Another damned soul. Another death sentence. Another sanctioned undertaking for the reaper.
Calloused hands flex in malevolent anticipation, the interception of the circle nearly at hand.
Thirty minutes. No more, no less. The interception must occur as stated by he who dwells within us all.
Subtlety perceptible, yet undeniably present. A faint rhythm beckons the eater of souls, drawing him ever closer.
The signal that infects his mind is that of oblivion. The signal will cease, must cease. Unfathomable consequences await if the object he seeks is not silenced.
An unnatural tingle intoxicates his body, hardening muscles, preparing him for what lies ahead. Fate has brought him here, faith has abandoned him. So be it.
The manufactured simulacrum donning him is without flaw. To the world he is nothing more than a typical middle class man, a middle-aged man, a man awaiting the inevitable midlife crisis.
To the world that exists after this one he is not a man, he is far from being such a thing.
Pulsations inside of him increase, time to get this task over as quick as inhumanly manageable.
The fluctuating aura of the intended target is tangible to him as he leaves the parking lot on foot toward the recently renovated structure, which emits its electrical powered cascade of lights into the darkened atmosphere nauseatingly.
Standing just below six feet, the man attired in black jeans and a football jersey slowly makes his way across the heavily littered street as the neon signs of the Wantego nightclub buzz aloud in the night that surrounds him. Predatorily, he scans the seedy row homes adjacent to the boisterous establishment. He concludes that this is the appropriate place and the appropriate time.
The air is thick with the mephitic stench of the Delaware River. The waters fetid scent intoxicates his sinuses as he makes his way toward the large freshly painted red door positioned at the top of the stairs.
Sixteen people are performing various motions with their hands as they wave them through the air while chatting amongst themselves in line before him. Some have painstakingly embossed their bodies with tattoos, others have punctured countless holes in their person and fastened bedizen jewelry through the resulting openings.
Stolidly the man waits in the wavering aisle of humans, ever confident in his abilities. Two large numbers, 34, are embroidered on the back of his garment. They shine in response to the nervous multicolored lamps cast outside the doorway. He watches as an obese individual, donned in dark attire with black sunglasses on, reach out with his shovel-sized hands.
The barrel-chested door attendant is handed the money for the cover charge as another worker runs his hands along the nylon covered legs, bare waist and cleavage exposing top of the expectant woman.
Go ahead in sweetheart, voices the man in the shades as he slyly nods toward the entrance. A salivating voracious smirk becomes visible on his face for a flashing second. The man was smiling with his mouth, but the lines of his face held a deeper, more sardonic humor. Beneath that, behind the shaded glass donning his face, in his eyes, there was only coldness.
Slowly the line lessens until the person with the football jersey stands before the entryway.
Routinely, the bouncer pats him down as the customer hands over the twenty dollars necessary to gain entry.
Sunglass man grasps the money as he stares into the brown eyes of the individual alongside of him. Preseason is coming, Im gonna get a jersey like that myself. Gotta show pride for Philadelphia. Because after all, numerous denizens of this city have been marked for the blackened transaction. But Im sure you have already deduced that havent you.
No response is given from the man wearing number 34. He has never been one for meaningless chitchat. Yet he knows all to well what the last two sentences of the statement told him truly means.
Sunglass man turns his bald, size eight, head to the door. Silent and stern I see. Whatever works for you works for mecatch my drift. Go ahead bub, have a blast. The doorman pats the patron on the back with his right hand as he discreetly slips a piece of parchment with his left into the expectant mans palm.
Clasping the paper in his hand the man with the jersey shakes his head in approval. The large red door opens before him. Into the heavy smoke filled room he enters ever nearing his objective.
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