Brian stalked stealthily through the dark house. Having sneaked in through the door noiselessly using a set of lock picks, he was now sneaking quietly through the house, so as not to wake the occupants. He feet padded gently as he walked down the thick, expensive carpet, his ivory handled knife cradled loosely in his left hand. When he reached the door on the left he turned toward it, placing his hand gently on the brass door knob. He opened the door smoothly, deftly, noiselessly. The light scent of Ed Hardy perfume invaded his nostrils as a current of air moved from the room out into the hallway. Brian grinned satanically when he realized his next victim was going to be a teenager, a girl by the scent of the perfume. He walked up beside her bed. Nestled in the baby blue sheets lay a teenage girl, around the age of 14 or 15. She lay comfortably in the smooth sheets, wearing a spaghetti strap top, curled up on her side. Brian placed the tip of the knife on her hand, slowly tracing his way up her arm and to her shoulder. The could touch of the metal woke the girl from her pleasant dreams. She looked around groggily for a moment before her eyes settled in on the dark, menacing presence looming above her. Her eyes widened, she drew in a sharp inhale and screamed…
Brian woke with a bird cawing loudly as it circled over his body. The bright sunlight burst through his eye lids as he quickly opened and shut his eyes. “Damn that’s bright”, he thought. He immediately brought his hand up from the ground and placed it on his pounding head, using his thumb and middle finger to massage his temples in an attempt to alleviate the pounding migraine. He watched the replay of the already fading dream in his mind, the girl screaming, the ivory handled dagger. The girl had been his sister. All these killings were starting to effect him. It was only then that he recognized the gritty texture of sand that was between his hand a head. “What the hell,” He said in confusion. He sat up slowly and opened his eyes, opening and closing them quickly as he tried to adjust to the sudden brightness. When his vision cleared he looked around, noticing the sandy beach which transformed into a deeply wooded jungle about 15 yards from the start of the shore line. He looked around bewilderedly. “Where the heck am I?” He asked to himself as his eyes quickly took in the endless blue ocean that extended from the island.
He quickly stood up, a mistake that sent waves of pain through his head. He placed his gritty hand on his head again and closed his eyes. “Damn headache.” He thought as the waves pounded through his skull. Once the throbbing had subsided somewhat, Brian took the opportunity to look around at his surroundings in order to determine where he was. He took in the thick pine forest, the fine white sand, the aquamarine surf, the semi-humid air, and the mild, but not overly hot temperature. “Ultionis,” he thought. “This is exactly their style.” Brain would know because he had paid for their services previously. Brian thought back when he sat watching his parents battling for their lives on the barren landscape he had chosen specifically for their deaths. “Dear old mom and dad,” he thought. The got exactly what was coming to them. He had watched with satisfaction as they had bled out onto the ground, remember with vivid clarity their torturous methods against him when he was but a child. Anger began to bubble up inside him, burning and boiling, it threatened to consume him. He began to breathe deep and suppressed his anger, his distorted features replaced by his cold, hard, calculating face.
He began to think once again about his predicament. “No honor amongst clients, I suppose,” he thought dryly. “Then again, I wouldn’t exactly turn down that much money either. The question is, who paid to have me put on the island?” He reached into his pocket where he knew the letter would be. He grasped the edge and pulled it out, opening it up, it read:
To Mister Brian James Deck
You have been placed on this island due to the personal vendetta of one of your enemies, Mister Sam James Ryan. There are no rules and no regulations. Your goal is to survive. In order to win and go home you must survive the elements and kill your opponents; all of your opponents. There are 12 of you on the island. You will be notified when an opponent dies when there are special announcements. Let the game begin.
“Same James Ryan… he even has the same middle name as I do,” he thought uncaringly as he read on.
P.S. Sorry about this Brian, it’s just business.
“Of course Jonathan, I understand,” He said aloud so that the camera he knew was there would pick it up. “You can also understand that if I get out of here, I’ll kill you, the same as the rest of my victims. Perhaps I’ll even make your death a bit special.” A demonic smile replaced the cold and emotionless face as he thought about the possibilities. Before he got to involved in his deadly fantasies, he looked back down at the paper where another line was scrawled.
P.S.S. Brian, years ago, you killed my daughter, you killed my son, and you killed my wife. It would not make me any happier than to kill you right now as I watch your every move on this screen. But for all the pain you’ve put me through, it’s now your turn to suffer. You will know the meaning of true agony before your time is up, you will know what it’s like to lose everything, you will understand what you put me through before I kill you.
Brian crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder into the ocean. “A bit over-dramatic, don’t you think Sam,” he said aloud. Whoever this Sam was, he liked his style. Sure he didn’t take care of the job himself but at least he was man enough to do something about it. While his outer expression remained unchanged, he smiled inwardly. “Good, I like myself a challenge,” he thought, subdued excitement coursing through his veins. He turned toward the jungle and walked into the foliage, his form darkening as he entered the trees.
Sam sat in front of the large screen, his complexion changed by the ravages of a life based solely on the thoughts of revenge. His eyes were sunken with dark lilac circles underneath. His skin was prematurely wrinkled with a grey hue to it and his mouth was set in a permanent frown. The once proud face of a handsome man had been reduced to the aged face of one who had been through the worst of times with out the best of times. He watched in anger as the man who had killed his family and had taken his life stood on the beach.
He closed his eyes as the visions ran through his head. His daughter, laying dead in her bed, her eyes clouded, blank, and unseeing, her throat cut open in a jagged red line, her pale white skin, the dark crimson puddle around her. Then there had been his wife, her own throat sliced open in the same cruel manner, laying next to his daughter as she had tried to protect her from the bastard that looked at him through the screen. Her mouth had been open in a silent, eternal scream.
Sam shuddered as the visions filled his being, blocking out everything else but their cold bodies. He fell to his knees on the carpet, crying in great heaving sobs as he remembered. He directed all his sadness into anger at the man who had caused it, something he’d learned to do when the depression became too great. The anger coursed through him, replacing the sorrow with unrelenting fury. “AAAAAAAAAAHHHH,” He screamed with his head toward the ceiling. He stood up quickly, his eyes ablaze and his breath coming in deep and forced. He watched in rage as the Brian threw the paper into the water, heard his comment, and glared as he disappeared into the woods.
“Your time will come you nefarious bastard. And I intend to be the one holding the hour glass.” He stalked over to the wall, sending the tray of snacks flying against the wall. The glass plate shattered on impact, raining glass shards onto the carpet. He picked up the sniper rifle, jammed in a magazine and walked out the door, slamming it behind him as he headed out to the sniper stand.
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guy 1: - Who's that
guy 2: - I think its a king
guy 1: - Why do think that?
guy 2: - cause he hasn't got sh$t all over him! - Monty Python and the Holy Grail