********
Foreword
********

    Apologies for the long turn-over time; life has decided to put up some
unexpected roadblocks which will make my writing even slower. Not much else
to say except for this: Don't expect Chapter 5 out too soon.
    Oh right, and this is still in prelude mode like the last two chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything associated with Sailor Moon is in no way, shape, or
form owned by me. I don't intend to make any money off of this; that's up
to the larger than life corporations out there. All that jazz about Sailor
Moon in tons of disclaimers out there apply.




email: doniswong@hotmail.com


Rated: R (mild swearing, violence, and sexual innuendoes)






                                  "Clean"
                                 Chapter 4

                          A Portrait of a Killer

                                 A fanfic
                                    by

                                    Don





    It comes so easy. A flick of a wrist, a wiggle of a finger, a jerk of a
forearm - I almost feel like a crook for charging my outrageous sums. But
then, if people want to pay me, who am I to turn them away? Who am I to
disregard money?
    It would be sacrilegious to not honor man's inherent drive for
satisfaction.
    It would be a heresy to inadequately pleasure my beloved.
    My beloved... Fondly, I caress her picture sitting atop my large oak
desk; I stare into it, feeding off of it, letting its nourishment seep into
my bones. Her beautiful summer sky blue eyes peel away the darkened clouds
above while her long, golden hair radiates like the sun, basking all in
unheard warmth. Arms spread to the heavens, I wonder if she is an eagle
taking flight or a rain goddess calling forth her elements. Which indeed,
for a clear reply would confound me utterly: her wings let my heart soar
while her elements, elements of love and happiness, rain down upon my
bloodied hands, making them clean.
    Is she mortal on God's land or God on mortal land?
    Which indeed.
    My soul leaps at the very thought of her, of her lush lips and flawless
figure. How I long to hold her in my arms, to idle the night away on floor,
couch, or bed. How I yearn to please her, to see that smile - oh, that
wonderful smile! - and know my crimes be born of undying love...
    But alas, she sleeps in my bedroom, covered by down and silk. Disturb
her torpor I dare not, for once she wakes, she will plead I cease what I am
about to do and come to bed. Defy her? Not a nerve nor a fiber in my body
dares so. I will give up at her slight prompting and find joy in her arms.
My hands will remain unstained for one more night...
    However, they have stayed clean for long enough. I have not the heart
of an angel - like my beloved - but the twisted essence of Death. In them I
find my other calling: a calling to murder and mayhem.
    Come now, the night is young and my hands are itching. Wish my
excursion Godspeed and my beloved goodnight.

**************

    Montreal is certainly beautiful. While the summer heat bakes everywhere
else to a crisp, this place remains indifferent because of its geographical
position. Somehow, global warming has made this place nicer, taking away
the harsh snowy seasons and replacing them with mild rains.
    As the sun sets in the western horizon, I lean on the security railing,
almost as if to touch the red star. They say that the pollution makes for
the beautiful sun set.
    So much to see and so much time to spend. Released from my chains of
duty and depression, I am free to roam wherever I please, whenever I
please. A few weeks here, a few months there, freedom was never so free to
me, not even during my teenaged years.
    Walking down the bustling street, I take my time to do some window
shopping at this commercial smorgasbord. Everything imaginable lines the
streets, everything from simple but alluring street delicacies to
mock-upper-class clothing. The food and the clothes don't interest me much
- I've tasted and worn better - but the little trinkets do catch my
attention.
    I bend down and take hold of a small ivory ring, one uncracked and
unblemished. Quite an unusual piece. Given that elephants went extinct a
few hundred years ago and that ivory doesn't keep well, this is a treasure
many times over.
    "How much?" I ask the woman sitting behind her makeshift counter.
    Leering behind her tarnished eyepatch, she grunts and yells in a
banshee's voice, "Twenty!"
    "That's it?!" I'd feel bad if I were to buy it at this price.
    "Fifty!"
    For once, I should keep my mouth shut. "Fifty it is."
    Throwing down a few bills - bills which are quickly snatched - I go
further down the street and turn a corner. From her post, the old hag
stares at me with a strange look, in her fist clutched my money. Regret -
I've seen the expression many times before. Regret for a loss not meant to
be, regret for something not regrettable till lost.
    I want to return the ring, but human greed takes over. Indulgence of
the highest degree overwhelms my humane respect. I figure my money would
buy her and her family a number of decent meals, maybe even a few other
trinkets.
    Be my mind split between selfishness and shame, now is too late to
change anything. I let myself wander too far away; I can't find my way
back. Perhaps another day when my demons aren't as vocal, I'll find myself
wandering these streets and find the old hag; then I'll return her ring.
    For now, I'll consider this a gain, a justifiable gain.
    Lifting the ring up to the waning light, I read a neat line of writing
strewn on the outer portion of the ivory.
    "T'was grief felt before grief known."
    I'm sure the old hag could relate to those words... perhaps why she
looked at me with those relenting eyes too.
    Ahhhh, my heart gets the better of me. Not knowing where I am, I turn
around and begin winding around city blocks and alleyways, trying to find
that woman again.
    Over there was it?
    Maybe around there?
    Damn this bazaar! One street looks like the other! While one belches
with excess of people, another lays abandoned! How could a place be so-
    "HHHHEEEEEELLLLLPPPP!!!"
    My ears perk like cat's, battle senses kick in. Without so much as
thinking, I transform - though strangely this be one of the abandoned
avenues - and leap to the roofs, making my way over to the source of the
desperate scream.
    Sailor Venus has taken over.
    There! In one of the dark crannies of this place! More screams emanate
from the alley, but I doubt anyone cares; trouble is the last thing anyone
wants to get into in this land. With gracefulness brought forth by a
thousands years of existence, I quietly scamper to the roof above the scene
and peer down.
    Yes, yes, classic damsel in distress. She backs away to the
trash-filled dead end, all the while waving her hands about and wailing for
a caring soul. Her eyes are as wide as a skeleton's sockets; apparently,
whoever is approaching her is a forbidding figure to say the least.
    That brings me back to the problem at hand: the reason for the
screaming.
    At first, I don't see anything, only darkness. Then, a ripple appears,
a ripple like that of a cape or cloak. The shadows in the alley obscure my
vision, but I soon make out the form of a man wearing all black, like an
emissary of Death. He wields a formidable sword - didn't know people used
swords anymore - coated with a non-reflective substance. He wears a mask,
one reminiscent of Endyimon's back in his youth, though this killer's is
dark like the night.
    Slowly he approaches. I can readily discern his pleasure in every
wretched scream and pathetic plea; the joyful spring in his step every inch
he sidles closer is testimony enough. What a sadistic bastard! To not only
kill but take joy in killing! Obviously, he knows not of pain, for if he
did, he would not be here reveling in the misery of another.
    He would not be killing in the first place.
    No one who knows how painful it is to suffer would allow suffering.
    I know not who his victim is; I care not what she has done. What lies
before my eyes is a murderous demon and helpless soul. The woman may not be
one worth saving, but this twisted assassin is worth killing.
    Taking aim at his heart, I charge a deadly beam of my crescent energy,
check the trajectory, and let it soar.
    I expect a flash of light and moment of silence. I expect the thumping
of a body - that son of a bitch's body. I expect the screaming woman to
look on in surprise, then run away. I expect an easy job.
    But life isn't always what we expect.
    Within the split second of my attack going from my fingertip to his
chest, the killer lurches aside - apparently aware of my attack - and
instead of the golden light piercing his heart, it glides through his
shoulder. He grunts loudly, clutching his injury, and looks skyward in my
direction.
    The shadows cover me, revealing only my visage and golden hair. He
starts but recovers his fumble in short order. Wasting not word or action,
he throws an object to the ground, an object which produces a bright flash
and smoke screen.
    No! I wasn't expecting this! Relying on my instincts, I jump into the
fray, hoping to catch the man trying to escape. As I hit the ground, I am
treated to a sickening slash and a bloody croak. The audacity of the
mongrel! He used the diversion to help kill his victim, not escape from me!
    Immediately, I know I'm not dealing with a common street thug or an
inexperienced killer. Caution must be my guide.
    There! Shuffling of feet against the wall! He's trying to climb over
the dead end while he still can! Blindly, I hurl another Crescent Beam in
his direction, one that results in another grunt but no fall of body. My
bloodlust urges me to take to the roofs; I can easily catch a doubly
wounded man.
    Good sense, however, holds me back. Killer I can catch another day;
human life leaves but only once.
    As the smoke clears, I am treated to the gargling noise of a young
brunette choking on her own blood. Her throat is cleanly slashed ear to
ear; there is no other mark.

