ROUND 1 - Where's the Palmolive? (Mafia Hit)
Being sprayed with blood - warm, fresh blood isn’t like that in the movies. At all. An arterial spray carries more force than you’d expect, and to the bank patrons closest to the elevator doors and Olivia Parker’s twitching bottom half, albeit a fine looking bottom half, it was like being hosed down by something warm and icky.
One patron in particular was not as squeamish as the rest, but still found the incident to be disgusting. Covered from the knees, all the way up into the hair, this individual stood stoically for a moment before deciding to rip off her jacket and find somewhere to clean up.
Turning immediately to the bathroom door behind her, she rethought that line of action and pushed by the other patrons, heading toward the emergency stairs they had just come up not a few minutes before. Stopping at the second floor landing, she pushed through the doors and began walking down the hallways, peering into offices until she finally came upon what appeared to be a lesser executive snack room.
There was a mounted 42 inch flat screen television with a built in bluray player that appeared to be running ‘Planet Earth’ in a continuous loop. The remote control was centered perfectly on the snack table directly in front of the flat screen and she picked it up, flipping through the channels as she leaned against the beige colored kitchen cabinets. Turning it back to the bluray player, she tossed the remote back onto the table and turned to the faucet.
Pulling her dark hair and twisting it along her back, she grabbed some of the Dial soap and began washing her arms, cleaning the red off her creamy complexion. Looking into the reflection of the paper dispenser, she wiped as much of the blood off as she could. Her tank top was trashed, but the purple somewhat hid the black blood stain.
‘You missed a spot.’
Jumping at the voice, Vivian Scout grabbed the first thing she could reach for self defense. Granted a dish wand didn’t seem lethal, but you never know.
‘Sorry, on your shoulder, behind it…’
The person took a step forward, which Vivian matched with a step back. ‘I’m good, thanks,’ she replied.
‘Are you really?’
Vivian’s eyebrows arched with surprise. ‘Am I…what? Am I good?’
The voice behind her made her spin quickly, backing up against the snack table, nudging it out of its perfectly centered position in the room. There had been a connecting door along the far wall and she could see another conference room on the other side. More people came through the door, quietly joining the seemingly disembodied gruff voice.
‘Shit…’ Vivian mumbled quietly.
‘Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.’
‘I think that’s a hit against your chosen profession and your gender. That’s cold.’
Vivian straightened, pushing her shoulders back proudly, sneering her response. ‘Fuck you, let’s do this already.’
So, they did.
Mr. Green muttered to himself as he and half of the mob from upstairs conducted their search for the missing woman who was last seen heading for the stairs.
‘Why didn’t anyone stop her? We should all stay together,’ he said to no one in particular when they entered the second floor and immediately heard the flat screen television blaring from down the hallway. Quickly, he moved down to the snack bar and opened the door.
There were gasps, screams, and the distinct noise of someone throwing up, yet again, into one of the hallway planters.
The woman, later to be identified as Miss Vivian Scout, was lying along the length of the table, arms outstretched, and completely eviscerated. Her eyes were missing, as well as her major vital organs save for her heart, which apparently she was holding in her right hand. The flat screen blared loudly at the people standing over Miss Scout’s body, and with disgust, Mr. Green noticed the remote control was tucked neatly into her rib cage. Moving around the table he approached the television and looked for the off button on the side as it spewed out information regarding extinction. The irony was not lost on Mr. Green. His bank patrons representing all walks of life were becoming extinct right in front of his eyes.
As someone pulled the kitchen dish wand that was protruding from her mouth out, Mr. Green finally found the switch and turned off the television.
If this was a horror movie, I'd already be dead, right? I'm not a virgin, I smoke, I curse...
...Good thing this isn't a horror movie, right? .. Right?
The screams and sounds of gagging jolted her out of her internal monologue.. and straight into a scene from a disturbing movie. Ella's stomach churned, shouted at her. Her brain screamed "GET OUT!!! GET THE FUCK OUT!!" but Ella couldn't move. She was rooted, in utter shock at the grisly scene before her.
Finally gaining her composure, Ella willed a calm and blase expression on her face.
"My mother always told me that TV will kill you."
Ernest Freeman hitched up his pants and marched right in.
"What kind of cockamamie establishment are you running here, Green? And don't tell me that this is all part of your bank's booby traps!"
'Really Mr...uh, really! I have no control over the bank's security measures, but I can assure you that my staff and I have nothing to do with these murders. I'll not have you inciting another riot and causing any more damage with your accusations.' With a huff, Mr. Green straightened his iridescent green tie. 'Let's just...clean this up and wait for the authorities to get here.'
((OOC - there are no clues in this thread.))
He pulled out the handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his shining forehead. They would have to do something about the body...parts...bodies...the dead people. Either way he put it, he still wanted to throw up. Half a woman on the third floor, another dead woman here, in the 2nd floor snack room. Where would we put them?
'Maybe we should...put them somewhere?'
Ermest suddenly thought about what he just said and looked a bit wobbly. He turned his head and coughed, apparently intensely interested be something the opposite direction of the dearly departed.