Practice Makes Perfect...

He lines up the shot. Bang.

The scourge is dead. Simple as that.

Plain as day.

When you keep at something, you become good at it.

His Uncle used to tell him.

Bang.

Another one falls. A hundred meters this time.

No blood. Just broken glass.

Another bottle that used to be it's neighbour.

One day.

He goes inside and prepares.


She is elsewhere. Somewhere in the city.

Her day job. The only one she ever knew.

Fixing things. Fixing people.

With her mind. The more she does the better she gets.

Chemistry. Bio-transmorphology. All better.

One day. Cancer gone. Maybe.

For good.

When you keep at something, you become good at it.


Her lab coat would tell the story.

But remains silent after she removes it.

She looks plain but she is anything but.

Plain is just a word. The night is about to come.

That's her time to let it all hang loose.

Become the style. A night style.


Miles away in his car.

A gas guzzler from a different era.

Long before smart phones.

Computers.

Reagan? Gorbachev?

Maybe. Still running.

Like his Uncle through his brain.

Make it to the prize.

Tonight. No bottles this time.

Only words.

And bullets.

They're so much alike, aren't they?

Bang.

Someone dies.

Someone cuts him off.

More scourge.

He's back in his car.

His finger raised in salute.

He shoots with words.

But misses.

There's always tonight.


She's out the door.

As quick as she arrived.

Too late at work.

She might miss it.

For her its not a problem.

Off and out into the air.

Too fast. Agile.

Running. Into an alley.

Up a wall. Parts of the fire escape.

She almost misses a jump.

Then lands.

Twenty stories below.

The hotel.

Too far to jump. But not to climb.

A view rarely seen by most.

Weltherwithsp told her.

In her sleep.

Be there or miss.

The cold iron kiss.

The butterfly's too far.

To night style's the star.

The field again.

It flew above them.

Her and them.

Her dream and she awakes.

In a window of the hotel.


His car parked. Someone comments.

He ignores it. They're just sheep.

They eat the crap they're fed.

They don't know what lurks.

His Uncle used to tell him.

In the dark. There's things that will take you.

All of us. They will.

They lead. The sheep follow.

Knowing this and you are removed from the flock.

Be ready for the day.

Bang. They're dead.

His Uncle. Used to.

Before he went. Bang.

Into the ballroom. Up the stairs.

He waits. For the main attraction.

This is a circus. He wants the ring master.

Not the sheep.


She runs down the hall. Someone shouts.

Hey, there's that one from the news.

She ignores him. The stairs.

Flight by flight. She jumps.

Bang. As she hits each landing.

He imagines the shot.

Just like the bottles. He might get three or four.

Before they stop him. Not the sheep.

The scourge have protectors.


She runs as fast as she can.

Down the hall. Second floor.

She finds the service elevator.

She's not used to waiting.


The sheep introduce the feast.

The scourge master. His feast.

Like he imagined it so many times.

He pulls the bullpup from his jacket.

Levels it from the darkness.


The elevator opens. She's a blur to the staff.

Down another hall and in quietly to the ballroom.

On stage. The speech.

He delivers it with no reproach.

Ears listening. Security too.

She scans until she sees him.

The grim reaper. She has eyes for the night.

She can smell death from a mile away.

He stinks of it.

She leaps.


Bang.

Something crossed his sights.

Too fast. Screams.

Did any bottles fall? He fires again.

Bang. Bang. Then darkness.


She holds him still having broken him.

Not dead. But definitely broken.

His gun falls. Security have guns too.

Don't move they tell her.

She doesn't listen.

Too fast she's out again.


On her way home. The hard way.

Avoiding sirens. Sticking to the shadows.

Nobody will know what she did.

Except Weltherwithsp.

And the butterfly.


The water runs over her body, which returns to its natural form.

Plain. A bit overweight.

But still beautiful. She does her part.

Drying on the couch. The news.

The ring master was saved. But not the speech.

Maybe he'll deliver it another day.

She rubs the spot on her chest.

Bang. The grim reaper's shot.

Mostly healed, but still sore.

She was fast enough because she keeps at it.

Like her day job. She keeps going though nobody knows.

She gets better.

Because practice makes perfect.


Copyright © 2014 Brian Joseph Johns