************

    Who was that deadly, deadly killer?! Who?!
    The way she moved - cunning like a fox.
    The weapons she used - unfortunately I know not.
    The fighter's instincts she had - honed to split the behind hair of a
rat.
    By luck I am still alive, either by luck or mercy. Who, praytell, who
did old man Gilbert hire to protect his woman?! Why did she not strike when
I dispatched his other guards?!
    Ahhh, by God are these wounds terrible, searing. For all intents and
purposes, I won't be doing anymore jobs for the next few weeks - or at
least, until I get to a doctor. That Angel of Death be skilled in the ways
of her master, but she is no bodyguard. No, had her mind been set on
protecting old man Gilbert's woman, the whore would still be alive. This...
this THING seems to be after me instead.
    My employer better pay me well after this fiasco, that is all I can
say. When my payment comes, I will disappear until I heal, until that
monster lets her guard down. Then I will settle the score. No one shall
ever threaten my place and live to tell about it.
    I am Death's only emissary, that way it will remain, for I-
    "James?"
    A light flickers on followed by the slight pitter patter of slippered
feet. No! My love! She must not see me like this, like a wounded lion.
    Quickly, I bite back the pain and meld into the darkened shadows of the
living room. Perhaps she will think it the house settling or maybe some
other noise. Perhaps she will come down here, see nothing, and return to
bed.
    My dear Marianne, please don't come any further... for your own good as
well as mine.
    "James?" she calls again.
    At last she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Cautiously, she scans the
room, trying to reassure herself that no one is waiting to ambush her.
    Don't worry my love; no one knows we live here. My dealings with the
underbelly of the world are much too pathetic to be in your presence. No
one would know you're here, save me. You need not be afraid.
    Suddenly, her eyes light up. I follow her path of vision and give a
slight jump myself. Blood - blood from my wounds - has spilled onto the
wooden floor, pointing a trail to my hiding place.
    Thoroughly horrified, she jumps for the light switch and shouts, "Who's
there?!"
    Only me, my darling, "Only me."
    Her features soften, replaced by a sense of relief, though the relief
short lived. Now that she sees me, her heart skips a beat - maybe even two
or three - from my wounds.
    Concededly, I limp back to the couch and sit myself down, continuing
with bandaging the gaping holes. "Go back to sleep," I say, not wanting her
to see the gore, "They're not as bad as they look."
    Face a stoic board, she looms over me and asks, "Where were you?"
    "Accident," I reply out of habit, though the reflex not completely
untrue.
    "Why do you have to always lie to me?" whispers she, her eyes closing
to stop the tears.
    We've been through this before, many times before. "What do you want me
to answer, darling? I was out killing somebody? I was out slitting a poor
girl's throat? I was out drinking with the guys and shot a mob boss?"
    "No, James, no... You swore you would never do this again. You swore
that after you had enough money, you would stop. Look around you! You have
more money than those people who hire you! Why do you lie to me? Why don't
you stop?"
    "Do you think I take joy in watching people suffer?"
    "Yes!"
    We stare at each other, unmoving, silence reigning supreme until I
muster every ounce of willpower to break its grip. "I don't like to see you
suffer."
    "But what about others, James?" She turns her back to me, trying even
harder to hide the tears. "What about others? Don't forget that I've seen
you do it before. You take joy in a person's squirming, crying..."
    "But I don't like to see you suffer."
    "Does it look like I'm suffering?!"
    "Yes."
    Rising from the couch, I tenderly wrap my arms around her body and kiss
her on the cheek. I taste a hint of salt water, so I carefully wipe the
stream of tears away from her unblemished face. "My conscience aches..."
    "As does your arm and leg."
    "... and believe me, I do this out of love..."
    "Love for me or for Death?"
    "... your suffering is all I need to know..."
    "Then you still don't know what suffering is."
    "... when will you believe my uttered words, 'I love you'..."
    "When you start acting, not uttering."
    "... and see how my crimes touch me too?"
    "There are no crimes in your eyes; only sacks of gold and money."
    "You injure me, Marianne. Have you no eyes to see that I am wracked
with pain at your rejection?"
    "My eyes tell a different story, one of a man deceiving the one he
loves for fortune."
    "Then you don't see the truth-"
    "Fine! I may be blind, but now I will open my eyes! Do you, James -
love of my life and bane of my conscience - love blade or beloved?!"
