`LIKE DRINKING POISON OR EATING GLASS,

[Captain John Hart]

I AM NOT A BAD MAN EVEN THOUGH I DO BAD THINGS,
very bad things, such horrible things !

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this morning had been shit for him. absolute shit. being dramatic? HA. don't make him laugh. seriously though, don't; he is in a horrible mood. how long did they really believe they could keep him here? a day or two? a week perhaps, he if allowed them to? sure it was free food and whatnot, but the idea of being behind bars made him want to slam his cellmate's head on the edge of the bench he was sitting on; which he did a moment ago. now the guards came rushing over, alerted by the tortured screams of the man that now lay curled up on the floor with his hands over his eyes. john rolled his eyes, sighing as he heard the clamor of foot falls coming in from the next room. who did this? john hart? no! absolutely not, officer. he tripped over that flat, horizontal, unblocked piece of floor over there; he swore with a sneer. surely you jest! him? no! in fact he was just about to get up and help - what's his name? - he was just about to get up and assist poor Percy. oh yes, take him away before the blood stains his boots loss affects him too much. dearest me, he told them with a concerned expression on his face. one of the guards had him pinned against the wall now, holding him in one hand by the throat and the other hand hovering above his gun.

"one more word, smartass, and i'll blow that smirk off your face" the guard growled at him, tightening his grip on the smaller man's neck. john chuckled before he replied, "any blowing from you and i don't think my grin is going in where, mate". really there was no need to give john that look. it was awfully rude of him to point, john had to remind the man, especially with a gun such as that one. "none of your fucking tricks," the man told his prisoner; still not having let go of his throat. john took that moment to, with a flying bloody grace, to peer around him. he took in the thick and seemingly immovable stone blocks around him, and the four inch thick bars to his right. by this time the other guards had towed away his cellmate by his ankles, ignoring his shrieks about how that 'crazy fucker' had blinded him or something along those lines. john hadn't been listening much. the guards had taken his weapons a while ago, when he had right entered the dreadful establishment, so they were useless to him at the moment.

"did you HEAR me?!" the man screamed in his the captain's face, spraying whatever liquor remains he had snuck into work that day all over him. john resisted the urge to let himself look disgusted, wiped his face with his sleeve, and then looked at the man coyly. "did you know you have the most lovely eyes?" he said frankly. the guard blinked for a moment, just staring at him. "what the hell are you-" he managed to say before with a loud crack, his own gun was shoved into his now broken jaw and then pulled from his fingers. he shouted just as the presently blind man had, making john let out a soft sigh. "some putting up such a racket, kid," john raised the guards gun over he who was now writhing in pain on the concrete floor. "its not very pleasant for my headache, as i am feeling a bit under the weather at the moment." within moments the shrieking stopped, but the footsteps, oh those FUCKING footsteps were coming towards the cell again. will they ever stop, he sighed heavily? a couple more moments passed, the footsteps ceased; peace once more. john stepped over the bodies, paying no attention to the blind man huddling in the corner begging for the captain not to hurt him. didn't john just SAY - well, think - peace once more. fucking kids. okay now that the damned whining cellmate had been taken care of with a shot to the face, john could continue on with this day. maybe his headache will cool off now that he had some peace.

CREATED BY CAPTAIN SCARLETT!! ,
of caution to the wind !

[Captain John Hart]

I AM NOT A BAD MAN EVEN THOUGH I DO BAD THINGS,
very bad things, such horrible things !

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it would be years upon years before he could have ever considered something like a sunny day to be even close to being pleasant. the rays beating down on skin as deathly pale as his just was not a good idea, and this constantly reoccurring ovenish weather was boring him. why did this place always have to be showered with these damned rays of useless heat? things were much, much too common here. everyday it was the same old routine, and he would have nothing of it. as he lay under the sparse shade of a dead or at least dying tree from when the lands used to actually have rainfall, his eyes closed as he exhaled lightly. if one would have come upon him, which they wouldn't since he was so far out from the place he should be, they would probably believe he was in completely and utter solace. hell no. he was going out of his mind with the same ol', same ol'! it was more hellish than the sun beating down around him.

it would be years until the young man started calling himself captain john hart, but it was pretty much still the same exact person. he wouldn't grow much mentally past this point; the age of fourteen. in fact, he was nearly grown already; only a full head of tight curls making him seem younger. fuck, did he hate his hair. being forced by his parents to leave it longer than he would have liked was one thing, it was another to be punished for teaching the other children in the city not to disrespect his hair, thank you very much. it was all he could do to teach those fuckers a lesson, after all. a few bloody noses wouldn't hurt anybody, right? but no, NO. everyone had to make a fuss about every single thing he would do. this was partly the reason that he had wandered off this afternoon to one of his favorite places to go when he was tired of this damned places idiocy. after being scolded by his teachers, parents and even peers, he had had enough. there was something so much better about being alone that he couldn't describe. it was nice to finally have a bit of charge over what he chose to do instead of being bossed around like some stupid kid. oh please, he knew more than all the 'adults' in this town put together. he didn't need their approval, but hell was it aggravating to listen to people tell him he was 'just a boy'.

