It was one fine evening hour, down a cracked-pavement street, when a cop and a predator did by accident meet

The weird lyrics didn't change the fact that the voice singing the song was a lovely one. A male voice, clearly, and strong. It could be heard up and down the street, despite the roar of cars, bumper to bumper all down the main street. It was lunch hour, so of course the city was busy.

Oh, the cop made an error, should have slammed on the brakes... nearly turned the wolf boy into a roadkill pancake

The voice was accompanied by some very fluid guitar music. The guitar was called Lucinda. The person playing the guitar, deft fingers trickling over the strings as he sang, was called Teague. The song he was singing was just something from off the top of his head.

He was a normal sized person - which you wouldn't have guessed, if you'd heard him before you'd seen him. He could have been twenty or so, maybe younger. He was seated on a convenient ground-level window ledge, crouched over his scuffed-up guitar while he sang. His posture was slouched, like he hadn't the energy to hold himself up. His hair, wavy and black, and about chin-length, was hanging partway over his face.It didn't hide the slightly elfin cast of his face, nor his nearly-pointed ears. His skin, the color of lightly browned toast, had a faint sheen of sweat on it. He had been sitting there playing for nearly three hours now, and was showing no signs of slowing.

A small conflict ensued, and it got the guy mad. He attacked the police lady, an' she shot him up bad.
The wolf boy fought back, wild and crazy as hell, but she hit him with her car, and this time, he fell...

Then Teague broke into a chorus that lasted a minute or two, and that repeated Hide and seek your sight several times. People walking by paused to stare at him, or to drop a few coins in the styrofoam cup he'd left by his foot, weighted with a chunk of rock. It was nearly full.

He dangled his legs against the cold stone wall. The faded black jeans he wore were worn out on the knees, and frayed at the bottoms, draped over a pair of black hightops, equally worn. The hands holding the guitar were covered with a pair of fingerless gloves, and on his left wrist was a brown leather wristband. He wore two shirts, neither of them in good condition. First was a navy and sea-green striped shirt, ripped at the collar. On top of that was a dark-grey dress shirt, left open. The cuffs of the striped shirt were rolled up over those of the other shirt.

Neither one d - hkkh -

Suddenly, he started coughing. "Damnit, must've inhaled some dust or something," he thought, mourning the sudden end to his song. When the coughing stopped, he sighed and rested his elbows on his knees. His fingers were sore from playing guitar for so long. Time for a break.

((song's based on this, if you were wondering))

OOC: I hope you don't mind me posting in your thread, but it looks open.

Russel Polle was one of the many people who walked by the strange singer/guitar player and dropped a few quarters into the man's weighted cup. Polle even gave the man one of his phony smile's that, for some strange reason, everyone seemed to accept.

Ostensibly, Mr. Polle had taken the day off for rest and relaxation. He could do that because of his position in local society. After all, no one told the district judge when to go to work. He was hearing no major cases today. The only trials going on were minor; the kind any magistrate or justice of the peace could hear.

Today, the Honorable Judge Polle was going to try a weapon of his trade. No, not the judiciary, but his true, yet secret, life. Ever since his spoiled childhood, Russel had been fascinated with wizardry, and even now, he was learning more and more so that one day, he believed he would be the most powerful human being alive, but first, he had to set the stage for his grand game.

And, unfortunately for several innocent citizens, that would require more conventional weapons. Being a weekday, Polle, wearing a moderately-priced pinstripe suit (specially tailored to conceal his Walther PPK and attached silencer in shoulder holster) and carrying a slightly worn, yet still presentable dark attache case (which concealed a dissasembled bullpup-designed Steyr AUG assault rifle and scope), looked entirely normal for his surroundings.

After dropping the change into the guitar-player's cup, Russel had crossed the street, dodging around the stuck traffic, ignoring the blaring horns and shouted curses. He almost laughed at the sound of two drivers quarelling, one giving the other the middle finger in that universal sign of "up yours".

When Russel had finally crossed the multi-lane street, he looked back, seeing that the guitar-player had taken a break. Good, he wasn't that great to begin with.

He continued across the sidewalk and through an gate which led down a cement path and to a multi-floor apartment complex. The complex was old, doing a poor rendition of the Victorian era. The glass doors were unlocked and Russel let himself in.

After the glass door's had closed on themselves, Russel, silently and quickly, reached back and flicked the brand-new deadbolt lock, locking the glass doors. Of course, anyone who wanted could have smashed the doors and just climbed through, but at this point, he didn't think anyone would make such an effort.

Russel set his case down and quickly pulled two leather gloves out of his pants pocket and slipped them over his hands. After gloving his hands, he picked the attache case up and walked over to the receptionist's desk.