    My mind stumbles at the blatant question. I am unable to answer for
that split second; my tongue is somehow held back from giving the answer I
want to give.
    She takes the moment of forced hesitation as a sign of indecision.
    "I thought so," she hisses, "Thirty years James, thirty years we have
known each other. Besides my mother you were the first person I saw! We
were born on the same day, on the same hour, on the same minute, at the
same place! Had fate not so mercifully decreed, we would have been
siblings! You and I, we know each other through and through. We love each
other through and through. But day after day, year after year, you lie to
me James, lie like a fiend! I accept you for who you are, but I cannot
accept what you do to others! I thought I could change you with kindness,
but now I see I was too kind! Why do you not see your wrong?!"
    "Because I am doing it for you."
    Heart wrenching sobs shatter my resolve and I buckle. "If it pleases
you," I beg, slowly making my towards her, "I will give up my profession of
Death. It would be safer for me too, given another of equal or greater
ability has appeared on the scene."
    But my words fall on deaf ears. Like the boy who cried wolf, I am
ignored because of my past transgressions. With a swing of her hand, she
slaps me to the floor and makes a dash for the front double doors. She
flings them open like an artist unveiling her work and indignantly stares
into my wincing eyes.
    "Liar," she cries once more, "How many times have you spat those words
to me?! If it takes my rejection to stop your bloody rampage, then I gladly
serve you my hate and spite on a golden plate! I would rather forsake my
love than see ten others lose theirs!"
    In her white, silken nightgown, she rushes to the streets, but even
before she can get to the porch, a sound I dread shatters the quiet, sleepy
night.
    A loud, single, whip-like sound.
    "Marianne!"
    An abrupt scream accompanies a dull thud; my blood boils in my veins,
further aggravating my wounds. This is but a mere dream, I say, a mere
dream! Surely I have lost too much blood and this is only a hallucination!
My instincts - my dreaded, pinpoint instincts - have for once failed me!
The thud was only of the door closing... only the door closing and nothing
more.
    Hurriedly, I crawl in her direction screaming, "Marianne! Marianne!"
    No answer.
    By chance she left already? Yes, yes, that's it. She's left already!
She was sure infuriated at my antics; a quick departure would not be
unlikely. Just like her too, to speak her mind and storm off. What a
kidder, no?
    "Marianne!!!"
    I crawl closer, leg and shoulder numb from the pain. You know, maybe if
I crawl fast enough, I might even catch a visage of her walking off down
the street! Yes! When I make it to the porch, I'll see her sneering at me -
oh that wonderful sneer! - and I'll call her back! She'll listen, I know
she will! She'll... She'll...
    ... be dead.
    Lifting my eyes up, I finally succumb to the dreaded reality. The
whip-like sound was a weapon - any number of weapons - and the thud her
body on the wooden porch. Her arms are spread out like she was about to
embrace me. Her face is serene save the trickle of blood flowing down the
corner of her mouth.
    Her body is perfectly intact except for the huge hole in the chest from
which steam rises.
    "Marianne!!!"
    I cradle her limp head in my arms and cry. Cry, cry, cry, cry, cry! I
cry like a baby, I cry like a woman, I cry like a widow! Please say this a
cruel joke, one played by vengeful gods and immoral goddesses!
    Bringing my lips to hers, I sneak a kiss, perchance to find a sign of
life. Instead of warmth surging forth as it usually does when we kiss, a
severe chill freezes my marrow and thickens my tears.
    My Marianne... my beautiful, lovely, angelic Marianne... come back to
me... it is all I wish for...
    I take back my insincere words. I relinquish my post as Death's
emissary. I return all my wealth to its rightful owners.
    I'd do all of that and give my life to see you flutter your eyes.
    Wake up, damn you! Wake up! You can't be dead, no, not like this, not
while hating me, not without some last words. At the least, give me the joy
of hearing your wonderful voice however soft!
    ... at the least, forgive me for what I have done...
    But I know all is in vain... thirty years our love has been cultivated,
nursed... thirty years, all to end in an instant by the whim of some
cowardly finger.
    I swore to protect you, but now, I see I have failed miserably. As God
as my witness, I will avenge you. For me, dying is not an option. Those
cowardly bastards will have their day, have their day to taste my blade for
all they've done to me.
    All they've done... what do I mean, "All they've done?" Your death is
"All" enough!
    I wish your soul Godspeed, Marianne. As to me, there are long nights
ahead, and the seed of vengeance has only begun to sprout.

