# Vigilantism Rewrite



## Living on a Prayer (Jul 1, 2010)

Ouch. My restraints were pretty damn tight. The zip-ties were digging into my skin like leeches.  I kept twisting them and they were rubbing my wrists raw. Hmmm. I looked around the room I had just been restrained in; it was a fairly basic storage room. Lots of shelves on the wall with various paraphernalia of what this place was supposed to be. It was supposed to be a high-end club in Paris. Located in the 16th arrondissement, which is home to a lot of wealthy Parisians. 

It was called _Personnes Anomymes_, or Anonymous People. A club for the mid-tier celebirties and anonymous rich guys to have Saturday drinks and meet escorts. I wasn't here for the Parisian prostituion or the Grey Goose-I was here for blood. I am an assassin. I kill for money. It's really not such a taboo thing. People have done it since the beginning of time, since Caesar and the Ides of March.

My target was a drug dealer of the classy kind. He dealt in dust and blow. Occasionally he'd get real good weed for some of the "artists" in Paris. Not some punkass kid slinging dope to highschoolers. Someone, I'm thinking someone even higher than him on the food chain, wanted his head. I had heard from people that he had gone fucking apeshit. Not sure what happened, but the words "shotgun diplomacy" came to mind. Something like 8 dead, and he was apparently cracked up when he was doing it. Crazy shit. Thought he was a pro, guess not. 

Tonight I was going to kill him. His name was Pierre Baptiste. From the manila folder I was provided, he was about 6'1'', pale, lanky build, dark brown hair, attractive. Apparently he has an affinity for designer clothes, exotic women, and exotic cars. He drove a Lamborghini Balboni. Who said selling drugs wasn't a lucrative business?

Back to reality; I was stuck in this goddamn room, tied up, and I haven't even seen Baptiste yet. I got in here by a bit of dumb luck and a bit of hard work. I got myself onto the guess list by pretending to be a client of his. 

Apparently, here in France, bar fights aren't as acceptable as they are back in the US of A. I had downed a few shots of Goose, and proceeded to pop a guy in the face. We exchanged for a little bit, even though I could of killed him in one swift motion. Now I've got a fat lip, and I'm sitting here in this supply closet of sorts. The bouncer who threw me in was massive. 6'4'', black, somewhere around 300 pounds. He was carrying. He found my SIG P229, my Blackberry, but didn't find my knives. I always carried a basic pocket knife on me, and this time I had packed a push knife. 

The bouncer picked me up and tossed me in here, I began to crawl forward, looked back, and got a nice kick to the face. Nothing like a fucking headkick to wake you up. I was out. He put me in the chair, zip-tied my hands and feet to it, and slapped me around a little bit. I woke up a few minutes ago.
I've got a fucking horrible headache. My head feels someone dropped an anvil on it, like Wile E. Coyote. My brain is searing. Too bad, I'm a trained fucking killer. Doesn't phase me too much. Okay, a little bit. The Farm can train you for a fucking lot but not operational fuck-ups. 

I tried to feel if my push knife was still in my shoe. I kicked the floor with my heel and it fell out. That it was. I moved my legs around and the pocket knife began to slip out. Good. I flexed my wrists, arms, and chest as hard as I could to see how strong the zip-ties were. Pretty strong. I began to twist my arms until I could feel them getting loose. I flexed and pushed and twisted, and I felt my right hand pop out. It was bleeding. Irrelevant, I'm free. I reached down, grabbed the pocketknife, and cut myself loose. 

Hiding the zip-tie remains proved no problem. I put my pocketknife back in place, and put the push knife into my hand. I sat back down and resumed the position I was in before. How am I going to do this? If Baptiste alone comes in, I'll take him down quick, check his body, and attempt to hide it as much as I could. If both Baptiste and the bouncer come in, well, hell. I'm fucked. Guess I'll have to figure it out as I go along. 

