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Still not happy with this, but I should post it now to avoid a nasty fate. Doubt it will win....
******* *************** **************************** ************ *******
Obviously he could never have escaped me, but he did. The guy was an amateur, a rookie, even, and I was the hardest bitten detective ever to wander these mean streets. Hell, I had even solved the Monroe case, and the Goldsmiths. It was just a slip…a minor blip, I expect. In a couple of years he’ll surface again, as usual, and then there will be pain. Not that I’m brutal, it’s just that, given enough time behind a microscope or dressed in a uniform, something clicks in a guy. Something that makes you want to wear a leather trench coat and smoke cigars, speak in the rough voice of a terminal smoker and carry a Luger handgun. Most people say I haven’t an ounce of soul in me, and it’s true, I’m married to my job, and it ain’t a pretty lover, but I’m not stupid, ‘else I’d be dead. I’m also the best person living to know about this case.
But to begin at the beginning, I guess, although it may have begun long before. Straight after the Monroes, and the holiday that followed, I was called in on a real bad case, quintuple murder at a wedding. When I got there the reconstruction told it all; the procession had been coming down the steps in the central cathedral, and the photographer, an old fashioned guy with the whole ‘black veil and folding camera’ setup had pulled an automatic weapon, a Tommy gun from under his veil, on the leaders, and emptied a magazine into them. It killed the two newly weds, the bridesmaid and best man, and the mother of the bride. He legged it, of course, and was never found again for a while. Damn good exit.
But I was there, as always, with a clue and a couple of excellent one-liners. I followed his tracks, gradually uncovered everything there was to know about him. Jamie Robson, the failed artist psychoboy. He had been to a good school, over in England, and had fancied himself as a surrealist, mostly into using photography in art. Like most of his sort, he ran out of funding and luck, and was forced to work as a photographer in NYC, and as luck would have it, his closest past rival, the deceased, managed to be there too. He was a contemporary artist, pretty successful, but stuck to his methods and hated Jamie’s. He loved watching him fail from afar, but Jamie knew all this, not as blind as Leo Garcidan, his rival, expected.
Just at the moment of Garcidan’s triumph (he’d just got a wife) he invited Jamie to photograph the wedding, oblivious to the fact that Jamie knew of his motives. Jamie shot them there and then, bitter about what life had done to him and not to Leo, jealous of his rise to fame, and burning up with hatred about his marriage.
Jamie didn’t stop there; of course, he needed a way to justify his existence to himself, now that he was a criminal, so he went on what I guess he would have called an ‘artistic crusade’, and managed to hurt many artists, most of whom had done nothing to him. Often it wasn’t even killing, just vandalism or theft. He’s probably one of the ones to blame for our grey city now. It was only ever the crappy ones though, tnat's his way, or at least the ones he didn't like. Some he just gave a shove in the right direction. Marcel, Leroy, Gerome, even Escher, at one point, suffered his attentions in a minor way. Some great artists even say it was justice. Artistic justice.
I followed him across the globe. For an out of work artist, he sure knew how to travel, but I guess he made a bit of money from the work he stole. I got to know his style, but I could never stop him, I was always the dark figure in the coat, watching from the shadows, but I never quite got my man. In many ways his killing was his art, they were all perfectly executed and, having watched him in action, often happened with a sort of unearthly grace.
Fully half of the killings have featured a camera, and on one brutal occasion an artist was stabbed to death with seven separate paintbrushes. Despite the brutal nature of the killings, it never quite took hold of him and he seemed to keep his quest for meaning with him all the time, justice.
I must confess, I can never track him where he will strike next. I’m not an artistic guy, all I care about is my pay, but whenever an up and coming artist is to his disliking, SLASH! He’s gone. On many occasions it has also been stab! Bang! Or notably, squelch! In many artistic circles I gather that he is regarded as something of a myth, but some miserable wretches I have seen attempt to appease him, a bit like an angry god even emulating his failed style. I liken it to Victorian children’s tales, like the Scissorman. Don’t draw like Leo, little children, or chop, slash, he’ll slice your fingers off. It has even been said that he has great artistic taste and judgement, but I follow the law, and I’m damned if he’s gonna escape me one more time…
******* *************** **************************** ************ *******
Obviously he could never have escaped me, but he did. The guy was an amateur, a rookie, even, and I was the hardest bitten detective ever to wander these mean streets. Hell, I had even solved the Monroe case, and the Goldsmiths. It was just a slip…a minor blip, I expect. In a couple of years he’ll surface again, as usual, and then there will be pain. Not that I’m brutal, it’s just that, given enough time behind a microscope or dressed in a uniform, something clicks in a guy. Something that makes you want to wear a leather trench coat and smoke cigars, speak in the rough voice of a terminal smoker and carry a Luger handgun. Most people say I haven’t an ounce of soul in me, and it’s true, I’m married to my job, and it ain’t a pretty lover, but I’m not stupid, ‘else I’d be dead. I’m also the best person living to know about this case.