************

    Alicia Ramses, wife of notable charity worker Gilbert Ramses. She was
twenty seven, he is forty seven. Classic gold digger scenario but they
maintain the marriage was an unbelievable fairy tale. She was killed by an
assassin - a rather famous one at that - who was most likely contracted by
one of Gilbert's enemies. The killer is still at large, beware all citizens
of this city.
    Amazing what one can learn from the newspaper.
    "Yeeeaaahhh, darn shame, eh?"
    I cock my head and peer strangely at the middle aged waiter.
    "That Alicia Ramses," he says, pointing to the headline of my paper,
"She was a beaut, eh? Had it made too living with old man Gilbert and all,
eh?"
    Smiling at the man, I spout a quick, "Yeah, what a shame," before
moving onto another subject, another more interesting subject. "I'm new
around and I just don't get why everyone's crying over this."
    He replies with a short laugh, albeit boisterous and loud. "Ma'am, it's
best you don't know either!"
    "Enlighten me."
    He scoots into the chair across from me and begins weaving his story of
underworld politics and regional common knowledge. Turns out this Gilbert
fellow, though great giver, is a fairly questionable character. He's like
Al Capone to Chicago or Al Paccino to gangster movies: he owns Montreal. Of
course, power struggles between smaller factions occur all the time, only
this certain round particularly hurt the mob boss, both socially and
emotionally. People making a big deal out of this are either truly grieving
or grieving in order to rub salt into the wound.
    Amazing what one can learn from a waiter.
    "Confounded, eh?"
    I shake my head and press on. "Who's this killer? Must be pretty
effective," effective... yeah, that's a good way to put it, "if he can take
out all the bodyguards."
    "Ay, nobody really knows. Only a few people - those big important
people - know how to contact him. Heard he's been around for ten years at
least; never fails to get his mark." He coyly sidles closer to me and
lowers his voice to a mysterious whisper, "Makes one think, eh? Could be
your neighbor, your best friend, your father, even your lover, eh?"
    "Why don't you tend to your business before you try your hand at mine?"
I point to the growing line of impatient customers growling at the door for
their breakfast.
    Like a slapped servant, he hurries away and leaves me alone to finish
my meal.
    A mysterious assassin who works for the crime syndicate... Sounds so
cliche. Where's the private eyes in trenchcoats and corrupt cops chewing on
donuts while looming over a body? Yeah, this is cliche alright. Classic mob
boss, classic murder, classic "Who-Done-It" scenario - almost gives me the
urge to step aside and let some other brave soul handle it, like MacGuyver
or Dick Tracy.
    Almost.
    No use in denying that a sadistic animal is on the loose, one not even
a bomb made of Bisquik can stop. This might as well be my first good deed,
my first baby step toward some kind of redemption.
    Never was a better time to start than now.
    Folding up my newspaper, I throw some money on the table and make my
out to the streets. If I'm going to find out who this mystery meat cleaver
is, I'll need a list of suspects.
    Guess it's time for Sailor V to make a sudden comeback.

**************

    "James, James, James... How in God's name did you get this way?"
    I grimace at the doctor and grunt, "Accident."
    "Sure," he breathes, "I always fall on things that impale my shoulder
and thigh, eh?"
    "Just shut up and do your job."
    No more snide remarks left, he returns to busying himself with his
medical equipment. I'm guessing a few shots here, a quick run through with
his surgical tools and I'll be fine. Oh, right, and don't forget the
obligatory "Don't-strain-yourself" speech.
    "Well," he says holding a big, long, needle like object, "I'm going to
have give you a few shots to get the wounded area numb enough for this
laser here to do its job. Then, I'll graft some skin and meld it back
together. I'll stick a few artificial bone implants in there too; they'll
last until you actually heal." Firing up his laser, the doc puts on a pair
of goggles and prepares to give me a thorough thrashing, but before that,
"Oh, right, and James? Don't strain yourself after this operation. I'd hate
to see all my work go to waste."
    "Of course."
    "Now close your eyes chap, you might not want to see this."

Thirty minutes later...

