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Hey it's brandon! Like football, war animations and everything from rap to heavy metal. You will find me alot on the threads in the Writing forums as I am an active writer. See you around!
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Hey guys! I'm back to write Part 2 as promised. I hope you enjoy! Now, if you haven't read the first Part, here's the link. http://brandonhazswag.newgrounds.com/n ews/post/542412
Well, let me continue with my story! Enjoy, share with friends and comment below! Now, read on!
And so I told the polite gentleman some stories. "Well, here's the most brutal case so far. It gets disturbing. Ar you sure you want to hear?" I asked. "Well, ofcourse!", he said. "OK, you've been warned."
"It was sometime during April in 1941, or maybe 1942? No, it was 1941. Well, eitherway, I was assigned a case to catch a murderer. He was charged with four murders. His name was something like Humphrey Bergus. Yes, that was it. Well, it was four weeks, when someone said they saw him by the 9th Street
Train Station. We went to meet up with them, and thirty minutes later, we were there at his door. It was a nice house, in a very tranquil suburb. His house had two stories, it was white, with black shutters. When we knocked on the door he didn't answer. We knocked a few more times, rung his doorbell, waited a few minutes. But then we broke in through the window. We called his name, no reply. Then, we walked into his living room, a place with white walls, a table with a telephone, a radio in the corner, a sofa, and a plant in the other corner. There was a door next to a bookcase, leading out to a sunporch. I walked in and on a table was a body. The man was in his thirties, wearing a white shirt with a tie, and some trousers. His throat was slit, and multiple lacerations were made all around his body. There was blood all over the room. We kept searching the house, it was a morbid scene, the baby they had in the crib had a steak knofe sticking out it's chest, the wife was half naked leaning dead against the counter, the sink still running. Bruises on her neck suggests she was strangled, and bruises around her breasts and genitals suggests she was raped. The couple's son, only seven, was found in te backyard. He had glass stuck in his body, and broken bones with bruises all over. His bedroom had a broken window, and so we predicted hhe was pshed out it. On his chest was a nightstand, believed to be dropped on him from above.
It was a gruesome scene, and when we had the evidece, we had proved that he had murdered the family. We were patrolling one day, at night, when we saw a man walk with a prostitute into an alleyway. His physical appearance matched that of the killer. And so we followed him, with flashlights on and guns out. We had walked through, and then we saw him, choking the woman, who was already naked. And so we rasied our guns but he ran like a wild mountain cat. We chased him in our car, and we drove around for two hours until we lost, him, the prostitute at the hosptl, in critical condition. We then had to patrol that arwea, considering he murdered mostly prostitutes, and because of the brutal rape he had submitted to the wife of our contact. We had undercover cops all over the district, and me and my partner were one of them. We had had two weeks without finding him. But we heard gunshots o ne night, and so we followed the gunshots. A cop laid bleeding, and we had a shot on the killer, and I took it.
It was the first time I had killed anyone, and I was ghuilty. The shot had hit his leg, and he was grasping it screaming, as I just looked. Then the wounded officer's partner took the final shot, cracking right through the killer's skull. It was the most brutal case I had ever seen, and it was horrible."
"that's just wrong. To think of that horrible killer. What man would be like that, what man would be a murderer.", he had said. I chuckled grimly "Aren't we all. Sometimes, I find myself just as guilty as the men we chase. The question is less of who is the murderer, but of murderers. I have done horrible things, sure I've murdered criminals before, but I've also murdered civilians. Horrible things happen, and I cause some of it. My murder of innocent being is another story, one if tried so hard to forget" I grimaced.
It was during 1948, we had a call in of a robbery at a restaraunt. We headed over there, and sure enough, a man had the clerk at gun point. He had a friend who had thrown his hands straight in the air. The other man quikcly vaulted over the counter, a killer-instinct in his eye and took him hostage. The other guy ran right for us and my partner sucker-punched him right in the yey, it was funny, but no one was laughin'. He had threatened to kill the hostage, if we didn't drop our guns and let him steal the cash and get away. And so we set our weapons down and made him feel guilty, told him stories of how the men who work here need money to pay for the food on their family's pates. We told him to imagine a boy on the streets crying, because his father couldn't afford the house. We made him say how he was stealing the food off the families tables, the soul of the men who work there, and killing the clerk would destroy his family. We had succesfully disshoveled him, but we were met with the wrong results. He instead yanked the hostage around and raise the gun to his face, ready to kill him. So I picked up my gun and shot at the man. The bullet should of hit him, right as I got aim on his head though, the store clerk, stood up, but my brain didn't have time to register. I took the shot. It went into the hostages back, and blood squirted from the gaping hole in his shirt. And he fell to the ground, his pupils rolling back into his head. We had froze, my and my partner, Brent. He was the man in the case earlier, we had been through alot, but not the murder of an innocent man.
But, he was strong, and bullrushed the man. He had punched him in the gut, and threw him down on the table. He beat the man senseless, brutally, blood, spit, and muchus came out of him. He had bruises all over his face, cut and lacerations. But Brent kept beating him and beating him. The man was beaten unconscious, we first thought. But it turns out he was dead. Brent went cold, he got shivers. He didn't cry, he didn't scream, he just stood there frozen. We knew we were in trouble. He had just assaulted and murdered a man who didn't harm anyone, no gun pointed at him, no more hostages. He murdered him, and he was to be charged for it." I finished. "Please tell me more about this Brent figure.", the man asked, taking a sloppy bite out of his hotdog. "I'll tell you about him.", I said. "We had been through hell and back, me and him. He was my best of friends. First time we met I knew we'd be buds, hwe liked the Titans, he had the same backgrounds, we had the same problems, and all the hectic cases we had been through had only bonded us closer. He was funny, he was my friend."
