Die Writing

A cold November on Pennsylvania Ave

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on July 3, 2018

Richard Nixon reached into the coat of his bespoke, Georgetown-tailored suit and produced a cold, long knife. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped out of the shadow of the after-hours office pool in the West Wing. Harsh and distant light from the street fell across his face. Nixon did not smile. Motionless, his breathing slowed to a barely perceptible motion of his diaphragm, he scanned the room.

In some distance, his mark made a careless sound. Nixon vanished into the shadows once again.

He moved with deadly feline finesse. His leather oxford shoes fell soundlessly in the carpeted aisles. The area near the breakroom had linoleum tile; he circled it, the hazard already noted in his mental map.

Nixon darted between rows of cubicles with flawless precision. Was that the President or a moving shadow of the Venetian blinds perturbed by the air conditioning kicking in? Or maybe it was the old maple tree outside, rustling in the nighttime breeze. His deadly progress was inscrutable, but certain.

Patiently, he closed the distance to his target. Nixon’s eyes sparked in the darkness like two cold, hard diamonds. He slithered from the supply closet into the copy room, hard steel briefly flashing in his hands. The mark was now within his murderous reach. The fax machine.

In a furious, lightning-quick arc, he slashed the power cord and the phone line. With a hard, precise kick, he sent the fax machine to the floor. Like a tiger executing its killing strike, he was upon it in an instant, knife thrust through the ventilation slats on the back of the fax machine.

In the West Wing, no one can hear you scream.

With one hand, he held down the fax machine, with the other, he struck, over and over. Hard plastic shattered and splintered. Cogs and bits of circuitry showered on the floor. A toner drum ruptured, sending out a squirt of black ink.

Barely begun, the deed was over.

Nixon stood over the massacre. He even out his breathing. Slowed down the heartbeat. Cleaned and replaced the knife within his jacket. Then without saying a word or expressing any emotion on his stoic face, Richard Nixon stepped back into the shadows.

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