Not So Caught, The Anticlimactic

Of all the many possibilities which can befall a naive young man wandering the streets of a cold Boston town at the stroke of midnight, who would conclude that he would fall victim to a force which lurks farther in the shadows than any strobe of insufficient light would care to venture. While it is in the nature of all malevolent things to be swift and to act to serve a kind of psychological need, this particular event, alongside the gruesome aftermath which was discovered merely seconds before dawn, was a bitter display of a sinful enjoyment, as the murderous scene displayed a depth of fulfillment which must have spanned a fraction of the nightly hours. In the short amount of time it took for the surrounding law enforcement to come to an agreement upon the nature of the following night’s murder, as well as the proceeding ones that had all followed closely collaborated characteristics, I was already knocking on the doors of suspects from Roxbury to Allston with a keen suspicion.

In a broad speakeasy I found a man by the name of Robert Kingsly, running one of Charlestown’s greatest entertainment establishments, with the help of a few shady figures whom I was unable to identify despite my extensive research and background checking. I could only assume that the men venturing in and out of Mr. Kingsly’s establishment all day and night would be the only few individuals, in this area, to walk the desolate streets at night with just cause, but absent of a motive, as well as being able to provide alibis on the night of every murder that’d been taking place those past few months. Resorting to the act of stalking, I followed up on the after-work activities of all of Mr. Kingsly’s illegal helpers, going so far as to hold their fear for discovery on the line in an attempt to gain more information, as well as a means of testing their provoke-ability.

Even Mr. Kingsly checked out, in his foot suit, obsession for cigars and love for never finishing a full word. He was cleared of my suspicious which in turn landed me a position on his bad side, shocked that an ammeter detective of my nature would suspect such a largely established man of his stature. He was fat-headed, and so was I after I was knocked out, cold and dead with a pipe the following night.

What a shame it was too. I’m not sure what it was I missed in Mr. Kingsly’s establishment. I didn’t get a glance at the man who killed me, hell, I can’t even remember what had brought me there that night.

All I know is that this case is over for me before it even began, and that’s the shittiest part. That is, aside rom walking the Earth in limbo. Death is a b***h, but then again, so is life.