Fickle
13th May 2004, 03:39
Let's see if any of the writers out there would like to try and keep this story running until it meets some sort of conclusion. Just try not to cop out some shit ending or I'll have to find you and harm you.
-----***-----
The pistol lay dark and black beside Greg in the passenger seat, the rain from outside reflecting shades of grey onto the black barrel. Greg glanced at it when he wasn't driving too fast in the sheets of rain that beat a fast roll on the car's roof. The Windshields' squeaching and squelching was the only sound except the radio, turned down low playing James Brown. Occasionally, there was a grunt or shifting sound from the backseat but that was expected.
The Blonde lay across the seat, her hands bound under her chin, her mouth covered over with the grey of duct tape. She was crying silently, and Greg felt a little better. Once they got into thier head they'd been kidnapped, there was only two ways they'd go: Calm or Thrashing. He was glad she had calmed down. He didn't want to damage that pretty face.
She hadn't said much when he had grabbed her outside the grocery store, smashing the paper bag from her fingers and watching the bunch of oranges fall out and break. Oranges rolling everywhere, the gallon of milk smashing and splattering his shoes. She was smart, a survivor, Greg supposed. She had tried to bite him, kick him, so forth. He had grabbed her right arm with his right hand and twisted it, watching constantly for anyone close by, perhaps waiting in thier car for a hubby and witnessing the kidnapping of the heir to a fortune. He had bent the arm back swiftly, heard it pop once, and she squealed in pain and fear against his thick hand.
"Shuuush." He had whispered, "I can break this arm in a split second, and it'll just be more uncomfortable where you're going. You want to set still, or you want I should tear your arm right out of it's socket?" She had stilled almost immediately.
Once they had gotten into the car and her hands had been tied to each other and then wrapped around her neck to prevent her from get resourceful, though, she had decided fighting was a good idea. She thrashed and fought her bindings but only ended up on the floor behind the front seats.
That had been about four hours ago, and in Vermont. Now they were in Massachusetts and it was raining. Raining wasn't really a good word for it, though. Raining was when everything not covered got wet. This was something different. This was an Act of God. Water poured as if from a giants bucket upon the world it seemed, and twice hidden puddles had nearly floundered Greg and his hostage from the road and into rocky cliff sides or deep embankments. How ironic, to nail the biggest gig you'd ever gotten and die when it was nearly complete.
Greg wasn't the boss of the trio that was taking this girls family for nearly four million dollars ransom, but he was an even partner. He smiled and looked at the gun he hadn't had to use, and wondered if he should keep it to protect his interests once he got to New York.
-----***-----
The pistol lay dark and black beside Greg in the passenger seat, the rain from outside reflecting shades of grey onto the black barrel. Greg glanced at it when he wasn't driving too fast in the sheets of rain that beat a fast roll on the car's roof. The Windshields' squeaching and squelching was the only sound except the radio, turned down low playing James Brown. Occasionally, there was a grunt or shifting sound from the backseat but that was expected.
The Blonde lay across the seat, her hands bound under her chin, her mouth covered over with the grey of duct tape. She was crying silently, and Greg felt a little better. Once they got into thier head they'd been kidnapped, there was only two ways they'd go: Calm or Thrashing. He was glad she had calmed down. He didn't want to damage that pretty face.
She hadn't said much when he had grabbed her outside the grocery store, smashing the paper bag from her fingers and watching the bunch of oranges fall out and break. Oranges rolling everywhere, the gallon of milk smashing and splattering his shoes. She was smart, a survivor, Greg supposed. She had tried to bite him, kick him, so forth. He had grabbed her right arm with his right hand and twisted it, watching constantly for anyone close by, perhaps waiting in thier car for a hubby and witnessing the kidnapping of the heir to a fortune. He had bent the arm back swiftly, heard it pop once, and she squealed in pain and fear against his thick hand.
"Shuuush." He had whispered, "I can break this arm in a split second, and it'll just be more uncomfortable where you're going. You want to set still, or you want I should tear your arm right out of it's socket?" She had stilled almost immediately.
Once they had gotten into the car and her hands had been tied to each other and then wrapped around her neck to prevent her from get resourceful, though, she had decided fighting was a good idea. She thrashed and fought her bindings but only ended up on the floor behind the front seats.
That had been about four hours ago, and in Vermont. Now they were in Massachusetts and it was raining. Raining wasn't really a good word for it, though. Raining was when everything not covered got wet. This was something different. This was an Act of God. Water poured as if from a giants bucket upon the world it seemed, and twice hidden puddles had nearly floundered Greg and his hostage from the road and into rocky cliff sides or deep embankments. How ironic, to nail the biggest gig you'd ever gotten and die when it was nearly complete.
Greg wasn't the boss of the trio that was taking this girls family for nearly four million dollars ransom, but he was an even partner. He smiled and looked at the gun he hadn't had to use, and wondered if he should keep it to protect his interests once he got to New York.