1 One-Shot

    In a rickety apartment complex, a loud noise could be heard from inside one of the apartments. It was the sound of furniture being frantically piled up against a door. Then came the knocking. An axe head suddenly came through the door. It was an antique axe that the person living in the apartment had collected. Then the axe ripped out of the hole in the door. All went silent.

    In the apartment next door, an old lady was absently knitting a quilt in her living room. A radio quietly sung classical music upon a shelf with its steel throat. An oaken coffee table with a white doily that had been stained yellow by cigarettes crouched near the comfortable light green armchair that the old lady was so fond of. There was a white mug of coffee with a few chips in its porcelain body. The interior of it was stained brown from thousands of cups of coffee over the years.

The silence was broken as the splintered door was ripped out of its frame by a muscular man in a black suit and tie. He threw the door behind him, which broke the cupboards and a chair with a loud crash. He grabbed an antique two handed hammer which was also mounted on the wall in the kitchen and hefted it in his hands a few times to determine its center of gravity. It was an inch from the hammer's head. It had a comfortable leather grip that fit his large hands nicely. He slowly, but menacingly walked towards the doorway which he had torn the door off of. The furniture was in his way, so he lifted the hammer and with a heavy swing, he crushed a large amount of furniture that was in the way. Three more of those heavy swings and his path was clear. The man that had barricaded himself in the room looked around for an exit, but there was only one, and the hammer awaited him. He recoiled in horror as the clock struck nine.

The old lady heard a little crashing, but paid no heed to it as she set her knitting materials down on the arm of the light green chair. The chair had a few scratch marks. A calico striped cat managed to get on the high shelf where the radio was. It arched its back and hissed at the radio. The radio carelessly sung back. There were several more cats meowing, purring, and defecating in the apartment. The place smelled like a decaying body in rigor mortis. An old man with a cane slowly walked out of the kitchen. He had a bowl of steaming clam chowder in his left hand while his right hand clutched upon the cane. The old man set the bowl of clam chowder next to the ancient coffee mug on the coffee table. He slowly went back into the kitchen to get a bowl for himself. A crusty old dog lay on knitted oval rug near the sooty fireplace. It was a chocolate lab with arthritis and a muzzle that had gone grey with age. Its eyes had cataracts, so it was nearly blind. Its nose was crusty and dry, pieces hanging on by a thread. The old man came back with a bag of saltines and a bowl of steaming clam chowder for himself. He sat on the comfortable chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. The dog slowly raised its head and  inquisitively twisted it to the wall behind the couple.

The muscular man in the black suit dropped the hammer with a crash. His hands were as large as the paws of a bear. He grabbed the man cowering in fear against the wall with one hand and lifted him up a foot off the ground by his throat. The big man threw him at the wall.

The wall suddenly burst open with a cloud of dust and asbestos as a scrawny guy in pajamas was thrown into the room, breaking the antique coffee table. The mug flew off of the wreckage and shattered on the floor near the dog whom was startled and tried to get up and flee, but howled at the pain of his arthritis. The dog crawled away since one of its legs had been amputated long ago because of an infection. The old couple slowly turned their heads to the wall that was not. A hulking figure with an ungodly amount of killing intent stood in its place. The cats were meowing, hissing, and screeching. The calico striped cat lay dead beneath the rubble of the wall. 

The guy that was in the place of the coffee table coughed up blood as a leg from it had sprouted from his chest. He shakily started to stand up, using the chair that the old woman sat upon as a crutch. The dust settled and the hulking man in the black suit sauntered into the apartment from the large opening in the wall. The old man stood up and walked right up to the man in the suit. The man in the suit was over a foot taller than him. He looked up and yelled from his toothless mouth..

"Wut en gawd damn tarnation does y'all folks be doin in mah hoam?"

The muscular man in the suit grabbed the elderly man and suplexed him, breaking his neck and killing him instantly. He then stood up and walked over to the guy leaning on the chair and profusely sweating. Then, with his paws, tore the leg of the coffee table from that guys chest, also killing him instantly. The old lady was silently crying on the chair, but then shook violently. She died of a heart attack at that moment. 

The muscular man looked at the various cats. A siamese cat was silently chewing on the dead guys ear, eating it. Another siamese cat was drinking the guys blood. The hulking human in the black suit grabbed a canister of kerosine that was on a shelf by the radio. He opened the red plastic lid and poured it around both apartments. When he was done, he was inside the door of the nobody he had just killed. He took out a black flip phone and dialed a  number.

"The deed is done."

Then he closed the phone, ending the call, and nicely packed it in the pocket on the interior of his suit coat. He held a single puny match between his index finger and thumb. It was so small, yet it could cause so much destruction...

Sirens were flashing and firefighters were trying to fix a hose onto a fire hydrant. They succeeded and sprayed the run down building that was currently engulfed in an inferno. People of the neighborhood were held back by police blocks. There were officers here and there.

Among the crowd was a large man in a black suit with a crew of reporters. He held a Channel Six microphone in his massive right hand and was gesturing at the fire behind him while talking. A girl of about sixteen pushed through the crowd and stood face to face with the hulking man. 

"I hate you!" She yelled above the crowd with tears in her crystalline blue eyes.

The man paused and watched her run away through the large suburban crowd. The camera turned off and the crew started packing up, since their shift was over. A fellow crew member nudged him on the shoulder and asked.

"Was that your daughter?"

"Yeah…" His grey eyes were a mystery as he stared in the direction that his daughter ran off to. He looked at his watch.

9:56 pm.

It was almost time to go home. He continued to idly chatter with his coworker until the flip phone rang. His coworker noticed it.

"Whos calling so late?" The coworker leered.

"Probably a bot." He took out the black flip phone and opened it. His eyes widened. It was familiar number. The number read.

(***) ***-****

He looked around frantically.

"I have to take this call." He walked out of earshot and thought to himself. Why would they be calling right now? I did the deed. The deed has been done! He answered the phone and asked.

"Who are you?"

A raspy, old voice whispered from the other end. "You know who I am." There was the sound of someone taking a drag on a cigar on the other end of the line. "Wilkinson…" Then the line cut as the man on the other end hung up, leaving the anchor reporter alone and paranoid...