he let out all the air in his chest he had not realized he had been holding before rolling over onto his stomach. it was peculiar to feel the steaming hot dry earth against the bottom half of his body where the shadow of the tree didn't quite cover, and the coolness which most of him rested upon; it would just have to do. he had to enjoy this now, because he could hear the sounds of his parents and maybe a few other 'concerned' and 'friendly' - yea, he totally trusted their word - neighbors calling out his name. how long had he been laying out here? all day? you would have thought by now that they would have just given up on him and expect him to be gone for days on end. with a loud groan, he started to stand up when he heard the sound of a friend of his father's approaching behind him. he was already half way up when he felt himself be wrenched backward, the fingers of the much large man gripped around his shirt's worn collar. "where in the hell, have you been, boy?" the man said as he smacked the side of the young boy's head with his free hand. as he dragged the struggling john back towards the direction of home, he continued talking the nonsense that the boy couldn't give a shit about.

"you had your mother in a bloody scare, your father searching all over and me missing half of my work day - that's a loss of my pay which you will be working to pay be back for - so i can go and also look for your sorry ass! why can't you just..." john blocked the rest out and focused on punching and kicking every bit of the huge man's girth while he was dragged. "well maybe a little exercise will do you good, sir," john said darkly, making the man stop in his tracks. "what do you weigh now? as much as the public transport vehicles? i guess that's why laura left, huh?" the blond boy was dropped to the hard ground immediately after his words. the taller man turned swiveled around, his round face glaring down at john like he had actually slapped him back across the face. "what the hell did you just say?" his face began to turn redder and redder, his cheeks flushing deeply. rage? embarrassment? who the fuck cares? john was on a roll now.

"laura, your wife and - correct me if i'm wrong - cousin? i really didn't believe anyone ever did that sort of thing anymore, but i guess you must have been pretty desperate, hmm?" he sneered up at him; still sitting on the ground where he had been dropped. "mr. raanan, sir, my fellow man, i'm also truly sorry that your girth doesn't extend to places that may have kept that, shall we say, generously endowed woman in your possession." he could say nothing more now that by this time john's father was approaching, a look of relief washing over his tired face to see his son. "oh you found him!" john's father exclaimed, moving down on one knee and ignoring raanan who stood boiling beside them to hug his the youngest man.

-more will be added later-

CREATED BY CAPTAIN SCARLETT!! ,
of caution to the wind !

[Captain John Hart]

Mounds and mounds and mounds were being piled up. Their limbs falling limply over each other; the blood was sticky, dark even in the bright sunlight and not nearly as warm as it had been before it had gushed out of the flesh of the stack of bodies. Hair and the parts of the clothing that flowed stuck like being held by glue to the skin; flies hovered around the mounds but didn't land. Even they knew better than to feed off the sick it seemed. It was quietly; deathly silent as the solitude took its toll on the noise that had once washed over these streets. Buildings around him were crumbling, bricks every once and a while falling from the masses. Birds littered the ground like reeking snowflakes; cars piled over one another from the collisions caused by a driver passing out in exhaustion. The soft scrapping of his boots moved along the chaotic leftovers, his eyes surveying the town's center square. What the hell happened to this place?

The sands from the deserts in the surrounding lands had blown over to the pavement, making his footsteps soften even more. He could hear himself breathing, even his own heart's beat in this torturous silence. His fingertips moved over the stone walls of a building next to him, only for a layer of the paint to chip off at his touch. He stared at the wall, pressing his hand against it and taking no notice to the stains of blood that splattered upon it. If it was disease that had torn this society to absolute shit, then why was their signs of struggle everywhere? Had they gone under attack or something? This place's luck had never been too good, obviously. It was a complete shit hole even before all of this mess had taken its place.

He knelt down next to one of the bodies, narrowing his eyes into their empty ones. He reached out slowly, pushing the hair of what could have once been a gorgeous woman out of her face. He was careful not to touch her skin, moving only the strands of bright red hair with his fingernails. After that he stayed there for a moment, as if waiting for the deceased to pop back into the living's realm and tell him what had happened to her to make her body be mangled and broken this way. John sighed, standing to full height but still looking at her for the past five minutes. Before turning around to see what else there was to see, he kicked her face as hard as he could making it face the correct way again. He was truly kind that way.

He really hated visiting home again.

[Captain John Hart]

John was going to die.

This probably was not the prime time to be so calm, sensible and mature like he usually was. Instead he started to panic. He didn't want to die, of course, he was too young for this. In fact, if his memory still served him well, he was only twenty five years old. He was young. He was healthy.. ish. Well, he was healthy enough. He didn't have a gun pointed to his head or a death sentence - well maybe a few, but this wasn't the reason for his demise - that would take him down. He has some was to go before he would have the precious life ripped away from him. He had to have some more time. This could not be the end. As his chest heaved to force out terrified breathes; all he could think about was the pain. He was going to either die so quickly that he would not even see it coming or he would die slowly, and in such mind-warping agony that would make anyone's heart race. And he would not even know when it would happen. The humble duct tape kept him in the dark about when or how he would die, covering his eyes and mouth so only muffled screams could escape and his frightened blue eyes could flicker around searching for a way out of this. He didn't want to die. John Hart was scared.