    Shrugging on my coat, I wince at the tenderness brought by the doctor's
surgery. My limbs will not be a hundred percent, but they'll do; vengeance
waits for no man, not even the one seeking it. If I'm going to find out who
killed my beloved Marianne, a great deal of investigation must be done.
    Time to pay a visit to some friends of mine.
    Never trusted them much, but when there's enough cash in front of their
faces, they'll sell their mothers in a-
    By accident, I crash into a woman; we both fall over, landing in an
undignified heap.
    "Excuse me," I dejectedly reply, slowly getting up as to not tax my
wounds.
    The woman lifts her head - her golden crown - and peers at me with two
globes of sapphire blue eyes. My heart skips a beat. Then another. My God,
this angel's appearance reminds of-
    "Sorry," she quickly apologizes, "I just wasn't..."
    "Have we met before?"
    A questionable look breezes by her face, a look that brims with
tiredness of the situation. "No, and I'm sure of it. I really have to go so
could you please-"
    Beside myself with ghostly recognition, I grab hold of woman's hand and
say, "Do you know the name Marianne?"
    "No," she answers firmly.
    "Are you related to the good family of-"
    "NO."
    "Do you know my face?"
    "NO! Now leave me be!"
    Alas, I am but grabbing at straws. What's the chance of Marianne alive,
or better yet, her having a long lost relative I've never met? Slim to
none. Slim to none.
    Thoroughly embarrassed, I release the doppelganger's hand. "Sorry," I
apologize, casting my eyes at the ground, "I... I completely lost myself in
the moment. Excuse me for my brash behavior."
    Sad, sad, sad... so pathetically sad to see her eyes in all who pass.
But I can't help it; every blonde head, every blue eye - they remind me so
much of my lost love, lost to the coward's bullet. Can I help but laugh at
myself, laugh at myself for being so naive?
    So cowardly?
    So hopeful?
    Can I help myself?
    I can't, so I let out a short, sad, pathetic laugh. Sounds like a noise
only emitted by the conceited, but who am I to view that label in negative
light? Without her, without her love, without her warmth, without her
conscience, I might as well be a conceited shell.
    It's a step up from wherever I'm presently at.
    Turning away, I hoarsely whisper, "Sorry," once more, hoping to make a
quick exit in the confusion. I've already embarrassed myself enough in
front of this young lady, no need to demote myself to a pansy by bawling
like a baby in her presence.
    So I run, just like how any person would handle it. My blood may be
cold as ice but because of that, my heart is as brittle. Achilles heel of
the killer - we don't defend against emotional breaches very well.
    Twisting and turning through road and rue, I end up on a small
fisherman's pier. Dank deadwood cracks under my shoes, the only other sound
my tears slowly falling to the hollow ground. Here I can be alone, cry to
myself, and beat myself up over what-ifs and what-nots in perfect privacy.
I can be with Marianne, if not in body, then perhaps, maybe... just
maybe... in spirit.
    My legs automatically give out; I slump to the wood, nearly bursting
through it with my sudden shift of weight. My hands shake uncontrollably,
memories of her blood caked over them invade my mind. Her lips - her cold,
cold lips - pressed against mine for one last time - the odd feeling surges
forth and envelopes me. Steam from the warmed water rising into the cooled
air reminds me of the steam rising from her chest, her mangled chest.
    I remember, though remembrance likely since the event recently passed,
but I don't want to remember. It hurts so much to live with this emptiness,
this unfulfilled gap, this sense of guilt.
    To see thirty years of life, love, and utter perfection uprooted before
your very eyes... it's... it's...
    A hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Normally, I would spin around,
perhaps throw a short elbow and roll away to have more room to maneuver.
But no. I don't feel like fighting today. The fleeting train of vengeance
has left its station without me, leaving me behind to eat the bitter dust
and stale wind. My resolve has abandoned me to my own device of torture,
the conscience.
    My, my, my, but I'd rather bear the wounds of an army than hear my
inner demons...
    ... maybe this nameless hand will silence them for me.
    "I believe you dropped this," sounds a cool, gentle voice. Another hand
appears from behind holding my wallet. "Couldn't you have run a little
slower? I don't bite... at least, not anymore."
    "Thanks," I mumble, my voice trembling like a scared little kid.
    Weight shifts, making the old wooden dock creek with agony. A gentle
thump later, I am treated to a concerned look by the woman I left behind
mere moments ago. She smiles at me like a goddess. Her radiance seems to
bounce off of the water, plunging the rickety dock in a soothing, peaceful
light. The birds chirp louder, the water looks clearer, and the air is
crisper - she breathes life into these comatose objects, restoring them to
their former glory.
    It's amazing, beautiful...
    Even without saying a word she reminds me of my dearly departed
Marianne...
    "It might not be my business to pry," she begins, "but it's not every
day a grown man runs away crying like a baby, so I'm fairly curious about
your state of mind."
    I glance at woman and sigh. "You won't care. Besides, piling my
troubles onto you won't help you any."
    "But it might help you."
    It sounds like something she would say, so brimming with hope and
concern. That kind of heart is rare in these days, rare enough that a man
would be lucky to even come in contact with one. Am I so blessed as to see
two infinitely merciful souls? "Are you sure you aren't Marianne?"
    She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, "Who is this Marianne you keep
referring to?"
    "My love," I reply, "She was recently... taken."
    "My condolences."
    "As well as mine."
    Like so, we talk through day, soaking in the abnormally peaceful
surroundings. Shooting the breeze - I believe that's what Americans call
it. She asks about this, about that, about me, about Marianne, about life
in general. Though answers deep and personal, I feel comfortable around her
and let her see my true self, the one with the sensitivity and sadness. I
can tell she feels sorry for me and hates to see my suffering; perhaps she
hates to see it in all human beings. There's a sense of goodness abounding
in her, a sense of hope in a world where there is none. In that respect,
she is so much like Marianne, so happy, joyful, and... and... wonderful.
    "You would have liked Marianne," I say while skipping a rock, "You two
think so much alike."
    "And how do you think I think?"
    "I think you know how I think you think," I wink mischievously, "All
believing in the world and such. You're an optimist, unafraid to work
toward changing the world for the better."
    She laughs at my comment, laughing like it's the funniest thing in the
world. "So you think I'm a saint or something?!"
    "Something like that."
    "My, my, my... people can be so wrong..."
    Thinking turnabout is fairplay, I flip the question around and ask,
"What kind of person am I?"
    Her eyes gloss over me, picking apart my every moral fiber, appraising
me like a general or drill sergeant; I stand tall under her scrutiny, stand
tall like I have something to prove. Already I consider her an equal though
we've only know each other for five hours. There's a special quality in
her, one that invokes trust, friendship, and love.
    Absentmindedly, I wonder if she really is an angel, someone Marianne
sent down from heaven to help me with my wounded heart and mind.
    "You're a good person," she says after a long silence, "Not many in
this world have the ability to love and grieve like you. I know you're one
of the few souls with a heart because of the love you have for Marianne."
    Now it's my turn to laugh! If only she knew... If only she knew...

