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The rain poured from the jet-black sky, each raindrop innocently falling to explode under its own weight as it collides with the harsh, unforgiving concrete jungle beneath. Within this modernised city a history was being made, although nobody knew it. Not the drivers of the cars on the busy road, silhouetted by the headlights of the car behind, nor the homeless men huddles around a flaming oil drum. Just one man knew what was going to happen and he was the man who would be the sole cause of it all.
Mark sat in the middle of the carpeted floor of his penthouse hotel room. He was looking at a large, unfolded piece of paper and slowly nodded and muttered softly to himself. His plans were foolproof and his mission was nearly complete. He rose from the floor and manoeuvred over to a coat rack from which he plucked a full-length black coat. Once on, he opened the hotel door and firmly clicked it shut before pacing the lamp-lined corridor towards the elevators.
A black Mercedes pulled up outside the International Bank Of America and Mark stepped out and walked up the central steps to the heavy-duty glass doors. Mark knocked on the doors and the night porter unlocked a single door, allowing Mark to move inside the building. He walked up several flights of stairs until he reached an office with a wooden door bearing a plaque that read, “Mark Bolton” in thick copperplate text.
Once inside Mark turned on his desk lamp and lit a cigarette that he smoked pleasurably. He reclined in his comfy leather chair and casually checked his gold Rolex. It was quarter to eleven. He still had some time to spare. He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a large device that he places squarely on the top of his mahogany table. He lovingly touched the intricately placed wires that had taken him months of hard labour to get right. But this time it was perfect.
Mark carefully flicked a switch on top of the device and a display screen on it lit up. He entered “15:00” and pressed another button that set the numbers counting down. He briskly walked out of the office, ensuring the door was firmly closed behind him; he quickly trotted down the stairs and out of the heavy-duty glass doors. He clambered inside his car and drove hurriedly across town to his penthouse suite in the Armada Hotel. Mark rushed to his balcony that overlooked the darkened city. From his balcony, Mark had a clear view of the International Bank Of America and he gazed intently at its grey outline; watching and waiting.
All at once, a bright white flash erupted from one window of the building. Glass spewed from the smoking outlines of the window frames as the explosion spread throughout the building. Grey smoke filtered through the black sky, highlighted by the prevalent moonlight. Mark watched, unflinching, with a sly smile across his face. In a world that sought equality, he was the leader. Equality could only be brought about when there was no debt and no credit. At dawn, when the smouldering rubble was the news topic on every channel, the world would be equal once again.
Mark sat in the middle of the carpeted floor of his penthouse hotel room. He was looking at a large, unfolded piece of paper and slowly nodded and muttered softly to himself. His plans were foolproof and his mission was nearly complete. He rose from the floor and manoeuvred over to a coat rack from which he plucked a full-length black coat. Once on, he opened the hotel door and firmly clicked it shut before pacing the lamp-lined corridor towards the elevators.
A black Mercedes pulled up outside the International Bank Of America and Mark stepped out and walked up the central steps to the heavy-duty glass doors. Mark knocked on the doors and the night porter unlocked a single door, allowing Mark to move inside the building. He walked up several flights of stairs until he reached an office with a wooden door bearing a plaque that read, “Mark Bolton” in thick copperplate text.
Once inside Mark turned on his desk lamp and lit a cigarette that he smoked pleasurably. He reclined in his comfy leather chair and casually checked his gold Rolex. It was quarter to eleven. He still had some time to spare. He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a large device that he places squarely on the top of his mahogany table. He lovingly touched the intricately placed wires that had taken him months of hard labour to get right. But this time it was perfect.
Mark carefully flicked a switch on top of the device and a display screen on it lit up. He entered “15:00” and pressed another button that set the numbers counting down. He briskly walked out of the office, ensuring the door was firmly closed behind him; he quickly trotted down the stairs and out of the heavy-duty glass doors. He clambered inside his car and drove hurriedly across town to his penthouse suite in the Armada Hotel. Mark rushed to his balcony that overlooked the darkened city. From his balcony, Mark had a clear view of the International Bank Of America and he gazed intently at its grey outline; watching and waiting.
All at once, a bright white flash erupted from one window of the building. Glass spewed from the smoking outlines of the window frames as the explosion spread throughout the building. Grey smoke filtered through the black sky, highlighted by the prevalent moonlight. Mark watched, unflinching, with a sly smile across his face. In a world that sought equality, he was the leader. Equality could only be brought about when there was no debt and no credit. At dawn, when the smouldering rubble was the news topic on every channel, the world would be equal once again.
Well done locky and urrm yeh that other one that put effort into writing and stuff... *mumbles*
lol :-D
The rain poured from the jet-black sky, each raindrop innocently falling to explode under its own weight as it collides with the harsh, unforgiving concrete jungle beneath. Within this modernised city a history was being made, although nobody knew it. Not the drivers of the cars on the busy road, silhouetted by the headlights of the car behind, nor the homeless men huddles around a flaming oil drum. Just one boy knew what was going to happen and he was the man who would be the sole cause of it all.
It was 10:28, he'd just got into class. He could feel his stomach mixing the bean he'd eaten at breakfast. The clock touched half past. It was time. Mike let one slip. It was silent but violent. He walked out of the room as the teacher entered.
ten minuteslater, the room was quiet. Mike was all for equality. And stuff.