Coward was not something that he got called a lot as far as he knew, but the truth was he had always been all about himself. He may have balls of steel, but his own personal happiness was all that mattered. He could stand through hours upon hours of torture or life threatening situations; confident to the point of insanity that he would prevail in the end. He could swerve around a ten foot wide ledge on a mountain side being chased by hundreds who wanted to kill him on sound obvious unstable motorcycle like thing without his smirk slipping from its place, practically cemented to his face. He could have a gun forced into his mouth and a very pissed off woman shouting at him behind it and he wouldn't bat an eye, except to wink at her before he drop kicked her ass over the edge of a building. This was different. He was going to die and he could do nothing about it. He was helpless. He was alone. And he was going to feel every second of it in the dark, speeding towards his ultimate end.

His hands were bloody from trying to free themselves from the tape the bound him. In fact, his entire body was soaked in the blood of either those he had failed to fight off from capturing him or the wounds he had sustained from throwing himself around trying to escape the runaway vehicle. He shouted as loud as he could, hearing the yelling from outside the car of useless passerby, unable to stop him or the device that would be his nice little company when he died. A beat up earth vehicle, the steering wheel ripped out and the brake cut so there was no way for him to stop. The locks had been torn out, making sure that he would be stuck in there to be burnt to a crisp if the crash or explosion of the gas tank didn't immediately kill him. He was already starting to pass out from the beating he had taken when they captured him, explaining to a once cocky young man how exactly he would die and what they had done to fix up the car so he had no chances. His pride was gone now, so of course he was crying; tears mixed with blood ran down underneath the duct tape, down his face and onto his jeans. His shirt had been taken when they had decided to whip him before tossing him in the car.

The windows were open so he could hear the car going faster, and faster; he could hear the sirens behind him. Once again they were useless to help him. He was slamming and scraping his head against the dash board, the cheap plastic-like material finally cracking and ripping away the duct tape along with a nice, long strip of flesh near his left eye. He could see he was heading towards the bay. No, he wouldn't burn. No, he wouldn't crash. He would drown. Slowly. Alone. With no chances. He couldn't even scream anymore; the horror bubbling up inside him so fiercely now that he could barely breathe let alone shout. His eyes widened with difficulty; two black eyes swelling to have it that much trickier. Silently he started to think something he never did: that he was sorry. He was so sorry. He was wrong. He could change, he could change himself completely. He could be a good person if only life gave him another chance. He could stop the killing. He could cease his drinking. He could stop the sex... well mostly. He could stop the crime and unkindness. He could be a good man if he could just have another chance.

With this thought he realized he had closed his eyes tight, but then as he opened them after hearing a loud horn blaring, he turned his head to see bright lights blinding him and heading straight towards the side of the car. He whimpered. He had been wrong about the crashing idea.

Not too far from the bay which would lead to him drowning, a giant truck slammed into the car, sending his head smashing into the door on the opposite side and then him falling right on his side in the passenger seat. The car had stopped and blood ran down his face, body and neck like a series of rivers even faster than before. After a moment of staring at the radio, which had been playing the chastising "Don't Worry, Be Happy", it all when black. His breathing slowed, his heart stopped racing and his body ceased in trying to free itself. His mental apologizes stopped and his mind fluttered into a state of unconsciousness. So this was death, he thought after a moment. It was awfully loud and hurt like a fucking bitch.

A few seconds after the truck had collided into the car and stopping it, John's eyes snapped back open. He sat up slowly and painfully, but enough to see people running toward the car shouting that there was a man in there. His hands had been ripped apart when he had crashed, the duct tape ripping away over a metal pipe that had shot through the seat - and some of his back, he could feel - to free him. His fingers shook as they reached up to pull away the tape than covered his mouth, and then he spit out the cloth they had stuffed in there to muffle his screams. He panted for a moment, time seeming to go almost slow as he worked on the ropes around him. After freeing himself, he sort of stumbled out of the car, climbing out the open window to the sidewalk that could only be twenty feet or so from the water's edge.

"Hey! HEY! Are you alright, sir?" a voice called to him. He turned to see a crowd of people, including medics, police and the fire department. He blinked and just stared at them for a second, his eyes landing on the cop that had spoken to him. For a moment he just peered over at him, but then with a few steps he came close enough to the young man to grab the cop's hair, pulling his head down into John's knee to break his nose. His hands swooping around to grab the man's gun - thank heavens for Americans and their guns - from his holster. Within a few moments John was running for his life again, a wide grin spread across his face.

"Stupid fuckers think they can kill me," he laughed, his legs carrying him away with his confidence swooping back in once more. Stupid life. John Hart would never change.

inspired by "Wrong" by Depeche Mode

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