The slightly homely woman in a very conservative dress opened her mouth to speak, but Russel had the silenced PPK out and pulled the trigger once, sending a round right between the woman's eyes. She fell backwards, toppling over the office chair she was in.

Holstering the pistol quickly, Russel hopped over the partition and grabbed the dead woman by her arms and hauled her back towards a wooden door labeled simply: OFFICE. With his foot, he kicked the door open and dragged the woman in, dropping her like a sack of potatoes out of view from the open doorway.

After doing this, he walked over to the pegboard with keys and found the one he was looking for: 3B.

OOC: Nope, don't mind at all. I was hoping someone would post.


Teague had nodded a thanks to the man, for his donation. As he hadn't stayed to listen, Teague had assumed he would be gone when he looked up. But he wasn't.
Though he was on the opposite side of the street. And then... disappeared into an apartment building. A showy, but shabby place, in the singer's opinion.

Now, he didn't usually pay much attention to the people who passed him by. There were so many of them. But the thin breezes rustling across the sidewalk were whispering in his ear of hidden weapons they had brushed against. "So he's not what he appears. Interesting," Teague mused, feeling that there was a story to be had in the near future. It wasn't often he had the chance to be present for an event he could make up a song about. His stormcloud-blue eyes brightened a little.

He jumped off the ledge and swung his guitar onto his back. He was nothing if not a very curious individual, and he intended to see if his suspicions were correct. He crossed the street with no difficulty, agilely skipping over the hoods of cars. From his usual slumped posture, one would never have guessed him to have such energy in him.

He was just entering the gate when another one of the small breezes whistled past him, having slipped under the glass doors. A gunshot, it said. Blood. Death.

Teague grimaced. He'd have to be careful, if he was going to witness this first-hand. All the same, he strolled up to the glass doors. Finding them locked, he looked around for a side entrance.

Ah. There.

He walked over to it at a leisurely pace, gave it a tug. It was unlocked. He slipped inside, letting the door close silently behind him. A small wind breathed past. Danger.

Judge Polle unlocked the door to room 3B and quietly pushed it open, although he was positive no one was inside. After all, he done some research on the present lessee and he knew that the bachelor would be at work and that after he got off he would head to a local bar to pick up drinks and maybe a chick. He never brought his conquests back home, after all, it would be bad culture to do so. Instead, the bachelor took them to one of Bayfield's seedier pay-by-the-hour motels. All this suited Russel Polle perfectly.

After entering the slightly dingy flat, he closed and locked the door behind him, even going to the length of sliding a wooden chair under the doorknob, jamming it closed as a last resort.

Russel continued through the main room and into the flat's single bedroom, tossing his attache case onto the double bed. He closed the bedroom door and twisted the little protrusion on the front of the doorknob, locking the door's passage lock, just in case someone got through the main door.

He walked over to the bed and opened the briefcase, pulling out the several parts of the Danish-made assault rifle. He began assembling it, attaching both the scope and threaded silencer. This weapons had cost a lot of money on the blackmarket, but it should be worth every penny.

Once he had the gun pieced together, Russel turned off all the lights in the room and walked over to the bedroom's window, which faced the the sidewalk. Oddly enough, that weird little guitar player had vacated his sill.

Russel shoved the window open and stood back from it, in the proverbial shadows, and raised the illicit assault rifle to his shoulder, looking through the powerful scope. Now, to find a target. This would be the first test of the rifle, but certainly not the last.

He flicked the selector to 'semi-auto' and smiled. This would be fun.

"Very quiet place, this..." Teague mumbled. He wouldn't know whether apartment buildings were supposed to be quiet or not, having never lived in one. He dawdled along, following the voices of small currents of air, created by the closing of a door. In them, he could hear metallic clicking sounds, but was at a loss as to what they were. Air currents didn't last long enough to speak to him, or explain.

He began whistling as he went. He really didn't like silence. And he didn't take too well to warnings, even from reliable sources like the winds. So being told that there was danger here - it didn't mean too much to him. No one would harm a simple guitarist. He wasn't looking for trouble. He was only looking for a story.

Finding the door that he had been directed to, he paused. Slinging his guitar off his shoulder, he leaned against the wall. He fully intended to wait there until something happened.

What was that guy up to, in there? The only things that could tell Teague what he wanted to know -... they were silent.

Russel Polle looked through the scope, seeing a young woman walking down the other side of the street. He breathed slowly, his finger closing around the trigger. The woman never knew what hit her.

Almost instantly, her head exploded in a blossoming of brain matter and skull. The impact of 5.56 mm bullet had caused her to twist around and she slither to the ground, dead.

A passerby yelled and others looked up, cars stopping and several rear-end collisions occurring. The bloodlust got to Polle and he flipped the selector to 'full-auto', laughing to himself as he pulled the trigger.

