Total Write Off - 1.4 (Madness) - finished

The rain was relentless, painting the streets with an inky blackness. Despite the weather, John had a good night. He had numbed the voice with an offering, and his mind was his own once again. It would be back soon enough, but he appreciated the brief respite.

He was home again. This week his home was a large sturdy cardboard diaper box. Even after 2 days continuous rainfall, it was holding together quite well and staying relatively dry. The others didn't know about his secret alley, half way down Fifth Street. Zig zagging chutes, a maze of fire escapes, and wrought iron balconies combined to provide protection from the elements.

John opened a nearby manhole cover and took out his treasure box, which had been taped to the side of the drain within. His treasure box was a large coffee jar, and he added his latest treasure to the collection within. The jar was nearly full. One more offering would complete his collection. He put his nose to the opening and inhaled deeply. God he loved that smell. He closed the lid and cradled the treasure box like a proud father. Staring blankly at a dancing puddle across the alley, he rested while he could. The voice would disturb him again soon enough.

---

John woke with a start. It was still dark, and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. He looked at his watch. He didn't know what the symbols meant, but Donald Duck's arms were both pointed to the right - morning was still some time away.

The voice whispered to John, and he nodded. It was time for another offering. He put the treasure box back in it's hiding place and stepped out of the alley. There was still activity on the street. It was the weekend, so people were leaving clubs and parties. Men in their flashy shirts, expensive jackets, white teeth and jewellery. Jewellery! Fags. The women were dressed like whores, all painted faces and short skirts. It was raining for chrissakes.

He had a routine now. There was a line of cabs three blocks over on 8th Street, beside the bus depot. Just far enough outside his own neighbourhood. You don't shit on your own doorstep. The voice had taught him that. He watched the cabs from the shadows across the street and waited. He didn't have to wait too long.

A couple were having a very public fight. The man had obviously done something wrong because the girl was doing all the shouting. Her arms were animated like a demented marionette and his shoulders were slumped, resigned to the tirade of abuse. John watched her performance. She was pretty with a slim build and long blonde hair. Her dress was shimmering under the streetlights. She stopped shouting, punctuating her final sentence with a slap. The girl stormed off, away from him, away from the line of cabs.

John followed her from across the street. She walked with dignity, but she was crying. She wasn't paying attention to her surroundings. John wasn't sure if the voice approved - it had been silent for a few minutes now. John didn't need the voice now - this was the part that he enjoyed most, the part he could do by himself. The voice had warned him before not to get cocky, but he didn't care. He was getting good at this now. He let the girl get a bit ahead of him, and he crossed the street to follow her from behind.

Further down the street, a pair of eyes watched John from the wing mirror of a parked car.

---

He had decided to do it at the alley near the end of the block. Timing was important here. He had to catch up to her at the entrance to the alley. If he messed up here, there wouldn't be another suitable alley for 3 blocks. Unacceptable, said the voice. Shut up, said John. This was the only alley entrance in complete darkness with no lights on the main street. Nobody would see a thing if he timed it right.

John matched the footsteps of the girl, but with longer strides to catch up with her. After half a minute of synchronised strides he was right behind her, and she had no idea. He reached inside his coat and pulled out an eight inch knife with a curved blade and an ornate handle. His ceremonial dagger.

He grabbed the surprised girl from behind, covered her mouth and bundled her into the dark alley.

Across the street the occupant of the car spoke a hurried message into a handheld radio, opened his car door, unholstered his gun and ran towards the alley.

---

The voice was very angry. You fuсked up everything. John ignored it and ran for his life. Pleasing the voice didn't matter any more. Back at the sheltered alley, the only thing that mattered to John now was completing his collection. He lifted the manhole cover and retrieved his treasure chest. Opening the lid he deposited his latest offering, inhaled the scent and felt at peace. Finally his treasure was complete.

The rain had completely stopped now, and the sky had started to brighten. John didn't need to look at Donald Duck to know that it was almost morning. The walls of the alley lit up with flashing blue lights. They're here for your treasure, John. Stop them! John held the ceremonial dagger in one hand and his treasure in the other. With a primal scream he ran out into the street, where a lone gunshot rang out in the morning air.

The treasure chest fell to the ground and shattered, spilling its contents. John, now lying prone, watched the scene with horror. The patrolman shielded his face as millions of strands of hair were caught by the wind, corkscrewed into the air and scattered in all directions.

As an unfamiliar kind of darkness enveloped John, the voice made its disappointment known.

Congratulations to CYAN!
PLATINUM unfortunately it's time to say...




...Cyanara!