A special Tip (Short Story)
The rain amplified the neon signs, and smothered the sounds of the prostitutes lining the street. With a singular taxi driving with smoke bleeding from every gap of the car. Mainly due to the fact that the Taxi driver had lungs of a whale and more cigarettes than a smoke shop. The smoke made it hard to see, but it looked like the red-light-district faded into the distance, as the residential area came into view.
Taking another peek at the tip–written on a dinner’s paper napkin– it said: “Meet me at 1672 5th avenue, 1:30pm, alone.” The note’s penmanship made chicken-scratch look like calligraphy. However you can figure out what it said; you just need to bribe a toddler to read it. But anyways, the address was to a ruin-down house that clearly took inspiration from the gothics and victorian era, but still had it’s american ranch charm–that can't be shaken off even if they tried.
After paying the taxi driver, and plunging into the rain, the building looked as if it grew, looming and bending over anyone who comes near (it’d be great if it bent anymore over it could’ve blocked the rain). But luckily the porch held up nicely with its grim gray wood, but at least it stopped the rain. Guess that works out for the owner since his newspaper and letters were scattered across the porch and was only slightly wet. But at least the newspaper and junk was swept to the side so there’s a pathway to the door. The door was the same grim gray wood as the porch; and it creaked open, with the lightest push of the pinky. Beyond the door, a coat rack stood with the essence of a hanging-tree paired with jackets that hung like men on the gallows, yet there was a jacket and a hat missing. The missing hat was on the floor like a decapitated head, leaning on the tan wall. Interestingly, the hat didn’t match the other black fedoras–this one was a leather-brown with a crimson ribbon; along with being drenched by the rain, leaving a puddle where it was lying on the floor. The wall the hat was leaning on had scratches and scars scattered upon its skin.
Upon walking into the living room, furniture was flipped and pushed, creating scratches on the oak floor. Located in the center of the room, where the dining table and chairs were flipped to its side, with all its components littered on the floor: a cracked plate, a fork, a knife, a steak, and a shattered cup. The steak wasn’t touched, not a cut nor slice, no blood on the fork, yet the knife was bloodied. Right next to the steak was a drop of blood, leading to the bathroom. The blood on the floor seemed sporadic, some big splotches here and there, and big gaps of nothing. But something that was fairly constant was the smeared blood on the floor, like something was dragged through it. The blood path pivoted into the bathroom. In there was a man (who wrote the note) bloodied and bruised, hanging from a pure white ceiling fan, illuminating the corpse, with the puddle of blood reflecting the scene of its owner.
Peeking from the hanging man’s pocket was another note. The note was a half-hazardly folded paper–with no blood stains. After unfolding it, it read: “This is the fate of anyone who stands against us, even if they’re one of our own.” The penmanship was messy, but manufactured messy, too keen and consistent to be natural. However there was another sentence about to be started but stopped quickly leaving a line as the writing instrument graze across the page, and the start of sentence was: “That includes you dec—”
Looking around some more, there was a footprint left in the blood puddle. It was a boot print, size 12, the culprit probably, male–just going off of the shoe size. But the boot-print was fairly fresh, and left a bit of a trail. Following the trail, the bloody boot-print started to dwindle after each step, then stopped. It stopped right under the quant window–not big enough for a man to fit through. But strangely there was some blood splatter on the mirror underneath the window–it’s too far do splatter from the hanged man. Moving a chair over, and peering through the small window, where the boots can be spotted outside. They were a couple of feet apart and one shoe was a few feet further than the other. They also weren't standing either, they were flopped on their sides–as if someone chucked them through the window, but didn’t retrieve them. Why would someone chuck their shoes through a window? Why not retrieve them? Why leave evidence at the scene? Maybe it’s a red-herring? Or maybe they’re still here?
Snooping around the house some more near the muder–with a revolver in hand. Trying to figure out where the culprit is hiding. There weren't many hiding places due to the worn-down nature of the house, so the only places to hide were either in a room, under something, or they climbed something. It took about three minutes to get from the front door to the murderscene, so the murder would only get about three-ish minutes to find a hiding spot. Walking around for a while, as the floor panels creaked after each step. A few minutes of searching another creak echoes from another room. Rushing towards that room, as the creaking of the floor increases in intervals tenfold, sounding like a chicago typewriter.
Catching up with the culprit. He looked like your average joe you’d find walking the street; and was wearing a leather-brown trench coat covered in blood, wearing no shoes. He was running around like a headless chicken, as the distance between us dwindled and dwindled. Then the revolver was pressed to his head as he reached a dead end. The man’s face didn’t look scared; he closed his eyes and tilted his head to the ceiling almost begging for his death. But it wasn’t his time. The revolver bashes his temple, knocking him out cold. A few moments later the police arrived, cuffing the murder and taking him away.
