughtering. He dissaproves of having the victim pass before he or she has witnessed peak torture, however in this case, no anger drives his decision.

Nearly at the verge of feeling empathy, an emotion Jake deeply disapproves of and believes is a wretched and unwanted surge of human weakness, he presses the blade of the knife to the most important vascular connection in the man’s neck. Once the connection is cut, the man would die a rapid death, with so much as a miniscule flash of agony before the passing. Jake exhales with an elaborate chuckle, and intently watches as the blade cuts through the flesh. Blood spurts out and stains his shirt, laden with colorful splotches meant to represent paint - and to mask the proficient staining of blood.

With a brief smile, and confirmation that his plot has been put into action, Jake speaks into the air.

“You shall now be my canvas. My infamous savior. My replica and my clone. Look at this paper.”

Waving the paper before the corpse, Jake rambles on about the direct resemblance between the look of his younger self and the middle aged man splayed out on the ground before him.

“I will transfer you to the side of I-70, preferably near a recent accident site. Some quick makeup shall fix the few differentiations from my old appearance that you have,” Jake chuckles.

“Then, you will lay there, a lifeless corpse, rotting away as if the perpetrator himself had died in a crash- during a careless attempt at assasination. Subsequent to finding you, I will enlist my deputies and lieutenants to deem the body dead and lift the case. The town will be relieved by the death of the notorious assassin. Little do they know… Essentially, you will be my paint canvas. I will sculpt you so you appear to be me… the older me, similar to the one on the wanted paper, but simply with longer facial hair to signify and affirm the truth that the picture was captured nearly five years ago. Once you are discovered, I am home free.”

Jake laughs maniacally and looks to the ceiling in triumph.

“Frankly, this was the easiest plot I have ever carried out. Thank you for making it hilariously simple for me. Now I will be liberated to live free of fear. Free of discovery. Free of apprehension. My past shall be behind me and, at the same time manifest within me more than it ever has.”

He paces around the room slowly, going through the processes of erasing the evidence from the room. He lays the corpse on a trash bag strewn across the ground, and comes to a brief thought.

“You are not only my canvas, but a canvas that shall be transformed into a metaphorical masterpiece.”

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