************

    It's funny how things just kinda take off. This morning I was hell bent
on reliving the life of a crime fighter, but tonight, I feel like doing
nothing but lounging on a large armchair and talking...
    Plus it's raining outside, so James' house is more than a comfortable
shelter from the elements.
    Speaking of James, what an unique character, no? He's mysterious and
dangerous, but at the same time quite intriguing and passionate. I guess
the best way to describe him is negatively seductive - he draws you to him
through faults and weaknesses. Only hours ago did we have our first
exchange, and now, I'm sitting in his lavish abode, listening to his pains.
    Feels like I'm intruding somehow. His love of thirty years just died
and I'm here looking like I'm swooping in for his heart. Real smooth
Mina... Real smooth...
    As the grandfather clock tolls six, James gets up from his seat and
stretches. Noticing the time, he offers me his hand and says, "Would you
like some dinner? I know this nice seafood place not far from here."
    I really shouldn't. I'm intruding as it is and accepting him would be
leeching off of him. I really shouldn't overstay my welcome. Besides,
there's work to be done, murders to be solved, and killers to be brought to
justice. Procrastinating will only lead to more bodies and more problems.
    "Yeah sure. Thanks, James."
    Stupid, stupid, stupid!!! Maybe I should think before I open my trap
from now on, or at least keep my hormone induced thoughts in check...
    Hormone induced? Did I just say, "Hormone induced?"
    "Hm?"
    Oh great. "Sorry, nevermind."
    Shrugging off my Freudian slip, I grab my overcoat and wait for James
to get an umbrella. "Are we going to walk or drive?"
    "Walk," he replies, "It's very close by and I thought a walk in the
rain would be..."
    He blatantly lets the rest of his sentence taper off, half stopping
himself, half expecting me to finish it for myself. I decide to let it
slide, letting it mean nothing but that of a suspended thought. Words mean
nothing unless people assign values to them; his words are nothing as long
as I don't think about them.
    This is but a mere dinner, I tell myself, a fee for my troubles;
afterall, I did return his wallet, I did comfort him in his time of need,
and I did accompany him back to his house. This is a friendly gesture, a
casual thank you for a shred of pity and patience. I should start taking
life at its face value and stop looking into deeper meanings; subterfuge
only produces undue head and heart aches.
    What I don't think cannot hurt me...
    Clearing his throat, James hooks my arm and opens the door. It's
raining outside, raining hard, so hard in fact it's hard to see. With the
sun set and moon clouded, the droplets of water turn into black sludge, as
black as the hollow night. They seem to be products of the dreary
atmosphere, like projectiles thrown by ungodly creatures to muffle the
senses.
    Tonight, there will be more accidents.
    Tonight, people will cower in their mansions, homes, and sheds, waiting
for liquid death to pass.
    Tonight, all life in this battle field will drown. The grass will die,
the birds will fall from their nest, the squirrels will freeze, and the
homeless... the homeless will drown in their own fluids, drowned from a sea
of uncaring, unforgiving, and undying peers.
    Makes me wonder why I'm out here at all.
    "Shall we?" James says, smiling brightly. I nod.
    With the flick of his wrist, the black umbrella opens and shields us
from the relentless pellets of water. Suddenly, I can see again, the rain
much less imposing. We walk slowly, huddled together to keep the warmth
from escaping; it's natural reaction, nothing more. Indeed I do feel
warmer, much warmer, like I was standing next to a fire. When I look up, I
see his peaceful face, icy features of yesterhours melted away, emotional
turmoil all but disappeared. While his dark trenchcoat, dark eyes, dark
hair, and dark umbrella blend in with the night, his heart glows with
unheard of passion, illuminating everything under his protection in
rejuvenating companionship, friendship, and love.
    I should know being the Senshi of Love and all.
    He is a fighter this James character. He picks his battles well and
defends his home till the end. A person like him is born to do great
things... or terrible things. For all my years of living, I have only seen
his kind of aura, poise, and demeanor once, that kind of heart which
pulsates with determination, trust, loyalty, and innocence. I've seen it
once - seen it in Usagi - but no more.
    Now, I see it in James, but only... only... different, like he had to
work for it.
    "Tell me," I whisper, breaking our comfortable silence, "Why did you
love Marianne?"
    Instead of adopting a mournful tone, he speaks wistfully, happily,
almost as if she were still alive, quietly listening to our friendly
bantering. "She's the person I want to be but can't be, you know what I
mean? She's everything I'm not. I can't put aside my..." He pauses,
undoubtedly to edit some information, "... my faults - my selfishness, my
greed, my addictions - and see the world as she does. I want to be able to
be like her because it's much happier, much more fulfilling. When I walk
into an empty room, I say it's barren, dull, and boring. When she walks
into an empty room, she says it's private, soothing, and peaceful. I want
to be like that... but I can't." He flashes a longing glance my way and
smiles lopsidedly. "I can't be like that," he repeats, "so I'll settle for
loving someone who is like that."
    "Next best thing, no?"
    "Having the best is great, but second isn't bad at all."
    I grin at his past statement, noticing his progression toward his
previously lofty dream. "But second," I remind him, "is the first loser."
    "Or the second winner," rebuts James, fully caught on to my subterfuge.
"It's all in perspective."
    ... It's all in perspective...
    It's all in perspective.
    How true is that? One man's fun is another's hell, no use denying it.
For all our greatest moral, social, and economic accomplishments, we can
never navigate around human nature, the ignoramus part of us that finds
truth in subjectivity. While a bum would be perfectly happy in a small
apartment, a rich man would see it distasteful and filthy. While someone
may think they're helping, they may not be - history has taught us that
scathing lesson many times, all the way from the Crusades to the Witch
Trials to the Vietnam War to... to... the Purging.
    I can't think about it without cringing... but it also reminds me of a
penance I set for myself just this morning...
    "Mina, are you cold? You're shivering."
    "It's nothing," I murmur, hiding my uneasiness by pulling my coat
closer to myself, "I'll live, at least till dinner is done so I can die on
a full stomach."
    Bemused, my newfound friend hugs me closer. "You would've loved
Marianne. She had a full stock of those morbid little quips; used them like
they were tattooed on the back of her hand."
    "I am not morbid!" I playfully fire back.
    "Uh-huh," he nods sarcastically, "It's all in perspective."
    "You're damn right it's all in perspective!"
    "Yeah, the right perspective and wrong perspective, i.e., mine's being
right and yours being-"
    For that, I slyly stick my foot out to trip him, to give him a face
full of mud water and acid rain. Call me morbid will you...
    "Let's see if you still think I'm morbid after you kiss the pavement."
    "Wha? Sorry, I wasn't paying att-"
    SPLASH!!!