There was knocking at the door. I took in a very deep breath, and exhaled. I could feel the adrenaline begin to seep into my veins like floodgates. My arms began to shake a little bit. I started to have difficulty breathing, but only a little bit. I could feel tunnel vision starting to succumb over my eyes and my brain concentrated to an extreme level. I saw the doorknob turn in slow motion, and it swung open.
In came Baptiste, and the bouncer. Fuck me. I exhaled, deeply.

"Dr. Baptiste, I presume." I said, with a massive smile on my face. Why did I just say that? I'm fucking cheesy.
"And who the fuck are you?" he said, with a French accent. It was pretty thick. He came up, about two feet from me, trying to get in my face but keeping his distance. He was careful but insecure; trying to project dominance but he was actually fearful. I can read people like books.

"I am someone you'd like to get to know, Mr. Baptiste. I'd like to ask that your boy leaves, so we can talk in private. Care to, humor me?" I said. I hoped it would work.

He looked at me, gave me a considering face, then turned around. I saw his hands to go to his hips. The bouncer gave him a "Not sure." look. I kept a little smirk on my face. How would I take them both out if his boy wouldn't leave? Just gotta hope he does. 

"Okay, Mr...not sure for now. I'll entertain you. Martin, leave for now." he said. I felt a huge weight fall of my shoulders. It hit the ground and it was gonna bounce back up and hit me in the head if I wasn't careful. One thing I did notice about Baptiste is that he is very confident, to the point of being cocky. He thinks he can handle me, and the bad part is, he really doesn't have a clue of who I am. 

Martin left, slamming the door. We stared each other down. The door clicked shut. I inhaled deeply, and he began to talk. I didn't hear it. I exhaled. I lunged like a cheetah. The push knife came to his neck, into his jugular. I felt the knife go into his veins, and the blood spurted out. Everyfuckingwhere. 

I've killed a lot of people before, but on occasion, it's bad. I'd compare it to sex. The first time is always a rush of emotions, smells, sensations, and tastes. With killing, it's not ecstasy as much as...terror. Sheer terror. At first, you're in shock. You just ended someone else's life and you're feeling an extremely primal feeling of raw victory. Once you see the corpse of the human being you just killed, the feeling of victory and triumph turns into terror. You just fucking killed someone. Ethically, morally and legally wrong. After you realize how deep the shit you are in is, it turns to an absurd amount of guilt. You ended someone's life who has a family, maybe a wife, maybe kids. 

But this is all rookie shit. I've killed nigh on hundreds of people. Just like sex, your first few times are rocky and sketchy. You're fumbling around, it kinda hurts, but you kinda like it. You're not sure whether or not to like the pain, or to hate it. You may cry your first time. 

After a life of violence, you become desensitized. Blood is steak sauce, and brain matter is a nice London Broil. Gunshot wounds are more like a truffle. The blood that seeps out is just some red icing. But you know it's life and death; real people and their real lives you're taking. It gets to you.

I remember the movie _Reservoir Dogs_, in which Quentin Tarantino's character interprets Madonna's _Like A Virgin_ as being fucked by a well-endowed man and having the same feelings as losing her virginity. On occasion, with killing, you get similar virginal feelings. 

I should stop waxing philosophically, as, I still need to get the fuck out of here. I looked at Baptiste's body on the ground, and searched his jacket pockets. I found a Blackberry Tour, about a thousand Euros, and a Walther PPK. I pocketed the phone, the Euros, and checked the PPK. Fully loaded. I took out the mag and shoved it in his mouth, bullets up. A symbol or something. It'd have the forensic team jerking each other off for hours to figure out what it meant.
The door was reinforced steel, and I checked the handle-unlocked. 

I had no idea who or what was behind it. I didn't have any of my special tools with me, as I didn't expect this to happen. Oh well. I remembered it opened inside, so I cracked it a little bit. I peeked out and saw the bouncer was walking away with a little swagger in his step. I guess he thought I could be handled. I opened it enough so I could slip out, and closed it quietly. The bouncer was gone. I was in the clear for now.


