Post by r on Nov 19, 2007 21:33:46 GMT -5
Location: Brooklyn, New York
//New York.The city that never sleeps. God he hated this place so much. But he also loved it. Strange? Maybe. He loved the violence that went on within the city. Not a day went by that a person didn't die in Brooklyn or any of the surrounding areas. Of course, Death isn't something that worried this man. What was his name you may ask? Trent Rodgers. Or at least, that's what he went by. His real name, no one knew it but him... And a few select people he had chosen to tell. But those people were long since dead. They died a little over three hundred years ago. He attended their burials. Funerals as they are called. He looked the same then as he did now. Strange? Maybe. But not if you knew what he was. Who he was. Too bad he'd never tell you.
He stood within the kitchen of his one bedroom apartment. His 6'7'' frame almost touching the ceiling. It was all he could afford. Sure, he could make more money by beating people for a living, but when you're alive for as long as this man has been, you become a living weapon yourself. Not exactly good when you kill every opponent you face. Although, in the underground circuits, that meant jack shit. Deaths happen, they just discard the bodies in secrecy. Tch.. Whatever. Matters of that nature did not concern Trent. His eyes glanced out from behind his long, stringy hair and fell upon the clock on the wall. 8:55 PM. Another day almost gone by. Did he like living for as long as he has? Well, at first he didn't, but one grows to like such things that they cannot change. Could he die? Yes, yes he could. He just never seemed to do so.
He turned and opened the door of his old, rusted refrigerator, grabbed the carton of milk and opened it, taking a whiff of it as he opened it and then slung it against the wall. It went sour. He sighed out deeply and grabbed his wallet off the counter. Looks like he'd have to go buy some. Good thing there was a corner store not even a block away. That was convenient. He headed for the front door of his apartment and opened it, two small Mexican children went running by screaming something that wasn't in the English dialect. He growled out. Fucking bitch two doors down really needed to discipline the two little bastards. They seemed to get away with everything. Of course, when you had sixteen other brothers and sisters, one would suppose you could get away with things more easily. Whatever. He stepped out of his apartment and slammed the door, watching the two kids for a moment longer run down the hall before he turned himself and headed down the stairs.
Hitting the first floor he headed for the entrance to the building, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cold night air. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold dance over skin that was revealed. It sent chills throughout his body and goose bumps up his arms. He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and began to walk down the somewhat busy street. By year's end, he would leave New York in search of a better place to live. Maybe out in the country somewhere. Somewhere that reminded him of his home that the world had long since forgotten. He drew his arms closer to his sides and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Jesus Christ it was cold and the wind blowing didn't help that one God damned bit.
It took him about ten minutes to reach the corner store. He went inside and was greeted by the store owner. An Arab-American. Cliche? Stereotype? Nope. Just simple truth. He went into the back, where the cold items were kept and got a carton of milk along with a six-pack of beer. He didn't choose the beer according to their label. He just picked one. This time it was Miller Light. Last time it was Michelob. The time before that it was Bud Lite. It didn't matter to him, alcohol was alcohol, although, nothing beat Bourbon in his opinion. He passed through one of the aisles, stopping to browse the junk food they had lined up on the shelves. He loved potato chips and doritos and bought them whenever he could, he had enough money on him, now just to decide what.
He looked up as he heard the chime on the doorbell ring. A young black male, seventeen years old at max, walked into the store. He was wearing a blue bandana. Sights like that were common in New York and any major city in the United States. Gangs. Fucking pathetic they were. He walked with a slight cockiness to him, straight to the back and grabbed a 40 oz bottle of gin, or at least that's what Trent figured it was. He was at the counter, paying for his stuff as the young black male stood behind him, mouthing something to himself. Trent paid for his items and headed out of the store.
The young black man paid the man, just put more than enough down on the counter and told him not to worry about the change. And of course, the next thing, of all things, had to happen. A car with tinted windows came pulling down the street slowly, boys with red bandana's adorning their heads were hanging out of the windows with Uzi's and pistols in hand. They began to fire at the young black male that was in the store with Trent no more than a couple of minutes ago. The young black male was hit a total of thirty-two times, while Trent was hit once. His groceries fell from his hands and he hit the cold pavement of the sidewalk.
It didn't hit his heart exactly, but missed it by no more than an inch, still, a severe wound. The ambulances arrived no more than twenty minutes later. Trent was still alive, but barely. His breaths were small and spaced far apart. A female EMT checked his wallet for information got his name and all while two men hoisted him on a stretcher. He died five minutes from the hospital. He was labeled D.O.A. and his body was put into the morgue for later embalmment and autopsy, although, it was evident of what he died of.
Several hours later, at midnight, a baby, male to be exact, where the newborns were kept awoke without a sound, blinked a few times and looked around. Soon, the babies body began to make crackling sounds and began to grow at a rapid rate, as it grew, it came out of the small bed it was kept in, landing on the floor of the hospital with a dull thud. The growing baby lay motionless as it continued to grow. Soon he was in the teenage years and grunting out in slight pain as his body continued to grow. Hair begin to spring up and grow out. No more than thirty minutes later, a man standing at six feet and seven inches walked out of the hospital and the body of Trent Rodgers, that was admitted into the morgue, turned to dust.