*******************
Six months later...
*******************



    I'm sure the days go by faster. Isn't it always the case when you're
having fun? It's another one of life's little ways to screw you over,
because, as they all say, "Life is bitch. Then you die."
    But I'll accept it. Time is one of the things I have plenty of. Think
about now I've earned my right to be a carefree and contented spirit.
    As I lay on the bed in my silken nightgown, sun shimmering in from the
translucent curtains, I breathe a relaxing breath, one that fills my mind
with anticipation of the day ahead. Such has become my morning ritual for
the past few months, to wake up and see how good life can be. I've seen the
underbelly of society, seen it all from its impoverished multitudes to its
corrupted aristocracy. I've always thought from a negative viewpoint, from
the bottom of the emotional hole. I've always been faced with adversity -
broken hearts, broken families, broken cities, broken promises, broken
friendships - and it makes me focus on gaining physical, social, and
emotional ground, never allowing me to enjoy what I have.
    I'm beginning to take stock of myself and stop living in the future
because... because... the future is never certain, no matter how much I
want it to be.
    I'm living in the now.
    I've realized that now is the only time a person can live.
    Call me selfish. Call me blind. Call me stupid. Call me anything you
wish.
    None of it changes the fact: I am happy.
    Brushing off the dreariness of sleep, I amble downstairs, hoping to get
a cup of hot tea or coffee, something to wake me up. Before I even sidle
down the last step, the pungent aroma of French Vanilla assaults my senses,
nearly jump starting my drowsy mind on smell alone.
    James is out of bed, undoubtedly going about his daily routine.
Actually, his daily routine doesn't consist of much; it stops when we see
each other. From there, we play each day by ear, succumbing to every whim
and fancy imaginable by our fluttering hearts.
    I hear the clank of a fork and the scooting of a chair as I enter the
kitchen. "Good morning," James greets, planting a playful kiss on my cheek.
Already he has dropped everything, everything from his food to the morning
paper: all of it for me.
    Isn't it great to be in love?
    We hold each other tighter, savoring in the warm, cozy, fuzzy feeling
it brings. I sigh contently at the precious moment, swept away by the
simple yet oddly comforting gesture. "I'd like to wake up like this
everyday," I quietly murmur, almost in an utopian daze.
    "And so you shall," he promises, "forever and a day... that is, if
forever and day isn't too long for you."
    "No. It's just right."
    We stay like that for an eternity, maybe even two, never moving, never
tiring; being together is enough to occupy our minds and bodies.
    Yes, love is great; it makes everything else so much more wonderful!
    Look, over at the window! The sun - dull and filtered - shines as
bright as it did a million years ago. Take a whiff of the kitchen! The
coffee aroma - excessive and overpowering - calms to a mellow scent,
filling the room with morning's freshness. And outside! Even the dew
covering the grass simmers like diamonds - hundreds of thousands of
majestic, flawless diamonds.
    Then, after the steam stops rising from the coffee and the dew
evaporates, James raises his head and interrupts the romantic silence. "So
what do you want to do today?"
    "Give me a few minutes and I'll tell you."
    "You need time to think?"
    "No."
    "Why then?"
    "I'm enjoying this. Don't ruin the mood."

*************

    Karma... I never believed in it. Who in this day and age would believe
in the ludicrous idea of "What goes around comes around"? If such was the
case, the entire world be one barren rock, devoid of all life because of
every living thing's sin: survival.
    Read the Bible a few times, in my infantile years of course, and even
then it didn't make much sense. Some people - those religious, pious few -
told me that the book boiled down to "Treat your neighbor as yourself."
    Ha! Not very practical advice, no, not even rational.
    Still, while impractical, irrational, and illogical, these ideas are
true. Nothing may make sense, nothing may resonate with my spiritual
nature, but my rejection does not make them false.
    It is especially hard to deny when proof of such words drag me to a
screeching halt and stare me in the face.
    As I stand today in front of Marianne's gravestone, I prepare to close
the first chapter of my life and begin anew, one with Mina. These past
months have been a confusing maelstrom, mixed with hearty doses of regret,
happiness, guilt, innocence, fury, and love. I always thought Marianne
would out live me - my death, as I envisioned, would be early and unnatural
- so I never considered what I would do without her.
    When she lay dead in my arms, my instincts told me to cry and weep for
eternity, to hold her memory in my heart like an undying flame, hoping,
waiting for her soul to find its way back to me. I thought the reaction
natural, required by some unwritten law. Thirty years of childish rivalry,
puppy love, dates, arguments, and reunions all disappeared like wisps of
smoke; my heart shut down then and there, never expecting to turn back on.
    Imagine the guilt I felt when deadened emotions, locked away, held for
one and only one special person, rumbled back to life... and for a woman I
had never seen. I thought it wrong at first, unnatural and sickening. I
ignored those feelings my heart poured forth and went about my dirty
business of vengeance.
    I thought I couldn't love anymore.
    But now I realize that love can happen anywhere, anytime, any place. Am
I being unfaithful? Perhaps. Am I being selfish? Maybe.
    One thing I cannot deny is life's inherent drive for happiness, for
everything to wrap up in a neat little package. I loved- No! I still love
Marianne...
    That's what drew me to Mina.
    Those two, they're so much alike in the ways they talk, act, think, and
feel; one is synonymous with the other. At first, Mina peeked my interest
because she, in my mind, WAS Marianne. I loved Mina because I love
Marianne. The former was my desperate lunge for whatever pathetic remnants
of old love remained. I took advantage of her, used her as fuel for my
stubborn mind, used her to reject reality.
    She quickly proved to be much more than an object of remembrance.
    From smile to gait, she is her own person. She lives in the shadow of
none other: when I realized her worth, I faced reality. She allowed - and
still allows - me to face the world, the world without Marianne... Only
instead of facing the world whining like a little baby, waiting for my
beloved to show up at my side, I stand tall and move on.
    She gives me strength. She gives me purpose. In return, I give her
myself.
    It just so happen she fell in love with me and my faults. I guess I
remind her of someone too.
    Thus, from death born new life, from sadness rises happiness. Even in
the darkest of times, life isn't bad; what God takes with his left, he
returns with his right. Although Marianne lies forever in the cold earth,
her spirit lives on in my heart, mind, and soul...
    ... not to mention in the eyes of her heaven sent angel, Mina.
    And now, what I hold in my hand is the final piece of this vicious
cycle, the thing that started me off on this voyage of life. Ironic it
should be death, vengeance, but I'm sure God has a great sense of irony.
Let me read it to you, Marianne. Let me rest your soul in peace at long
last.
    "Dear sir, you are invited to the annual 'Masquerade Charity Ball' by
the gracious host, Gilbert Ramses. Dress accordingly and appropriately for
this occasion which will take place blah, blah, blah..."
    You get the picture. I was never good with words.
    For you Marianne, a measure of retribution - I know your death was his
doing, I just know it. Months I have mulled over the question of who, what,
why, and how: he is the only suspect. Him and his deadly... deadly
killer... I've asked everyone, listened to every flapping jaw and moving
lip. I know not what and how, but who and why are as clear as crystals.
    For you Marianne, my beloved. I bid you a farewell and a peaceful,
restful goodnight, hopefully one less fitful than ones you've had in this
mortal realm. As to me, the sun is rising: I must seize the day.

