Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Here's something I wrote for school. (it's one of 'em things I don't find all that pointless)

Half an hour after the car had been driven away, the garage owner made a startling discovery. He rushed to the telephone and quickly dialled the emergency number.

"Hello? Yes, 112 Ocean Avenue. There's been a car theft." He spoke worriedly into the receiver.

Within minutes, there was a police official at his door. There was something strange about the way he coolly made his way across the room. As the police officer finished interrogating him concerning the stolen car, he began to inspect the garage. There was a strong odor of burnt rubber. Skid marks ran right across the vinyl floor. Placed next to a 1980’s Cadillac was a small black, nondescript backpack.

“Is this yours?” asked the police officer, calm and distant.

“No, sir.” Said the garage owner, increasingly perturbed by the night’s incidents.

The police officer mumbled something to himself in a foreign tongue. Carefully, he lifted the backpack in one hand, examining it closely. There was nothing unusual about it on the outside. He began unzipping it. Out came a knife, glinting under the flash of the torchlight. The knife was nothing like anything the garage owner had ever seen but it was unmistakable that the peculiar police officer recognized it. The intensity with which he looked at it was as though he knew of the secrets the knife held in its well-crafted folds of carbon-steel. Before the garage owner could comprehend what was happening, the police officer lashed out with the knife and slit his throat in one swift movement, with ninja-like skill.

Unruffled by the crime he’d just committed, the police officer shed his uniform to reveal a shiny, sharkskin suit underneath. He quickly checked the hidden pockets of the bag and nodded- everything was there, just as he'd hoped. He slung the backpack across his shoulder and in his right hand gripped the deadly knife, just in case he might need it again. Having severed his left little finger for the boss as an indication that he'd completed a task, he was having a little trouble with the cell phone. When he was finally able to take it out, he smiled smugly, punching in the number.

“Yeah. I got the bag with the weapons. The diversion worked fabulously!

The garage owner? Oh he won’t be divulging any information,” he sniggered.

“I told you I’d make a great Yakuza.”


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