geist stan

"Here's the thing about the world; it won't give you shit. No matter where you turn, no matter who you think you can trust, there's a dozen eyes on you, ready to tear you down and take advantage of you. So you have two choices: You can get on your knees and say yes sir, shove that cock a little further down my throat, or you can say fuck it, and just start taking what you want."

The latter was the course that Stanford Farkas had adopted, and he'd never looked back. On some level, maybe he was aware that it was a path that would lead to an early, violent death. More likely, he didn't care. How could he, when every day was its own high? He owed nothing to nobody. No obligations, no pretension, no bullshit pity. He'd bet that, if anyone else had a shred of fucking honesty, they'd kill for the kind of life he lived.

And with a new day, came a new hunt. He'd picked his target carefully, some shitty faux-mansion owned by people just getting their first taste of big money. Rich enough to bring in a good haul, still naive enough to not have learned how to protect it properly. Finds like this were rare, and he'd taken down bigger targets than this. No way this could go wrong.

Isn't that always how it goes.

He reached the target at midday, because only pussies and idiots try to break in when a house is most likely to be guarded. Besides, the brilliant owners of this particular home didn't even have a security system. Fucking incredible. These people deserved to be robbed. Empty driveway. Front door locked. Windows closed. Perfect. He made quick work of the lock, and slipped in, right through the fucking front door.

Time to make the rounds, he thought. First, straight up to the master bedroom where he's greeted by a nice-looking jewelry box which he quickly stashes away. Off to the bathroom. Codeine, ephedrine, valium... This place is better than he could have expected. He'd just started and already he was on track to make some serious bank.

His first sign that something was wrong was when he turned into the kitchen, finding a rather girly wallet sitting on the table. Someone might still be here... But that wasn't necessarily game over. He'd just snatch the wallet and be off with his prizes. His blood went cold when he heard something from down the hall. The distinct dialing of a cell phone, and a woman's voice. Sure enough, down the hall was some overstuffed cunt in a too-small tanktop, blubbering into her phone. To the police.

Fuck.

Stupid! So fucking stupid! It wasn't regret that started welling up in him, but absolute, indignant rage. He'd gotten caught during the easiest job he could have possibly done, just through dumb bad luck. Even worse, he could already hear the sirens coming from outside. Naturally. The pigs always respond fastest to bitches who cry loud enough.

Going out the front door would be too risky. Maybe he could sneak out the back, but anger was starting to flood his mind as it often did. It had a way of seducing him into making bad decisions. If he was quick, he could run off into the neighbor's shrubs, possibly escape under cover. But as the tires screeched outside and the cops started rushing out, he was hit by another idea. What if he could take one of them out? Yeah, bitch didn't see his gun. They don't know he's armed.

Serves them right for fucking up his perfect job.

The cops scattered around the area, still looking for the assailant, but he was still hidden from their sight. He pulled his piece and lined up his shot. Yeah, that tough guy right there. Gonna drop that one, he thought. He fired. And missed, the bullet grazing the officer's shoulder as he jerked out of the way at the last second.

The next few moments were a blur, of shouting from the police and Stan shouting back, the anger consuming what was left of his better judgment. The woman shrieked as gunfire filled the air outside, the chaos coming to an abrupt end when one of the bullets found its way into the side of Stan's head, snuffing him out in one clean, painless blow. Just like someone had simply turned out the lights.

---
He woke up, facing upwards to a sheet of blue that filtered in the light from outside. His head rested in a warm, sticky pool, and as his hearing returned to him, he could hear  muffled sobbing from outside, along with a man's voice sounding vaguely comforting.

What the fuck.

It was hard to crawl out from the body bag without making a sound, but it was clear that whoever was left on the scene was too busy to pay attention to what was supposed to be a corpse. At least dying had brought back, bizarrely, a sense of clarity to him, just long enough for his instincts to take over and quickly remove himself from the scene.

Then, there was time to freak out.

He rubbed the back of his head, pulling back a hand that was absolutely soaked in his own blood. Feeling over more, he felt something sliding out, slowly, from what was clearly a bullet hole. A bullet, of course, that clinked against the ground, leaving his brain once more intact. He wasn't sure whether he should be terrified (fuck that shit, he tried to convince himself. I don't get scared...) or amazed that he'd survived getting shot in the fucking head.

All other emotions were cut short when he realized he wasn't alone. His new friend made itself clear, when it howled and begged in the voice of a young woman, undercut with the sound of sharpening blades and a knife slicing through muscle tissue.

It was a massive bird made of about a thousand ways to kill a person, from machetes to bullet casings to piano wire. There might have been countless other murder implements, but they were all hidden under, bizarrely, a black, tattered coat.

It leaned down, massive, empty black eyes staring at and through him. It tilted its head. Whatever the fuck this thing was... it almost looked impressed. Maybe. Who could possibly tell? And, as jarring as it was, the feeling was slightly infectious.