It was 10:28, he'd just got into class. He could feel his stomach mixing the bean he'd eaten at breakfast. The clock touched half past. It was time. Mike let one slip. It was silent but violent. He walked out of the room as the teacher entered.
ten minuteslater, the room was quiet. Mike was all for equality. And stuff.
That would be it.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> This sounds vaguely familiar.
Fight Club?
> This sounds vaguely familiar.
Fight Club?
Kyz you have stolen several precious minutes of my short life. I want them back.
Interesting, but we do have a story forum you know.
This sounds vaguely familiar.
Equality has a price.. or not.
The rain poured from the jet-black sky, each raindrop innocently falling to explode under its own weight as it collides with the harsh, unforgiving concrete jungle beneath. Within this modernised city a history was being made, although nobody knew it. Not the drivers of the cars on the busy road, silhouetted by the headlights of the car behind, nor the homeless men huddles around a flaming oil drum. Just one man knew what was going to happen and he was the man who would be the sole cause of it all.
Mark sat in the middle of the carpeted floor of his penthouse hotel room. He was looking at a large, unfolded piece of paper and slowly nodded and muttered softly to himself. His plans were foolproof and his mission was nearly complete. He rose from the floor and manoeuvred over to a coat rack from which he plucked a full-length black coat. Once on, he opened the hotel door and firmly clicked it shut before pacing the lamp-lined corridor towards the elevators.
A black Mercedes pulled up outside the International Bank Of America and Mark stepped out and walked up the central steps to the heavy-duty glass doors. Mark knocked on the doors and the night porter unlocked a single door, allowing Mark to move inside the building. He walked up several flights of stairs until he reached an office with a wooden door bearing a plaque that read, “Mark Bolton” in thick copperplate text.
Once inside Mark turned on his desk lamp and lit a cigarette that he smoked pleasurably. He reclined in his comfy leather chair and casually checked his gold Rolex. It was quarter to eleven. He still had some time to spare. He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a large device that he places squarely on the top of his mahogany table. He lovingly touched the intricately placed wires that had taken him months of hard labour to get right. But this time it was perfect.
Mark carefully flicked a switch on top of the device and a display screen on it lit up. He entered “15:00” and pressed another button that set the numbers counting down. He briskly walked out of the office, ensuring the door was firmly closed behind him; he quickly trotted down the stairs and out of the heavy-duty glass doors. He clambered inside his car and drove hurriedly across town to his penthouse suite in the Armada Hotel. Mark rushed to his balcony that overlooked the darkened city. From his balcony, Mark had a clear view of the International Bank Of America and he gazed intently at its grey outline; watching and waiting.
All at once, a bright white flash erupted from one window of the building. Glass spewed from the smoking outlines of the window frames as the explosion spread throughout the building. Grey smoke filtered through the black sky, highlighted by the prevalent moonlight. Mark watched, unflinching, with a sly smile across his face. In a world that sought equality, he was the leader. Equality could only be brought about when there was no debt and no credit. At dawn, when the smouldering rubble was the news topic on every channel, the world would be equal once again.
Mark sat in the middle of the carpeted floor of his penthouse hotel room. He was looking at a large, unfolded piece of paper and slowly nodded and muttered softly to himself. His plans were foolproof and his mission was nearly complete. He rose from the floor and manoeuvred over to a coat rack from which he plucked a full-length black coat. Once on, he opened the hotel door and firmly clicked it shut before pacing the lamp-lined corridor towards the elevators.
A black Mercedes pulled up outside the International Bank Of America and Mark stepped out and walked up the central steps to the heavy-duty glass doors. Mark knocked on the doors and the night porter unlocked a single door, allowing Mark to move inside the building. He walked up several flights of stairs until he reached an office with a wooden door bearing a plaque that read, “Mark Bolton” in thick copperplate text.
Once inside Mark turned on his desk lamp and lit a cigarette that he smoked pleasurably. He reclined in his comfy leather chair and casually checked his gold Rolex. It was quarter to eleven. He still had some time to spare. He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a large device that he places squarely on the top of his mahogany table. He lovingly touched the intricately placed wires that had taken him months of hard labour to get right. But this time it was perfect.
Mark carefully flicked a switch on top of the device and a display screen on it lit up. He entered “15:00” and pressed another button that set the numbers counting down. He briskly walked out of the office, ensuring the door was firmly closed behind him; he quickly trotted down the stairs and out of the heavy-duty glass doors. He clambered inside his car and drove hurriedly across town to his penthouse suite in the Armada Hotel. Mark rushed to his balcony that overlooked the darkened city. From his balcony, Mark had a clear view of the International Bank Of America and he gazed intently at its grey outline; watching and waiting.
All at once, a bright white flash erupted from one window of the building. Glass spewed from the smoking outlines of the window frames as the explosion spread throughout the building. Grey smoke filtered through the black sky, highlighted by the prevalent moonlight. Mark watched, unflinching, with a sly smile across his face. In a world that sought equality, he was the leader. Equality could only be brought about when there was no debt and no credit. At dawn, when the smouldering rubble was the news topic on every channel, the world would be equal once again.