***********

    I run as fast and as far as my legs can take me. The mask... the
terrible, dreadful, inhuman mask finally reared its ugly head today, its
perch set on the face of James. Months I hear not a peep from that cold
blooded murderer; months I read not a single snippet of kills or marks. I
thought he all but forgotten, lost to the injuries I had brought upon him.
    Little did I know I was sleeping with him.
    I... I... don't know what to say, what to think. One second I was
dressing for a ball, the next and well, I'm here, sobbing like a kicked
dog. And like a kicked dog, it hurts. The wound, the memories, the pride -
it hurts so much I want to lay down and die.
    I remember, way, way back when, there was an American movie about a
rape. The investigator arrested who he thought was the rapist and asked,
"What's worse than rape?!"
    The guy behind the prison bars looked at his captor with steely, war
hardened eyes and whispered, "When you find out, you'll know everything,
won't you?"
    He eventually did find out what was worse than rape.
    Betrayal.
    The only thing worse than being violated is being violated by someone
you trust... but trust doesn't express the bond we shared. I loved that
man! Do you hear me?! LOVED, I say! For once in my life, I found somebody
who would be by my side no matter what. For once in my life, I found a
constant, someone I could hold on to! For once in my life, I found someone
who was not just infatuated with me, but who also took me for who I was!
    Do you have any idea how it feels to live a thousand years, waking to
the sound of your own breath each and every day? To open your eyes and find
no one but yourself, to see love but know it not in grasp, to fight and die
for life but never reap its rewards!!! What did I ever do to deserve such
torture?! What did I do to be like a horse, baited by a carrot tied to a
stick, forever seeing but never receiving the prize?!
    What did I do to taste what I've protected for generations then to have
it taken away?
    It's cruel... unjust... UNFAIR!
    Why?! Why of all the people - the drunks, the crooks, the poor, the
dumb - did it have to be James?! Why couldn't he at least find the courage
to show me his dark side?! That way, my dreams would have been aborted like
unwanted children, uplifted by the root before they could even see the
light of day! No, he didn't tell; he had to live two lives, the one of a
lover and the one of a killer! He had to have it all: the thrill of life
and the chill of death.
    He used me, played me as a fool to satisfy some insatiable drive for
more, more, MORE! I... I...
    ... I was weak. I am weak.
    Above that, I was stupid to believe in love, especially for a pathetic
sap like me. After all that time, haven't I learned that nothing turns out
my way? Damn it, I was born to be a defender of justice and I even fucked
that up!
    I think I need some time, time to myself, time to forget about the rat
races.
    You know that feeling, don't you? That feeling you get when your soul
becomes some sort of black hole, sucking in every emotion floating out
there until sensory overload?
    Yes, that's how I feel. Legs fleeing in blind terror, hands quivering
with anger, heart arrested by betrayal, spine stiffened by hate - yes,
that's how I feel. That's all I feel, the tsunami of love relentlessly
crashing into my useless levies. Every breath I take sears my lungs and
powers the juggernaut of confusion; I grow weaker by the second under its
depriving control, weaker like a wounded murderer.
    As I limp away from this town ready to find a new hole to crawl into, I
just realize how much we are alike James and I. It is that likeness that
drew us together and it is that likeness that crushed me.
    Two killers...
    Two insatiable drives...
    Two stubborn minds...
    Two injured souls...
    Two pairs of soiled hands...
    My, my, strange bedfellows indeed. We are the same, he and I, and I
hate him for that. How did I ever love him when I couldn't even love 
myself?



           The portrait of a killer is like none other painting.
           First, you begin with a canvas as dark as his heart.
              Then, without rhyme or reason, you draw a man,
                             Any man will do.
              How does this man look? Simple? Ugly? Charming?
                  Does his eye gleam with feral prowess?
             Does his mouth curl like Achilles' lipless smile?
                            Do you have a clue?
              Strange, my friend, is what the painting says.
      How alone this bringer of death, to share this perch with none.
              Stranger still, my friend, is how much this man
                               Resembles you.




**************
Author's Notes
**************

    Recently, I KNOW my writing has gone downhill. If you have any requests
to make, critiques to add, please mail me. Next installment, I'm looking for
a return to the first chapter, which is what I consider my best. Still, I
hope you enjoyed this story; it was a great stress reliever for me.

-Don.