Difference between revisions of "Ghost Owl"
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<center>''The old reverend lay sprawled out on the white blanket like a morbid snow angel. Oddly serene for the scene of a murder; sad and tragic, yeah, but somehow darkly festive too. Maybe it was all that scarlet. And the guy '''was''' old - on that rugged, rawboned face, with its hard planes and tapestry of wrinkles, you could read the years, the decades, of hard living in a split second. But there was a quiet strength there too, a sense of dignity that not even death and a gaping bullet wound could steal away. Not an ordinary man, not by any means. But that didn't stop him dying a death that '''was''' all too ordinary - season's greetings, Hudson City style. | <center>''The old reverend lay sprawled out on the white blanket like a morbid snow angel. Oddly serene for the scene of a murder; sad and tragic, yeah, but somehow darkly festive too. Maybe it was all that scarlet. And the guy '''was''' old - on that rugged, rawboned face, with its hard planes and tapestry of wrinkles, you could read the years, the decades, of hard living in a split second. But there was a quiet strength there too, a sense of dignity that not even death and a gaping bullet wound could steal away. Not an ordinary man, not by any means. But that didn't stop him dying a death that '''was''' all too ordinary - season's greetings, Hudson City style. | ||
| − | ''But he wasn't alone. A kid in a hoodie, couldn't have been any older than sixteen, was huddled up against a nearby wall. He was shivering, not from the cold - he didn't even '''feel''' the cold, not now - but from the shock and '''horror''' of what he'd just seen. From the '''anger''' of allowing it to happen. Chances are, you know how | + | ''But he wasn't alone. A kid in a hoodie, couldn't have been any older than sixteen, was huddled up against a nearby wall. He was shivering, not from the cold - he didn't even '''feel''' the cold, not now - but from the shock and '''horror''' of what he'd just seen. From the '''anger''' of allowing it to happen. It was a Christmas he'd never forget. Chances are, you know how it goes: a good man dies, a bad man lives, a newborn vigilante, angry, screaming, is baptised in blood. Old tale, played out a thousand times over. But it has punch. It '''resonates'''. And you have to make allowances for the classics.'' |
''Nevertheless, this time around it seems somebody got bored with the same old script, demanded a last-minute twist thrown in. So a sharp-eyed observer - not that there any other witnesses that night, sharp-eyed or otherwise - would have noticed the kid was clutching something, staring down at it with the sort of wide eyed disbelief typically reserved for first-time alien encounters. It was a .45 revolver, and it had five bullets chambered. A spent shell casing, still warm, lay in the snow not three feet away. No prizes for guessing where the rest would be found. | ''Nevertheless, this time around it seems somebody got bored with the same old script, demanded a last-minute twist thrown in. So a sharp-eyed observer - not that there any other witnesses that night, sharp-eyed or otherwise - would have noticed the kid was clutching something, staring down at it with the sort of wide eyed disbelief typically reserved for first-time alien encounters. It was a .45 revolver, and it had five bullets chambered. A spent shell casing, still warm, lay in the snow not three feet away. No prizes for guessing where the rest would be found. | ||
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''The victim was later identified as Reverend Nathan Sutherland. But the kid would discover he'd been much better known by another name: '''Ghost Owl'''.''</center> | ''The victim was later identified as Reverend Nathan Sutherland. But the kid would discover he'd been much better known by another name: '''Ghost Owl'''.''</center> | ||
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| + | ='''''<div style="color:#FFFFFF; background-color: #3D1919">History</div>'''''= | ||
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| + | hoot hoot | ||
Revision as of 17:19, 10 September 2013
But he wasn't alone. A kid in a hoodie, couldn't have been any older than sixteen, was huddled up against a nearby wall. He was shivering, not from the cold - he didn't even feel the cold, not now - but from the shock and horror of what he'd just seen. From the anger of allowing it to happen. It was a Christmas he'd never forget. Chances are, you know how it goes: a good man dies, a bad man lives, a newborn vigilante, angry, screaming, is baptised in blood. Old tale, played out a thousand times over. But it has punch. It resonates. And you have to make allowances for the classics.
Nevertheless, this time around it seems somebody got bored with the same old script, demanded a last-minute twist thrown in. So a sharp-eyed observer - not that there any other witnesses that night, sharp-eyed or otherwise - would have noticed the kid was clutching something, staring down at it with the sort of wide eyed disbelief typically reserved for first-time alien encounters. It was a .45 revolver, and it had five bullets chambered. A spent shell casing, still warm, lay in the snow not three feet away. No prizes for guessing where the rest would be found.