But to begin at the beginning, I guess, although it may have begun long before. Straight after the Monroes, and the holiday that followed, I was called in on a real bad case, quintuple murder at a wedding. When I got there the reconstruction told it all; the procession had been coming down the steps in the central cathedral, and the photographer, an old fashioned guy with the whole ‘black veil and folding camera’ setup had pulled an automatic weapon, a Tommy gun from under his veil, on the leaders, and emptied a magazine into them. It killed the two newly weds, the bridesmaid and best man, and the mother of the bride. He legged it, of course, and was never found again for a while. Damn good exit.
But I was there, as always, with a clue and a couple of excellent one-liners. I followed his tracks, gradually uncovered everything there was to know about him. Jamie Robson, the failed artist psychoboy. He had been to a good school, over in England, and had fancied himself as a surrealist, mostly into using photography in art. Like most of his sort, he ran out of funding and luck, and was forced to work as a photographer in NYC, and as luck would have it, his closest past rival, the deceased, managed to be there too. He was a contemporary artist, pretty successful, but stuck to his methods and hated Jamie’s. He loved watching him fail from afar, but Jamie knew all this, not as blind as Leo Garcidan, his rival, expected.
Just at the moment of Garcidan’s triumph (he’d just got a wife) he invited Jamie to photograph the wedding, oblivious to the fact that Jamie knew of his motives. Jamie shot them there and then, bitter about what life had done to him and not to Leo, jealous of his rise to fame, and burning up with hatred about his marriage.
Jamie didn’t stop there; of course, he needed a way to justify his existence to himself, now that he was a criminal, so he went on what I guess he would have called an ‘artistic crusade’, and managed to hurt many artists, most of whom had done nothing to him. Often it wasn’t even killing, just vandalism or theft. He’s probably one of the ones to blame for our grey city now. It was only ever the crappy ones though, tnat's his way, or at least the ones he didn't like. Some he just gave a shove in the right direction. Marcel, Leroy, Gerome, even Escher, at one point, suffered his attentions in a minor way. Some great artists even say it was justice. Artistic justice.
I followed him across the globe. For an out of work artist, he sure knew how to travel, but I guess he made a bit of money from the work he stole. I got to know his style, but I could never stop him, I was always the dark figure in the coat, watching from the shadows, but I never quite got my man. In many ways his killing was his art, they were all perfectly executed and, having watched him in action, often happened with a sort of unearthly grace.
Fully half of the killings have featured a camera, and on one brutal occasion an artist was stabbed to death with seven separate paintbrushes. Despite the brutal nature of the killings, it never quite took hold of him and he seemed to keep his quest for meaning with him all the time, justice.
I must confess, I can never track him where he will strike next. I’m not an artistic guy, all I care about is my pay, but whenever an up and coming artist is to his disliking, SLASH! He’s gone. On many occasions it has also been stab! Bang! Or notably, squelch! In many artistic circles I gather that he is regarded as something of a myth, but some miserable wretches I have seen attempt to appease him, a bit like an angry god even emulating his failed style. I liken it to Victorian children’s tales, like the Scissorman. Don’t draw like Leo, little children, or chop, slash, he’ll slice your fingers off. It has even been said that he has great artistic taste and judgement, but I follow the law, and I’m damned if he’s gonna escape me one more time…
Don't put yourself down, this wasn't too bad.
It was a nice tongue-in-cheek parody of archetypal detective stories, and the story itself was told quite well. You need to tighten it up in places, and work on your description and imagery - it's often difficult to form a picture of what you're saying.
Keep at it, this was rather enjoyable.
It was a nice tongue-in-cheek parody of archetypal detective stories, and the story itself was told quite well. You need to tighten it up in places, and work on your description and imagery - it's often difficult to form a picture of what you're saying.
Keep at it, this was rather enjoyable.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Two grooms at the wedding?
Just changed it, thanks. Reading it over in daylight hours, I hang my head in shame. Oh, and the cliches sort of are part of (one of)the point(s), as with many things.
> Two grooms at the wedding?
