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Prolouge: Harmonica: The Prolouge
Posted by Frank, Mar 23, 2010. 899 views. ID = 3381

Prolouge: Harmonica

Posted by Frank, Mar 23, 2010. 899 views. ID = 3381
This post was written in 2 minutes.
This is a story of a psycopathic serial killer with a crime filled past on a killing spree and one deluded dectective
This post has been awarded 7 stars by 2 readers.
This post is Part 1 of a writing series titled The Musical.

Prolouge: The Harmonica
Its a whining night.
A Cold, fresh, sterile night in the outskirts of a forest, another night of black water and bright flashing lights in the distance.
Just another night.
The air smells like rotten wood and fish, and it seems to pulsate with the wind, in the distance someone is playing the harmonica. Soft notes.
Rodrigo steers his whitewashed Scarab speed boat into the harbour while Javier and Fernando leap aboard the dock. Rodrigo smiles, they have made it safley across once again. His two brothers tie a thick rope around the stern then around a pole while he shuts off the engine. Although they are safe, still they fear. In their business they must always fear.
Notes, soft notes waft from the distance.
The year is just begun and the city is cold and dark.
The kind of place they've docked is a small warehouse next to the shore. Its dark and far away from any kind of society save a few fishermen and rich kids with yachts'. Thats why its perfect for Rodrigo. The boat is now secure and they can begin the business they came for.
Fernado and Rodrigo begin to hand Javier a small cardboard box , while he stacks it next to thier luggage looking occasionally behind his back. Lights from other boat are seen in the distance.
Flashing lights.
Bright dead lights.
The three are not alarmed when another boat pulls up beside a warf, in fact they are comforted, for the man whom drives it, Jason Nesbit by name, is a policeman.
On their side.
He inspects all the happenings and is pleased, well pleased, after all 10% is a fine sum. The plump officer sits on the edge of the warf about thirty feet away and keeps his eye out for anything suspicous that might be a hinderance while all the time keeping his hand snug against the .38 service revolver pressed to his hip. The keen grey eyes scann everything in front of him. In the back the Mexican brothers work hard. But his problem is that he keeps his eyes on the things in front of him, not, as fate and careful planning would have it, behind. He doesn't hear the swimmer, swimming slowly and stealthly behind him, the glarring swimmer with a knife in the water, no, he looks to his troubles ahead, and it is the last mistake he made.
Yes sir, don't look behind you, consequences are not there,
Keep your eyes on your trouble and the wind out of your hair,
For I in my prowess and might shall keep them safe with me.
The brothers stop their work at the sound of a spash. Ripples pulsate all around the warf, but their man is not to be seen. And a certain silence has come over everything.
But the soft clear notes of the old harmonica are heard.
From the dark two loud muffled yet sharp sounds are heard. There is a wet smack as Javiers head turns sharply to the right from the impact of the bullets. He crumples to his knees then falls into the water while blood sloshes from the head wound. Fernado curses in Spanish and reaches in his pocket for the .22 automatic pistol kept there. Another two muffled shots are heard and he is flung against the windshield spraying blood onto the steering wheel and seat.
Rodrigo is left.
His feet have turned to ice and his forehead throbs while his pulse rises.
Watch out boy, his mother said to him once, one of these days all your sins are comming back down on you.
One of these days.
Rodrigo kneels and fumbles in the darkness for Fernandos gun. He feels the blood and the cold fleash as he looks for the pocket.
Then he hears it.
A soft swishing sound of wet shoes, of someone walking behind you. Someone who knows who you are and what you've done. Rodrigo doesn't dare look behind him, there is still hope.
But that hope ends with the killers first words.
"Can you sing?"
Silence as the Mexican stops struggling.
"What?" he croaks, "What do you want from me?"
"You heard me well enough, can you sing?"
"I sing well, I know how the congas and the guitar..."
"Very good," the soft sick voice of a tormented soul says behind him, he feels a gloved hand on his neck "You see, I'm quite the musician myself and I have prepared a lovely little piece for you."
Thats when Rodrigo heard the flick of the switch blade.
Run away, what are you running from, I'll be there where ever you go.
Run, Rodrigo, run far, far away.



Copyright 2010 Frank. All rights reserved. FifteenMinutesOfFiction.com has been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work. For permission to reprint this item, please contact the author.
 


   
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This post has been awarded 7 stars by 2 readers.
This post is Part 1 of a writing series titled The Musical. The next part of this series can be found here: Chapter one part one.




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