It was six p.m. and the East Bay Terminal flooded with people. Dark, sickly people whose horrid lives seeped out of their pores and filled the air, mixing with the steel and grime of the surrounding landscape. Their gaudy clothes and social titles were forever imprinted on their faces, showing the world they were the giants of society. A large wave of people broke, crashing into a stopped train, and Grant Friskin emerged. Pieced together with weak, thin bones and dressed in dirtied rags, he was a minnow among sharks. His figure was shadowed by the evening dusk, as well as the Blackstone Housing building that towered over the square, blocking out any chance of direct sun. The eviction notice they had sent him was still fresh in his mind. It was their attempt to expand the more prominent housing community and scare out all the lingering proletariats. It was a typical eastern business story, and had been happening all across the country. Even more intimidating, though, was the cold revolver hidden beneath his jacket. Frozen by the early November air and heated by the wrath of a man, this weapon was a vessel to a new life. A new life where his wife and child did not have to starve. A new life where he did not have to scrounge for money everyday just to keep the lights on. A new life where he did not have to threaten another man’s life just to save his own. And with the thoughts of this better world, Grant pushed through the black suits and white dresses with primal instincts, finding the prey that would bring him closer to Eden. The shrill sound of metal scraping against metal interrupted his ambitious dreams. An old, rusted car appeared and the night owls crashed with the early birds, a struggle between those with dry throats and those with empty stomachs. Regardless of evening intents, they were all caged animals.
Robert Campbell broke free of this everyday routine, victorious in his campaign to escape the dirty train. Although he should have been happy with his triumph that so few men could accomplish as swiftly as him, a fire was burning in his eyes. Just days before, Robert had been a head member on the Blackstone Housing Commission board, a respectful and prominent position that earned him rectangular business cards and afternoon cocktail parties. When he was given the privilege of expanding the Blackstone Housing district, however, he objected. Robert was a respectful man, regardless of background, and could not take the homes of those who worked so hard they could barely enjoy the luxuries of a home. This was a gamble for him and, to his dismay, his hand folded and he lost everything. A young man, rich in attitude and fortune, took his job without the slightest bit of remorse. And now he stood in the center of the square, surrounded by those he had grown to hate. The Blackstone Housing building towered over him, shouting profanities that only he could hear. Camouflaged in his black suit and tie, he continued through the crowd of pitiful souls, engulfed in rage and shadowed by Death.
Grant saw Robert moving through the crowd and found him to be an acceptable target. His suit and tie showed his wealth and his motions showed he was in a hurry, a sign that he would be off guard. Like the tiger does when stalking his prey, Grant moved through the crowd, shadowing Robert’s footsteps. His heart pumped vigorously and his hand were sweaty with fear and distress. He had already begun, though, and he would not turn back. When the crowd thickened with people, Grant moved up, shoving his gun into Robert’s backside. This was only fuel to a raging fire. Robert exploded in anger and pulled out a pocket knife, lunging at Grant. A loud, deafening noise pierced the air and the smell of smoke engulfed the square. A dead body lay before Grant, scarlet blood painted on his body. For a brief moment, the world went silent. No one stirred and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Grant. Finally coming to realization, Grant, as well as the surrounding crowd, began to run. The police were not far from the scene and, in a brutish effort, Grant was pinned down, hand cuffed, and thrown into the back of a musty police car. He looked back to see the terrified bystanders, the paramedics moving frantically across the blackened streets, and the large Blackstone Housing building rising above the scene, laughing at the misfortunes of men.
Robert Campbell was buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery, a grave reserved for him by his wife, sullen and distressed at the thought of her dead husband and the bleak future that lay ahead. Grant Friskin was put in solitary confinement and sentenced to death by the electric chair. He apologized to his wife and prayed for forgiveness but when he was strapped into the decaying life-taker, she only turned her head. Grant was buried two weeks after Robert, in a small cemetery on the other side of town. And like his lifeless body that rested in the rotting casket, so too lied Robert’s plans to set fire to the Blackstone Housing building. They were hidden underneath a wooden plank in his small home; unfound, untouched, unexecuted.
The large clock on the Blackstone Housing building struck twelve and the demolition began.
Robert Campbell broke free of this everyday routine, victorious in his campaign to escape the dirty train. Although he should have been happy with his triumph that so few men could accomplish as swiftly as him, a fire was burning in his eyes. Just days before, Robert had been a head member on the Blackstone Housing Commission board, a respectful and prominent position that earned him rectangular business cards and afternoon cocktail parties. When he was given the privilege of expanding the Blackstone Housing district, however, he objected. Robert was a respectful man, regardless of background, and could not take the homes of those who worked so hard they could barely enjoy the luxuries of a home. This was a gamble for him and, to his dismay, his hand folded and he lost everything. A young man, rich in attitude and fortune, took his job without the slightest bit of remorse. And now he stood in the center of the square, surrounded by those he had grown to hate. The Blackstone Housing building towered over him, shouting profanities that only he could hear. Camouflaged in his black suit and tie, he continued through the crowd of pitiful souls, engulfed in rage and shadowed by Death.
Grant saw Robert moving through the crowd and found him to be an acceptable target. His suit and tie showed his wealth and his motions showed he was in a hurry, a sign that he would be off guard. Like the tiger does when stalking his prey, Grant moved through the crowd, shadowing Robert’s footsteps. His heart pumped vigorously and his hand were sweaty with fear and distress. He had already begun, though, and he would not turn back. When the crowd thickened with people, Grant moved up, shoving his gun into Robert’s backside. This was only fuel to a raging fire. Robert exploded in anger and pulled out a pocket knife, lunging at Grant. A loud, deafening noise pierced the air and the smell of smoke engulfed the square. A dead body lay before Grant, scarlet blood painted on his body. For a brief moment, the world went silent. No one stirred and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Grant. Finally coming to realization, Grant, as well as the surrounding crowd, began to run. The police were not far from the scene and, in a brutish effort, Grant was pinned down, hand cuffed, and thrown into the back of a musty police car. He looked back to see the terrified bystanders, the paramedics moving frantically across the blackened streets, and the large Blackstone Housing building rising above the scene, laughing at the misfortunes of men.
Robert Campbell was buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery, a grave reserved for him by his wife, sullen and distressed at the thought of her dead husband and the bleak future that lay ahead. Grant Friskin was put in solitary confinement and sentenced to death by the electric chair. He apologized to his wife and prayed for forgiveness but when he was strapped into the decaying life-taker, she only turned her head. Grant was buried two weeks after Robert, in a small cemetery on the other side of town. And like his lifeless body that rested in the rotting casket, so too lied Robert’s plans to set fire to the Blackstone Housing building. They were hidden underneath a wooden plank in his small home; unfound, untouched, unexecuted.
The large clock on the Blackstone Housing building struck twelve and the demolition began.
