The sun sets, casting its shadow from the Willis Tower to the nearby rural expanses of Wisconsin. Adorned in a blue bandana, Cyrus trails the couple as the stuttering and wheezing 1967 Chevy Impala pulls into the driveway of the desolate 108 Baphmet Drive. Despite the fact that his convertible lags dozens of yards behind, he can hear the muffled shouts, one masculine, the other, more feminine, penetrating his eardrums like a lance piercing the gaps between a knight’s armor into the soft, vulnerable interior.
“Oh, Christ. Not this again!” the man bellows as the car slows to a halt.
“You know you’ve had this coming for a long time,” the woman’s voice creaked through the car.
Cyrus, forced to pull into an empty lot far from the house as to avoid being caught, decides to use the spare moment to attempt to compose himself. Despite the imminent danger, he knows this is what he has to do to get the job. Just take care of this pair, and I’m good for a while, he thought. Some of the last remaining sunlight of the day trickles down, highlighting the shard of white, dead skin from the corner of his thumbnail. The youth tweezes at it with his incisors until only the pink, partially developed skin tissue occupy its space.
Thirty minutes passes. Sweating, Cyrus decides that it is a bad idea to wait till night to finish the task. Sure, he’d have stealth on his side. But so would his adversaries. He decides the time is now. Waiting will only prolong this torturous interim.
The youth jumps out of the car, Glock in one holster and a dagger in the other. As he closes the distance between himself and the house, he spontaneously pats both pockets. Sometimes he can swear that he feels the space is empty.
Finally, he arrives at the torn-up backdoor. He takes a few deep breaths. In and out, in and out, he repeats mentally. At long last, he creaks open the door. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn! They had to have heard me now, he wails internally. Wait…
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” the man from the Impala squawks.
“Oh, so you think you’re innocent, don’t you?” The female voice echoes through the house, carrying out into the yard where Cyrus is standing.
Okay, so they’re in a fight right now. They probably didn’t hear me, the boy thinks. Better seize the opportunity and get it over with while they’re distracted.
He goes on in. Beer cans and cigarette butts are strewn around the carpet, where the television is delivering the daily forecast. The couple seems completely enamored in their brawl. The youth hears smashes and thuds coming from upstairs. Maybe everything that falls down eventually rises, after all. This is the moment.
Cyrus’s eyes dart around for the staircase. Once he finds the stairs lying at the end of the hallway outside the living room, he cannot think of anything else. Just get the job done, just get the job done, just get the job done. The screams pierce his ears. He pats his holsters. Only one thing lies ahead for him, and he knows it.
The boy makes his way up the staircase. They have to be too busy fighting to notice me. Right? God, I don’t know. He can see his vision shake from his blood pulsing through his veins like a bullet train.
Still, got to remain silent, no matter how hard it is. Just drop in and drop out.
He opens the door at the peak of the stairs.
There they are. He sees a young, hairy man clad in a crimson hoody to match his scarlet shoes, facing his girlfriend adorned in a maroon dress. Wooden pieces of what seems to be a chair are scattered in a corner. Seems that whoever that chair was intended for was able to dodge it.
The boy pats his holster for the last time. They haven’t even noticed him! He feels his Glock and takes it out, hands quaking. He’s hardly able to aim with his hands not even remotely close to stable and the two circling around each other.
But, it doesn’t really matter.
“Looks like this Crip is done for,” a voice pierces his ear from behind.
A knife plunges into the youth’s back, twists, and is removed like a key exiting a lock. Another follows suit. Meanwhile, the “couple” breaks out their guns shoots towards the boy. The youth feels holes propel through his shoulders.
“Looks like a new guy. Probably on his initiation or something,” the crimson-suited man points out.
“Yeah. Fell for a simple ambush,” the woman replies.
Blood pouring into his lungs, Cyrus lacks the air to gasp. All he has energy for is to look upwards toward the Blood standing over him. He squeezes the trigger.
The Crip taken care of, the four thugs take the body down and burn the cadaver, and remove all traces that a newbie ever died in the house. All this because of a blue bandana.