A Collaborization

So in order to keep fresh, Lucio and I decided to start a little writing project about a cop and a serial killer. Alyssa suggested that I post it here, so I thought, what the hell, why not. This is an interesting project for us because we're both working against our strengths, I think: Lucio's writing from the perspective of a killer, which is counter entirely I think to his personality, while my character is sort of disinterested in the law and stopping injustice in general, as opposed to the vigilantes who take things upon themselves that I usually tend to write. I can't speak for Lucio, but it's been kinda fun so far to write a character that tries to take advantage of the system in place rather than try and make it work. Our work is thusfar untitled, so I'll just title them Killer and Cop for now. Anyhow, this is what we have so far:

"Killer" by Lucio "Buster Wolf" Valentino

The man stops struggling, but I don’t let go of his throat. I hold on for several more minutes before I’m convinced that he’s dead. Then I let go and it all hits me.
My heart has never beaten this fast before, and the adrenaline coursing through my body is so apparent, so prevalent, it hurts just to be aware. My mouth is immediately dry and I can feel the familiar tingle in the back of my throat. All I have to do is swallow too much air or cough and I’ll be vomiting. So I try to steady my breathing and will it to stay down. Because this is what I wanted, what I willed, and there is no turning back now.

The man lying at my feet is dead. I set out to kill him and I did it. He was a bum, poor and hungry. He didn’t scream and he barely struggled and it was easy. But that wasn’t the point tonight. I just had to be sure. I had to know that if I’m going to pursue this crusade, that I can take life away from someone. I had to know that I was capable of taking away everything from a person, all that they are and ever will be. I have to be ready to play God and all that that implies.

Tonight was easy, as it was supposed to be, but I’m still careful. I make sure to reposition him so that he’s laying roughly the same way I found him. I get up and take off my gloves. I put them in my coat pocket and as I’m walking to the alley entrance, I unzip my fly. Once I get to the entrance I let out a long theatrical sigh for the benefit of any passersby. As I reach into my coat to get my gloves, I make sure to put on an apparent show of looking embarrassed upon discovering my open fly, which I quickly zip up. I pretend that I’m hoping no one saw that, but my peripheral vision tells me that no one’s looking anyway. I begin to walk home.
Plenty of thoughts are flying madly through my head, but I make sure to stay focused on my plan of action above all else. I’m ok tonight. I can go home and sleep in my own bed and I can stay home. I’ll have to wait. Wait and see if anything comes of this. Wait and see if a dead bum shows up in the paper or if it works its way under the radar.

Because it won’t always be bums.

Soon enough, it won’t matter who I kill. But how long I can evade capture will become increasingly difficult. If I’d walked a little further down the street to the Warfield and killed Michael Stipe tonight, my mission would already be over. It is imperative that I work my way up. A bum is nothing, in the grand scheme. The others, now that remains to be seen. Will I have the nerve to kill a businessman, or a mother?

In time, I have to tell myself, lest I get that tingly feeling again. For now, I must be patient. I must see what comes of this before I know how to proceed.
I keep walking and notice that my breathing has been steady for a while now. I’m not shaking and I don’t feel remorse. I’m nervous, yes, but I’m not sorry. In fact, I’m a little hungry and certainly tired. I have my answer for now, and that is enough.
I am capable.

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"Cop" by Bryan "Bryan Dean Thaxton Jr." Dean Thaxton Jr.

"Alright, where’s my 419?"

7:00 AM and the sun’s still only just beginning to rise. Looks like it’s gonna be another cold day in San Francisco. I duck under the tape and step into the alley, being mindful of the trash. There’s not enough light to fully illuminate the area, resulting in a sort of half-shadow that’s visually disorienting.

"You got here quick," the first officer on scene says over his shoulder, "I called this in less than ten minutes ago."
"Yeah, I was in the neighborhood, figured I’d jump the line. Lead the way."

The alley dead ends in a small courtyard of sorts, circled with dumpsters. The smell of garbage wafts uninvited into my nostrils. It’s a good distance from the street, and the curve of the alley obstructs a clear view of the courtyard. On the ground slumped near one of the dumpsters lies the lifeless body of a homeless man.

"You’re in luck," the officer says, indicating the body, "he’s still fresh."
"Relatively, anyway," I say as I pull on a pair of latex gloves, "CIB should be here in a couple minutes. Any witnesses?"
"Nope. As you can see, this area is pretty secluded."
"Who called it in?"
"Some guy working outta one of these buildings, came out here to dump some trash."
"Looks like a junkie. Probably OD’d."
"Or so you hope."

I give the man a cursory inspection. Sure enough, the disheveled form bears the familiar signs of a drug addict. Come on, overdose. Last thing I need is another goddamn murder, especially this year. It’s hardly May and already we’re close to the numbers we had last year. And with the clearance rate under 50%, the last fucking thing we need is a goddamn no witness homicide. Especially considering the victim is someone no one gives a good fuck about. Just when I think I’m in the clear, I pull the collar of his coat back and see the tell-tale bruising of a strangling.

"You son of a bitch," I mutter to the corpse.
"Haha, that’ll teach you not to cut. Shoulda waited your turn."
"Yeah, yeah."

This should have been Mendoza’s case, but stupid me, I decide to be Mr. Charity and volunteer. I heard homeless 419 and thought I’d get lucky with an overdose or something. Now I’ve gotta tell my SIC to put more red fucking ink on the board. With my luck, the guy who strangled him was probably high out of his mind and doesn’t even remember it. I sigh, standing up and stretching my back. No perp, no eyes. If the vic even has relatives, I doubt they’ll know shit about what happened. What the fuck? I can already tell I’ve got a snowball’s chance in Hell of putting this one in the black. I pull the gloves off my hand and pocket them.

"Bad year to be a homicide detective in this town, Bill,"
"Yeah I hear that," the officer says with a curt nod.
"Well, may as well wait for the wagon to get here. Is there anything else?"
"Nope. No witnesses, no suspects, no nothing."
"That’s just great."
"Any ideas about what might have happened?"
"Who fucking knows. Homeless addict, could have pissed off any number of people. A dealer, maybe, another addict, hell, maybe even a citizen. Can’t wait to hear Jay bitch at me about this."

Jay’s the SIC of the homicide section of the Personal Crimes Division. He’s been a pain in the ass since the spike in February, when the Major started getting on his back. Shit rolls downhill, as they say, and Jay is a premier shitramp if ever such a thing existed.

I walk out of the blind alley, back to the street. Then, leaning against one of the buildings, I light a cigarette and wait for the meat wagon to arrive, hoping this goddamn headache would go away already.

Another cold day in San Francisco, without a doubt.