Just then, all the thoughts of the great man went through my mind, his smile, his kids, his gal, me an him singing around the radio with some whiskey around the radio when the Titans won, dancing and picking up my kids. His grey eyes, his cool headedness in battle, and his sense of humor, oh the stupid things we did together. We were always friends.
"It was horrible when he had went to court", I had said. I continued.
"See, as I said, we were best of buds. This killed everything. He came to my house one day. We had drunk some beers and we ate dinner. We were the only two in the house- first visitor I had had ever since my... erherm... divorce. So he was one of the only people who had helped me stand up from where I was at that point in my life. And so when he went to court, he had asked me to back him up, to defend him. See, the Police Station had already backed out from defending him, to stop from looking corrupt. Now me and him both knew what he did was illegal, and that's what he did. but this went beyond good or evil. It was horrible. He helped me, so I should help him. But when law gets in the way how can I? And so i was torn, and he kept pressuring me. I wa going insane, the thoughts of him always driving me home afterr I'd pass out drunk at the late nights in the bar, the telephone calls everyday to make sure I was alright. But the law got in my way. And so I didn't defend him. He hasn't talked to me since." Tears rolled down my face. I was ashamed, I had made the wrong choice and I had lost my best friend, and my wife before that. My alcocholism was not dead but, more, should I say, dormant. It's been okay for the past few monthes, but I keep getting the urge, and the depression keeps biting at me. "That's horrible.", the man said. "Is there, is there anything I can do to help?" he kindly asked. "Nah, it's alright, I, I'm fine." "Here man, let's take a break from your work. Lemme show ya' some nice people, amybe hit up a few stores. Yer too close to your job." he said, thoroughly concerned.
"No, I can't.", I said. "Yeah ya' can.", he said teasingly. "Oh, alright, but I'm gonna regret this.", I said. And so we payed our money and I followed his car as we drove. It was a lovely drive, we went through the tranquil suburbs, the parks, and we stopped at a corner store. We entered, and a dark skinned man was there sweeping the floor. "Awww shucks," he said mustily "haven't seen to many white people 'round here in a long time. Who you think you are, this is a dangerous place. Not for a sissy whitey like you." He slowly mused. He reminded me of an old shaggy dog. He talked slowly and dumb, his eyelids almost glued halfway down, a sleepy look on his face. "Ehh, shut up ya negro.", said a man in a restaraunt uniform. "So what may I do for ya, my good man." He was white and bald, and as smiling a slick greasy smile. "Oh, we don't need help, we'll just be lookin' around." said the man. And then he did something strange. He asked me what I needed for geroceries. I told him and then he started putting it in the cart. He put some of his stuff in the cart also. Then he put it up on the couter and I dropped down some money for my stuff. But instead he took the cash off, and gave it to me. "I'll pay for it.", he announced. "What? Oh how kind! But please let me pay.", I said. "No, it's no problem.", he jollily replied. I argued for awhile longer, but it in the end he won and bought my groceries. "Here, take this", he said. The man gave me a Hershey bar he bought. "Wow, thanks!", I said. "Now, lemme show you someone you might like.", he told me. And so I tailed his car when we drove and we ended up at an apartment complex.
The place was made of brick, had a garden out in the front, it was in the middle of the city. We went up to the 22nd floor and we went to room 408. When we entered, it was a big lot.t had a couch, a telephone on a table, a window to the left with an office infront of it. It also had a kitchen infront of me, a bathroom and a bedroom to the right, and another room for sitting and talking. It had a table, some ashtrays, another couch and some carpets. Then there was a dining room to the right of the kitchen, probably the smallest room. I had took a seat down on the sofa in the wide greeting room in front of the telephone and a radio. Then, when waiting for the man to get his friend, a cold, hard rope was thrusted against my neck from behind. I started to choke and gasp. But I slipped from the grasp of the killer, and got up from the hair. The man had black hair and had a suit on. He pulled a revolver, I poppe him in the jaw, and then the shot went off. It was like thunder, and plaster fell down onto our heads from the ceiling. Me and the killer wresteld and the man came out, with a silenced Luger pistol. I instantly hit the floor, and he shot at the wall. I sprinted out of the room, and called the police office on the front desk of the apartment after I sprinted donw the stairs. But the killer was in pursuit. He was the man who I had told the stories too, the traitor bastard. With all my anger I charged him and slugged him in his fat gut. He upper cutted and I broke a coffe table in the lobby by falling on it. A striking pain went up my back. It stole my breath, but nonetheless I threw one of the pieces of wood at him, right in the face. He screamed as splinters were stuck in. But I didn't stop, I stood up, and did the biggest, most cocked back right hook I had ever pulled off, right on the man's cheek. He instantly started bleediing from his cheek, but he sprayed up a hail storm of bullets from his Luger. People wee screaming and running by then, but some men had helped me wrestle the fat man to the ground.
The police showed up, and Farlane was right there, with some men armed with Browning Automatics and 45 pistols. They had asked me what the other man looked like, and I told them. The case was getting hot, and the men tied to the killer would get much more complicated.
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