It’s the 80s.
A seedy night. All is quiet. Apartment full of squalor.
The phone rings.
Another seemingly innocuous job.
The car waits out front. It’s still early. The mask goes on.
Murder and mayhem.
The slow drawn out breath accompanied by an overview of the scene ahead. The calm of the moment breaks in a crescendo of exacting, punctuated violence. A smorgasbord of potential lethality.
Adrenaline pumps over the locale. The drumbeat of intense but catchy music that so succinctly fits the mood of what transpires, but astonishingly evaporates into the ether once disengaged from these proceedings.
It amazes that when confronted with such senseless slaughter, the mind can abstract reality to protect itself, but this vision of events although less than realistic can not hide the horrifying nature of what transpires, and in some way, this separation acts as enhancement.
Silent executions although often more gruesome, bring less attention upon oneself, though there is an admirable efficiency to such brazen and bloody behaviour.
Death comes in many forms for all who take part in this chosen style of artistic expression. The props change, but the scene is continuously rehearsed until either the players are exhausted, or enough blood has been spilled to give the audience a satisfactory sense of progression and accomplishment. Those who strive for the perfect performance can attempt such things in their own time.
The job complete, leisure is required.
Friendly staff inhabit every shop and bar in town – perhaps they are too friendly.
Back to the apartment. Sleep will come. Another day, another job.
In slumber, the masks return.
Something greater is responsible for this torment and madness.
Peace is improbable.