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## B.Mac (Jul 2, 2010)

HAHA, this stuff is great, sort of in the vein of Andrew Vachss. Continue man, continue.


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 2, 2010)

Thanks dude, I was feeling real good writing this today. Will continue!


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## cacafire (Jul 3, 2010)

There is a lot in this that I like, living on a prayer. The zip ties were a nice touch of reality, and I can tell you've put a lot of thought into designing a great main character. I also like how you made the guard who beat him Black, nice bit of realism.

A few things though(there's always a few, aren't there?), I kind of got the feeling that the main character was talking about his situation just a little bit too long. I know that was probably necessary to keep the length up, but then that indicates a problem in the amount of material available. Elaborating on who Babtista got so pissed off that they would hire an assassin to kill him would do wonders towards backstory, making your MC sound perfectly professional, and would keep the missing length up.

Now, one last thing: I don't think a drug lord would ever, and I mean *EVER* walk into a room with a guy that is supposedly tied up like that _by himself!_ ale: AACK!

That right there severely hinders the suspension of disbelief. However, I know you were trying to bring it to a close. Don't worry, there's no need to close the story down yet. I can tell you that the reader is really enjoying it so far, and I would love to see your main character try a little "smooth talk". Here's what I'm thinking: Bautista enters with a single big bodyguard, and the Main character uses his mouth to get Bautista and himself alone.

Then: Lunge. From there, how does the narrator get out of the club and safely away? Sounds like a rollicking good time, to me. But it's just some ideas. Take em as you wish.

Hope I helped,
Los Curas con Paternalisimo, Cacafire. X\'D


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 3, 2010)

Thanks dude! Yeah, I was running short on ideas and to be honest I had to close it down for now. I'll expand with your ideas (very good ones!) thanks dude!


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## cacafire (Jul 4, 2010)

*ahem* *I* have a story up, if you're in a reading mood.


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 9, 2010)

Haha sorry, I only check this site so often, but sure. I'll read it!


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 21, 2010)

Okay, I'd like some more critiques please. I'll critique your work if you do mine.


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## Deadally (Jul 22, 2010)

Caca hit my comments on the head!  I agree there that the main character kicks ass, and despite the spelling/grammar mistakes (could have instead of could of, for example) and the off-the-wall events (Bouncer leaves?  Yeah, I believe that), it was a "page-turner," as it were.  It was a little explosion of flavor, and I liked it despite its faults.  I agree wholeheartedly that it would be cool to see what happens after!  What the fuck is the assassin supposed to do to get out?  Wouldn't the bouncer get suspicious when he hears the sounds of murder or no sounds at all?  

Lots of questions get left on the floor, dropped off the face of the earth by the abrupt ending.  It was the same kind of deal with the first Vigilantism.  The problem is that you're leaving off where the conflict is ramping up, you know?  The violence aspect of it isn't the most interesting part.  It's your character.  These little vignettes you're doing (and referencing back and forth, IE the bar fight in an American bar deal) are very cool ideas.  It feels almost like Sin City, where you get small stories that tie into a greater plot.  

I like it!  Just stop letting yourself run out of gas like that .  It's very hard to finish a story that has already ended in your mind.  The tone will change in ways you don't like.  Know what I mean?

Thanks for the story.  Keep it up!

Edit: One other thing.  I would take care to format the story so it's more appealing to read.  The way the forum transcribes from Word copy/paste is not optimal, and it takes some extra work to add the paragraph spacing, but I would hedge a bet that you've turned away a few readers simply by letting the story look like a big block of text


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 25, 2010)

Thanks! Yeah, I'm gonna continue it today. I tend to re-write my work a lot and not go any farther, but I'm gonna pump out some more later.


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 26, 2010)

Added more.


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