Just changed it, thanks. Reading it over in daylight hours, I hang my head in shame. Oh, and the cliches sort of are part of (one of)the point(s), as with many things.
That was kinda weird, at times it felt overly sarcastic and other times serious, kinda drifted between the two. The whole thing was a bit too much of a cliche too. There were some nice parts to it (one particular line stood out, but I can't remember where it was :D), but it's not the sort of story I go for.
Liked the idea and it read quite easily. Two grooms at the wedding? I would have use the camera - it would have been much more fun to catch that on film :)
My synopsis: I love the first paragraph, but it goes downhill from there. Pretty standard use of 'Tracks', liked the idea of 'artistic justice' but I didn't develop it enough. It should have had some actual movement probably, and I expect it's full of contradictions. Ignore them, I was tired.
Still not happy with this, but I should post it now to avoid a nasty fate. Doubt it will win....
******* *************** **************************** ************ *******
Obviously he could never have escaped me, but he did. The guy was an amateur, a rookie, even, and I was the hardest bitten detective ever to wander these mean streets. Hell, I had even solved the Monroe case, and the Goldsmiths. It was just a slip…a minor blip, I expect. In a couple of years he’ll surface again, as usual, and then there will be pain. Not that I’m brutal, it’s just that, given enough time behind a microscope or dressed in a uniform, something clicks in a guy. Something that makes you want to wear a leather trench coat and smoke cigars, speak in the rough voice of a terminal smoker and carry a Luger handgun. Most people say I haven’t an ounce of soul in me, and it’s true, I’m married to my job, and it ain’t a pretty lover, but I’m not stupid, ‘else I’d be dead. I’m also the best person living to know about this case.
But to begin at the beginning, I guess, although it may have begun long before. Straight after the Monroes, and the holiday that followed, I was called in on a real bad case, quintuple murder at a wedding. When I got there the reconstruction told it all; the procession had been coming down the steps in the central cathedral, and the photographer, an old fashioned guy with the whole ‘black veil and folding camera’ setup had pulled an automatic weapon, a Tommy gun from under his veil, on the leaders, and emptied a magazine into them. It killed the two newly weds, the bridesmaid and best man, and the mother of the bride. He legged it, of course, and was never found again for a while. Damn good exit.
But I was there, as always, with a clue and a couple of excellent one-liners. I followed his tracks, gradually uncovered everything there was to know about him. Jamie Robson, the failed artist psychoboy. He had been to a good school, over in England, and had fancied himself as a surrealist, mostly into using photography in art. Like most of his sort, he ran out of funding and luck, and was forced to work as a photographer in NYC, and as luck would have it, his closest past rival, the deceased, managed to be there too. He was a contemporary artist, pretty successful, but stuck to his methods and hated Jamie’s. He loved watching him fail from afar, but Jamie knew all this, not as blind as Leo Garcidan, his rival, expected.
Just at the moment of Garcidan’s triumph (he’d just got a wife) he invited Jamie to photograph the wedding, oblivious to the fact that Jamie knew of his motives. Jamie shot them there and then, bitter about what life had done to him and not to Leo, jealous of his rise to fame, and burning up with hatred about his marriage.
Jamie didn’t stop there; of course, he needed a way to justify his existence to himself, now that he was a criminal, so he went on what I guess he would have called an ‘artistic crusade’, and managed to hurt many artists, most of whom had done nothing to him. Often it wasn’t even killing, just vandalism or theft. He’s probably one of the ones to blame for our grey city now. It was only ever the crappy ones though, tnat's his way, or at least the ones he didn't like. Some he just gave a shove in the right direction. Marcel, Leroy, Gerome, even Escher, at one point, suffered his attentions in a minor way. Some great artists even say it was justice. Artistic justice.
I followed him across the globe. For an out of work artist, he sure knew how to travel, but I guess he made a bit of money from the work he stole. I got to know his style, but I could never stop him, I was always the dark figure in the coat, watching from the shadows, but I never quite got my man. In many ways his killing was his art, they were all perfectly executed and, having watched him in action, often happened with a sort of unearthly grace.
Fully half of the killings have featured a camera, and on one brutal occasion an artist was stabbed to death with seven separate paintbrushes. Despite the brutal nature of the killings, it never quite took hold of him and he seemed to keep his quest for meaning with him all the time, justice.
