" Twos days after Westing's pharmaceuticals had been broken into, a dozen more warehouses had been sacked. The court was flooded with a tsunami of evidence, so much so that it had Charles Westing fleeing to Mexico along with the victim's compensation checks. Furious, the unpaid people began negotiating with up and coming drug-lords, scheming an elaborate plan to send a hit out on dear Charles. He was found dead within the hour, but it turns out the company had tanked half a year ago and the lost funds resulted in the defective drugs, so the people are still not getting paid. 

     The Shut Up and Pay, anti-protest organization quickly dispersed signage around the city in an attempt to ward off any riots before they began. But they failed, leaving one area untouched. The Take Up Spacers, quickly infiltrated and are growing exponentially in numbers as the minutes tick by." The news broadcast echoes throughout the lifeless street. The local business guild had voted this morning to close the right side of the street, so that the left half could have equal business. Part of the newly amended Work Together Act. Which also claims that people must buy half their bag of grapes from two different stores to insure that there are no monopolies on fresh produce after the Shaw-Mart/Tarford fiasco. 

     "Oh-no. We need to cut the feed!" Gunshots and threats ring out from the speakers. "Garret your fired!" The report yells over the chaos, which is quickly replaced by classical music. "We're sorry for confusion everyone, someone had mistakenly aired the trailer for next years film." 

    The Dustman rips the speaker's wires from the plug, discreetly tucked beneath the newest model of turf. He glances up at the lamp-post and waves, before throwing the expensive piece of technology on the ground. Once he's finished disassembling the media, The Dustman enters an old furniture store. There's no light on, and the closed sign is hanging crooked the door. He quickly crushes the sensor beside the door with his foot. 
    
    "Good-day!" The store owner calls out from the back. ""We've done a bit of remodeling so the mirror's-"

     The Dustman merely nods and walks knowingly to were the mirrors are located.
   
     "Of course, you already knew that." The elder man grumbles. "Hey! Before you go, some skinny fella dropped this off you a couple hours ago. Said it was urgent." 

     The Dustman turns around on his heels, and snatches the envelope. Tearing it open, newspaper clippings fall to the ground. There's an array of information to be deduced from the topics. Articles of his resent tasks, a handful of ads he has purposefully overlooked and a few images of people he's been considering as a target. 

     "Do you know who left this?" The Dustman demands, his voice deep and authoritative. 

     "I-ah- no. Some young man, probably a few years younger then yourself." The owner replies, taken back by the other's sudden shift in demeanor. 

     "Very well." He removes his sunglasses and looks in the mirror. 

     The disregarded clippings swirl around the ground and he is gone. 

     "Could have picked up his mess." The old man grumbles. 

 Shadows are stealthier at night.

Incorporate three of the following:

bloody kisses

music

hallelujah

dead trees

cracked pavement

a window which won't open

an old calendar

 

The sound of the vintage record player, some underrated Russian composer drifts out unto the empty streets through the backdoor that's left swinging in the gentle breeze. Occasional gusts creep through the kitchen. Like intruding phalanges ruffling a calendar dated a few months ago. Pages are scattered about the room, matted to the floor with rain from the last storm and congealing blood.

An old birthday card tugs free from grim and flutters out the door. Weaving haphazardly around the street, caught mid-flight by a gloved hand. It pulsates in the hand, longing for freedom once again as it's message is violated under intruding eyes. Til its crushed between two indifferent fingers and discarded once again imprisoned in various fluids and matter mantling the street.

The gloved being moves on towards the empty house, whose belongings have trashed this portion of the street. He walks with purpose, altering everything in his path, without touching a thing. Neglected shrubs and tangling grass blades seemingly wilt beneath his cold gaze.

He slams the beckoning door shut, causing photo frames to slip from the wall and shatter. The room embraces it's latest intruder, curtains stretching out caress him arm, only to be torn from their rods. With control force, board-lining on anger he attempts to open the window nearest to him, with the intent of dulling the offensive smell. The glass does not budge. There's bloody hand prints all over the window, he's momentarily caught off balance at his blatant over sight.

The stair case is old, in need of a list full of repairs that will never be tended to. It shifts and groans reluctantly supporting his weight. The second floor is slightly different than the first. The orchestra music still emanates through out the house, but its off beats are dusted with another sound.

The door at the end of the hallway is left ajar. There's anther new sound, something is disturbed and presumably falls from a shelf. The Hallelujah Chorus rings out from room. He picks up his pace and shoves the door open.

On the middle of the once white carpet, now a ghastly red lays two withering figures. Are creatures of some sort, something mangled and alive in all the wrong ways. He clinches his fists, it is time.

The things do not acknowledge his presence perhaps are not even aware.

Withdrawing a lighter from his pocket, he slips off a glove and flicks it open. The flame emerges and dances in approval of being temporarily unleashed. It stretches, folding itself over to graze the tip of his finger, prompting him to terminate its presence.

The creature, with a decomposing woman's face shrieks as its pulled from it's bloody lip-lock and begins salivating, teeth snapping at the flesh wrapped around it's neck. With a quick muscle contraction it's head rolls to the ground. The other body responds differently cowering beneath the man's formidable presence. He bludgeons this one back to death shattering its skull.

The flame returns, and clings to the ugly flowered curtains. It spreads hungrily, desperate for anything it can consume within its reach. Expanding its territory until the flame owns it all.

The house burns to the ground. He swipes his finger through the ashes and wipes it off on the left shoulder of his jacket and left. 

 "There lays a graveyard of ships just beyond these hills." The tour guide recites monotone.

 The building is dark. Dark and empty. Save for miniscule laser beams whose reflection is nothing more then a glimpse in the stainless steel moulding along the office suite. Though these seemingly infinitesimal rays of light are highly lethal, top of the line corporate security. Containing enough (beam) to sever one's limb cleaning in half. It is this sole reason one a simple hit-man could not be hired. 

 You know besides the reoccurring swine dreams the lightening bolt incident has had the most wonderful impact on my life. I became a superstar, quite literally and figuratively. My flesh was glowing like nuclear radiation in some low budge propaganda cartoon they used to play on Sundays. And people all over the town knew my name from the local news. 
(Lightening Bolt Man)

 The dreams had begun suddenly, and potentially have a mysterious correspondence to the lightening bolt that struck me last week. Supposedly there is a study pertaining to the idea of whether or not random acts of a vengeful God can give one super powers or some shit. Apparently I'm in touch with swine, conspiring swine of the worst kind.