The man known as Trent walked down the streets. His only clothing, a pair of doctor's pants, the kind one wears for surgery. He was laughing slightly to himself. It was true that he could die, physically, but he always had a way back. His spirit never died and it always manifested itself into New Life and he always came back. He's died of old age before. He's died of disease. His been murdered. He's been in freak accidents. But he always... Always comes back. He went back to his apartment that night. Packed his things and headed out. To where? Only he knows that.\\
"Good fucking deal... Eh?"
He stood within the kitchen of his one bedroom apartment. His 6'7'' frame almost touching the ceiling. It was all he could afford. Sure, he could make more money by beating people for a living, but when you're alive for as long as this man has been, you become a living weapon yourself. Not exactly good when you kill every opponent you face. Although, in the underground circuits, that meant jack shit. Deaths happen, they just discard the bodies in secrecy. Tch.. Whatever. Matters of that nature did not concern Trent. His eyes glanced out from behind his long, stringy hair and fell upon the clock on the wall. 8:55 PM. Another day almost gone by. Did he like living for as long as he has? Well, at first he didn't, but one grows to like such things that they cannot change. Could he die? Yes, yes he could. He just never seemed to do so.
He turned and opened the door of his old, rusted refrigerator, grabbed the carton of milk and opened it, taking a whiff of it as he opened it and then slung it against the wall. It went sour. He sighed out deeply and grabbed his wallet off the counter. Looks like he'd have to go buy some. Good thing there was a corner store not even a block away. That was convenient. He headed for the front door of his apartment and opened it, two small Mexican children went running by screaming something that wasn't in the English dialect. He growled out. Fucking bitch two doors down really needed to discipline the two little bastards. They seemed to get away with everything. Of course, when you had sixteen other brothers and sisters, one would suppose you could get away with things more easily. Whatever. He stepped out of his apartment and slammed the door, watching the two kids for a moment longer run down the hall before he turned himself and headed down the stairs.
Hitting the first floor he headed for the entrance to the building, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cold night air. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold dance over skin that was revealed. It sent chills throughout his body and goose bumps up his arms. He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and began to walk down the somewhat busy street. By year's end, he would leave New York in search of a better place to live. Maybe out in the country somewhere. Somewhere that reminded him of his home that the world had long since forgotten. He drew his arms closer to his sides and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Jesus Christ it was cold and the wind blowing didn't help that one God damned bit.
It took him about ten minutes to reach the corner store. He went inside and was greeted by the store owner. An Arab-American. Cliche? Stereotype? Nope. Just simple truth. He went into the back, where the cold items were kept and got a carton of milk along with a six-pack of beer. He didn't choose the beer according to their label. He just picked one. This time it was Miller Light. Last time it was Michelob. The time before that it was Bud Lite. It didn't matter to him, alcohol was alcohol, although, nothing beat Bourbon in his opinion. He passed through one of the aisles, stopping to browse the junk food they had lined up on the shelves. He loved potato chips and doritos and bought them whenever he could, he had enough money on him, now just to decide what.
He looked up as he heard the chime on the doorbell ring. A young black male, seventeen years old at max, walked into the store. He was wearing a blue bandana. Sights like that were common in New York and any major city in the United States. Gangs. Fucking pathetic they were. He walked with a slight cockiness to him, straight to the back and grabbed a 40 oz bottle of gin, or at least that's what Trent figured it was. He was at the counter, paying for his stuff as the young black male stood behind him, mouthing something to himself. Trent paid for his items and headed out of the store.
The young black man paid the man, just put more than enough down on the counter and told him not to worry about the change. And of course, the next thing, of all things, had to happen. A car with tinted windows came pulling down the street slowly, boys with red bandana's adorning their heads were hanging out of the windows with Uzi's and pistols in hand. They began to fire at the young black male that was in the store with Trent no more than a couple of minutes ago. The young black male was hit a total of thirty-two times, while Trent was hit once. His groceries fell from his hands and he hit the cold pavement of the sidewalk.
It didn't hit his heart exactly, but missed it by no more than an inch, still, a severe wound. The ambulances arrived no more than twenty minutes later. Trent was still alive, but barely. His breaths were small and spaced far apart. A female EMT checked his wallet for information got his name and all while two men hoisted him on a stretcher. He died five minutes from the hospital. He was labeled D.O.A. and his body was put into the morgue for later embalmment and autopsy, although, it was evident of what he died of.
Several hours later, at midnight, a baby, male to be exact, where the newborns were kept awoke without a sound, blinked a few times and looked around. Soon, the babies body began to make crackling sounds and began to grow at a rapid rate, as it grew, it came out of the small bed it was kept in, landing on the floor of the hospital with a dull thud. The growing baby lay motionless as it continued to grow. Soon he was in the teenage years and grunting out in slight pain as his body continued to grow. Hair begin to spring up and grow out. No more than thirty minutes later, a man standing at six feet and seven inches walked out of the hospital and the body of Trent Rodgers, that was admitted into the morgue, turned to dust.
The man known as Trent walked down the streets. His only clothing, a pair of doctor's pants, the kind one wears for surgery. He was laughing slightly to himself. It was true that he could die, physically, but he always had a way back. His spirit never died and it always manifested itself into New Life and he always came back. He's died of old age before. He's died of disease. His been murdered. He's been in freak accidents. But he always... Always comes back. He went back to his apartment that night. Packed his things and headed out. To where? Only he knows that.\\
"Good fucking deal... Eh?"
To Be Continued