I must confess, I can never track him where he will strike next. I’m not an artistic guy, all I care about is my pay, but whenever an up and coming artist is to his disliking, SLASH! He’s gone. On many occasions it has also been stab! Bang! Or notably, squelch! In many artistic circles I gather that he is regarded as something of a myth, but some miserable wretches I have seen attempt to appease him, a bit like an angry god even emulating his failed style. I liken it to Victorian children’s tales, like the Scissorman. Don’t draw like Leo, little children, or chop, slash, he’ll slice your fingers off. It has even been said that he has great artistic taste and judgement, but I follow the law, and I’m damned if he’s gonna escape me one more time…
******* *************** **************************** ************ *******
Obviously he could never have escaped me, but he did. The guy was an amateur, a rookie, even, and I was the hardest bitten detective ever to wander these mean streets. Hell, I had even solved the Monroe case, and the Goldsmiths. It was just a slip…a minor blip, I expect. In a couple of years he’ll surface again, as usual, and then there will be pain. Not that I’m brutal, it’s just that, given enough time behind a microscope or dressed in a uniform, something clicks in a guy. Something that makes you want to wear a leather trench coat and smoke cigars, speak in the rough voice of a terminal smoker and carry a Luger handgun. Most people say I haven’t an ounce of soul in me, and it’s true, I’m married to my job, and it ain’t a pretty lover, but I’m not stupid, ‘else I’d be dead. I’m also the best person living to know about this case.
But to begin at the beginning, I guess, although it may have begun long before. Straight after the Monroes, and the holiday that followed, I was called in on a real bad case, quintuple murder at a wedding. When I got there the reconstruction told it all; the procession had been coming down the steps in the central cathedral, and the photographer, an old fashioned guy with the whole ‘black veil and folding camera’ setup had pulled an automatic weapon, a Tommy gun from under his veil, on the leaders, and emptied a magazine into them. It killed the two newly weds, the bridesmaid and best man, and the mother of the bride. He legged it, of course, and was never found again for a while. Damn good exit.
But I was there, as always, with a clue and a couple of excellent one-liners. I followed his tracks, gradually uncovered everything there was to know about him. Jamie Robson, the failed artist psychoboy. He had been to a good school, over in England, and had fancied himself as a surrealist, mostly into using photography in art. Like most of his sort, he ran out of funding and luck, and was forced to work as a photographer in NYC, and as luck would have it, his closest past rival, the deceased, managed to be there too. He was a contemporary artist, pretty successful, but stuck to his methods and hated Jamie’s. He loved watching him fail from afar, but Jamie knew all this, not as blind as Leo Garcidan, his rival, expected.
Just at the moment of Garcidan’s triumph (he’d just got a wife) he invited Jamie to photograph the wedding, oblivious to the fact that Jamie knew of his motives. Jamie shot them there and then, bitter about what life had done to him and not to Leo, jealous of his rise to fame, and burning up with hatred about his marriage.
Jamie didn’t stop there; of course, he needed a way to justify his existence to himself, now that he was a criminal, so he went on what I guess he would have called an ‘artistic crusade’, and managed to hurt many artists, most of whom had done nothing to him. Often it wasn’t even killing, just vandalism or theft. He’s probably one of the ones to blame for our grey city now. It was only ever the crappy ones though, tnat's his way, or at least the ones he didn't like. Some he just gave a shove in the right direction. Marcel, Leroy, Gerome, even Escher, at one point, suffered his attentions in a minor way. Some great artists even say it was justice. Artistic justice.
I followed him across the globe. For an out of work artist, he sure knew how to travel, but I guess he made a bit of money from the work he stole. I got to know his style, but I could never stop him, I was always the dark figure in the coat, watching from the shadows, but I never quite got my man. In many ways his killing was his art, they were all perfectly executed and, having watched him in action, often happened with a sort of unearthly grace.
Fully half of the killings have featured a camera, and on one brutal occasion an artist was stabbed to death with seven separate paintbrushes. Despite the brutal nature of the killings, it never quite took hold of him and he seemed to keep his quest for meaning with him all the time, justice.
I must confess, I can never track him where he will strike next. I’m not an artistic guy, all I care about is my pay, but whenever an up and coming artist is to his disliking, SLASH! He’s gone. On many occasions it has also been stab! Bang! Or notably, squelch! In many artistic circles I gather that he is regarded as something of a myth, but some miserable wretches I have seen attempt to appease him, a bit like an angry god even emulating his failed style. I liken it to Victorian children’s tales, like the Scissorman. Don’t draw like Leo, little children, or chop, slash, he’ll slice your fingers off. It has even been said that he has great artistic taste and judgement, but I follow the law, and I’m damned if he’s gonna escape me one more time…