Perfection in the Eyes of a Killer

A/N: Since there has been something of a clamour for more (and, indeed, a ticking off in which I was accused of such things as being idle and, it shames me to say, even lazy) I decided to pick Perfection in the Eyes of a Killer up once again. Unfortunately, as soon as I set eyes on the piece of writing that I have neglected for over a year, I realised that there was going to be a problem. Things had changed.

In short (for I would not wish to bore you, my dear reader)my writing style and ability had changed and for the better (well, one can hope). Thus I have started to rewrite Perfection in the Eyes of a Killer (or, as I affectionately term it, PitEoaK). I warn you now, there are alot of changes. This is not the same story that you set eyes upon that year and a half ago when I set out on that hopeful journey of NaNoWriMo. I hope that the changes will please you, my dear reader, for I am working hard to bring them about. I fear I keep you too long, so, without further ado...

Prologue

Crosshairs swung slowly across a building, searching for their target. Rooms passed, lives being acted out like bad plays. People had sex and children slept soundly. Dagan could make it stop. They wouldn’t even feel it. They’d be living and then they would dead. That’d be that and that’d be all. There was such power to be had in the simple squeeze of a trigger.

There was a couple arguing by a window, the curtains not yet drawn despite it nearing midnight. Three things happened, in quick succession; the gun fired, the window pane shattered and the man’s head exploded. The woman, classy, her lips distastefully red, was painted further by blood and gore. Her mouth hung open, mid-argument; there was nothing she could say to that. Dagan felt a thrill of satisfaction. Job done.

Kneeling, Dagan put the sniper rifle back into its guitar case. The lock made a quiet sound, drowned out by the blare of a horn. Within moments he was heading down the staircase. The lifts were fully operational, but like many of his kind, Dagan didn’t like relying on things. Especially things that were somewhat prone to breaking down. He left the building (its function was of no relevance to him). Then he faded away.

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Someone wasn’t as much of a ghost as they’d like to believe. There were eyes everywhere… and these days they didn’t have to be literal. Tails were things of the past, thanks to new and somewhat groovy technology. So it was that he tracked Dagan all the way through the city, which he viewed through grainy black and white, right to the unfortunate killer’s front door. Well… not literally to his front door, but certainly to the building that contained his front door, and that was the important thing.

It had been six hours and thirty-eight minutes exactly since Harry Underwood had been murdered. This murder would not hit the front pages. It was no huge event in a city where murders (even those of a more professional feel) were common. Unfortunately, Mr. Underwood was a not-so-small-time drug dealer. In itself, that wasn’t so dangerous. The problem lay in the fact that the not-so-small-time drug dealer happened to be one that was supplied by a one Mr. Powder. Or just Powder, as he preferred to be known. A murder of such calibre could easily be interpreted as something of a challenge or a threat to such a supplier, given that said supplier had just lost a good fifth of his business.

In short, all hell was going to break loose, Dagan and himself being right at the centre of it.