Bullets stitched a man who had beant down to look at her. He was knocked forward, laying across her corpse. He let go of the trigger, moving the sights to a green sedan in front of the sidewalk.

He pulled the trigger again, sending a stream of bullets through the driver's windown and almost decapitating the driver. The driver slew sideways and down, the remains of his head across the empty passenger seat. Involuntarily, the corpse's foot fell on the gas pedal, sending the sedan forward, slamming into the rear of the another car.

A pedestrian looked up at the window Russel was shooting from, but several more bullets cut the potential witness down. People were now screaming and trying to run from the scene, but Russel shot at them too. Bullets ripped into the rushing crowd of pedestrians and several people fell, yowling in pain or just plain dead.

Russel kept his finger on the trigger, spraying the general sidewalk and roadway area with bullets until the standard click of an empty clip sounded. Then, very calmly, he set the assault rifle down and, careful not to be seen, he closed the windows on the screams of the scared, injured and dying.

Down below, the uncontrolled green sedan kept moving forward into the other vehicle, crushing the front grill and then the engine block, sending it backward and into the passenger compartment. In the rear seat, two small children, who had just witnessed the gruesome death of their father, screamed in sadness and terror as the car continued trying to move forward against the other vehicle.

It all ended when another hit them from behind, and the already damaged gas tank began leaking its fuel. The sparks from hitting metal set it aflame and the inferno spread quickly. The green sedan literally blew up, sending flames and debris all over the immediate area.

People were climbing out of their own cars, wanting to avoid the potential inferno and several were injured by flying debris.

Meanwhile, Russel calmly disassembed his assault rifle and replaced it in the attache case, closing it and hefting it. He walked out of the bedroom, but stopped short at the flat's main door, looking at the chair and locks, thinking something over.

The explosion of the sedan caused Teague to jump as if he, too, had been shot. The breaths of air currents from under the door had given him all that he needed to piece together what was going on inside, and what was going on outside the building. He nearly crumbled, thinking of it. He didn't like to meddle in other people's business, good or bad. He was the one who told the stories. He wasn't in them. But - those children. And all the people. He'd heard the screams. He hadn't needed the wind to tell him of them.

Teague liked kids. He liked people. Liked to see them smile. And to think that whoever this man was, on the other side of the door, was killing them, so calmly - it made him sick. Oh, Teague had his story, had all the materials for a new song. It was one he could have done without, maybe.

But first, he ought to be able to sing it. And that meant getting the hell out of here before the maniac saw him. He didn't doubt for a second that he would be shot on sight. He swung his guitar onto his back. Teague took to his heels, fleeing for the side door. He grabbed the knob, turned it, pushed the door open. He cut towards an alleyway, ducked inside, and sank to his knees.

Alleyways were always windy. The breeze blowing through it at this moment was providing him with further details on the scene across the street. Ironic that he had been so eager to experience such an event for himself.

"This is probably the reason why I should get my stories secondhand," he moaned, pressing a hand to his face.

Russel kicked the wooden chair away from the door and then, after unlocking it, jerked it open and strode out into the corridor, looking left and right, swearing he had heard running footsteps nearby.

He took the stairs to the lobby and, again, glanced around, seeing nothing. Then Polle walked over to the OFFICE door and opened it, looking at the dead body and smiling to himself as he pulled a nickel-plated cigarette lighter, flicked it open one-handed, and lit the flame. Then, with a most sadistic smile upon his face, he pitched it into a waste basket full of paper and other flammable office supplies.

By the time Russel unlocked the glass front doors and strode out, looking at the intense scene he had caused, the apartment complex office was ablaze and soon the entire building would be.

After looking at the carnage, like most people, Russel Polle walked down the sidewalk sighing, as though he cared what happened to the victims.

The Terror had begun.

Teague clutched Lucinda (the guitar, if you'd forgotten) tightly, and attempted a few shaky chords. They just didn't come out right. He was angry, and sick, and scared, all at once. If he'd been the meddling sort, he'd be going straight to the police, but...

"No one would believe me anyway," he sighed.

See, Teague knew the shooter's name. And while he'd never heard it before today, accusing the Honorable Judge Russel Polle of shooting and killing a dozen people was definitely not something that would end well. To most people, Teague was just a street person with a guitar, who sang weird songs about impossible things. The idea of his going to the police was laughable, to say the least.

So, the Bayfieldian bard took a deep breath, and again tried to pick out a few chords on his guitar. Maybe the tale, in song, would prove more useful than contacting the authorities. Possibly someone who would be able to do something about the whole mess might hear it, and clue in.But whether they did or not, that was no business of Teague's.
He only told the stories, after all. He didn't belong in them.