Round 2 - Don't tell anyone I was killed this easily! (MAFIA HIT)
Mr. Smith stood stoically in the Lobby. The rest of the customers had followed him back up and were starting to feel â€˜buyerâ€™s remorseâ€™ in what they had all just done. The old Jewish lady was locked up in the vault with not much air. That would be a pretty shitty way to dieâ€¦almost literally. Suffocating, like drowning, burns up the last bit of fuel in your body and soon sheâ€™d be rigid from it. Not that heâ€™d know anything about that.
Smith looked down at his cell phone â€“ no signal still â€“ and scrolled through the pictures of his hamster. Oh, Mr. Hamster. He sighed, hoping that heâ€™d get out of the bank in time for his surgery. He immediately wondered if heâ€™d be able to catch a cab or rail across town, and while he was in deep thought, the rest of the bank customers cleared out of the lobby, returning to the upper levels, but he was not alone.
Standing upright at his side was his briefcase. It never left his sight, for personal (and obvious) reasons. His hamster was his first priority, but the contents of his briefcase held more than just his petâ€™s life. As if to reassure him, he looked down at itâ€¦but it was gone.
Twisting in a circle, he searched the floor and then looked up. The snapping of locks caught his attention behind him and he watched as a small group of individuals opened the case.
â€˜Myâ€¦my,â€™ said one of the interlopers.
Mr. Smith took one step and stopped, mid curse as he looked down the barrel of a gun. Squinting he looked at it â€“ it was the FBI agentâ€™s gun. He froze as he watched the group look through his suit case and pull out the package worth more than his life.
Taking a pen from one of the teller stands, one of the group poked a hole in the bag.
â€˜Aw, come on,â€™ Mr. Smith sighed.
Taking a finger, the person dipped it into the bag and brought it up to their mouth. â€˜Oh thatâ€™s cocaine. Believe me, Iâ€™d know.â€™
â€˜Easy to get for you, I suppose.â€™
The person smiled and raised an eyebrow knowingly.
â€˜Well what do you all want?â€™
â€˜Wine, women and songâ€¦yes, I get it,â€™ Mr. Smith said exasperated.
â€˜No, I donâ€™t think you do.â€™
Picking up a stapler from one of the loan officer desks, one of them walked toward the lobby door and threw it as hard as they could, putting the tiniest little crack in the reinforced glass. A booming voice shook the lobby.
â€˜Please step away from the door!â€™
Another of the group reached under the desk and yanked on the telephone cord, grabbing about six feet of it and approached Mr. Smith quickly. Tying his hands behind his back, they shoved him hard toward the door.
â€˜Are you fucking kidding me?â€™ Mr. Smith said with contempt. Mumbling he added, â€˜This is so high school. Can you at least be a little more creative?â€™
The person smoothed a hand over their head and then pounded on the door again with a fist.
â€˜STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY.â€™
Mr. Smith looked behind him at the door and then back at the gun. He could make a break for it, maybe he could incapacitate the one in front of him, then maybe he couldâ€¦
In the middle of his hasty thought process, Mr. Smith did not notice the foot coming directly at his solar plexus, pushing him back against the door, this time banging loudly. He was not surprised to feel the piercing of half a dozen bullets into his back, pulverizing his heart. Mr. Smithâ€™s last thought, quick though it had to be, was that he had hoped someone would care for dear Mr. Hamster and that the method of his death (mostly the ease of it) would not reach his employerâ€™s ears. Tied up and killed by sharp shooters.
â€˜Oh, nice shot.â€™ The monotone voice was annoyed yet impressed, if that were possible.
The SWAT team sharp shooter smiled at his team member. â€˜Practice makes perfect.â€™
With a sigh, the monotone officer replied, â€˜Meh. No quote this time?'
'I couldn't think of a good one, plus it seemed a bit...I don't know, over done?'
'Don't want to appear too eager. Goodness no.'
Turning to leave, he stopped in his tracks and muttered, "if I ever get out of this alive, that is".
Overhearing Bernie, Mr. Freeman approaches the body of "Mr. Smith". He keeps a respectful distance.
" In this horrible world there doesn't seem to be anymore room for the gentle people. He loved his hamster...and look at all that baking flour! I bet he was going to make him a cake."
Mr. Freeman's mustache bristles with sadness.
But who had tried?
The blood splatter and body laying face down on the lobby floor was a pretty good indicator to Mr. Green. His eyes traveled across the floor and saw some phone cord line that had been ripped out. Was someone using the ph-?
Suddenly his cell phone began to ring. Fumbling into his jacket, he pulled it out and read the caller ID.
'Mr. Green?' Is this the bank manager, Mr. Phillip Green?'
'Yes, it is. What just happened? There are people in here. People are dying! What is going on...?'
'Calm down, Mr. Green. The situation is under control.'
'Oh really? Not from where I'm standing.'
'Please advise your customers to stay away from the doors and windows. Your bank is under CDC authorized lock down. Failure to comply will result in taking extreme measures.'
'Are you listening to me? People are dying IN HERE.'
'We'll get back to you shortly, Mr. Green.'
Then his phone went dead. Green tried to call out again but the signal was cut off. Throwing his cell phone behind him, he let his shoulders slump and began asking people to go back upstairs.
(((OOC - no clues here, just a further explanation.)))
Looking at the body of Mr. Smith, Ella felt a queer twisting in her stomach. She hated guns in general, hated the people who used them. Such an artless way of death.
Surveying the area, she noticed the plastic bag, and absentmindedly walked over to it, dipping her finger into the white residue.
That's some good shit... But no. Nope. Not worth it. I'd probably kill everyone in here if I got high on this shit.
He absently shook another smoke from the pack and lit up, exhaling as he looked across the room at the now dead body.
After pulling on her t-shirt and gasping through the pain, she limped her way out of the room, unfortunately just in time to catch the latest in gossip of the most recent of events. She closed her eyes, and forced silence upon herself, instead choosing to focus on finding her messenger bag. Maybe her xanax was still on the floor?
~You wouldn't dare pick up a pill from the filthy floor and eat it! ... I know. What if someone stole my bag though? What if they steal my wallet, or my ss card? What if they steal my identity? Ruin my credit? Shut up. Geesh, always the worst with you. YOu know what the worst is this time around, don't you? ... stop it. My doctor says to stop dwelling on death so much.~
Myraan limps further down the hallway, spots one of the little blue xanax pills, and grows hopeful. (the thread is gone, unless I'm stupid and they are archived somewhere?? so I am going to assume no one picked up her bag. Therefore, I am having her find it. If this is greivous error, please just disregard it and PM me lol) A few more steps, and sure enough just inside the bathroom of doom lies her bag. She had dropped it in a panic, as she fled the crowd. She never did well in crowds, especially crowds of strangers.
It could have been Christmas morning if anyone were around to witness her reuniting with her lost bag. She picked it up and clutched it, which only made her gasp and wince in pain. She cursed under her breath, but decided that despite her fears of strangers, now was NOT the time to be alone.
Wandering back down the hall, Myraan made her way back to those gathered around the now deceased Mr. Smith, and heard Mr. Green smack the phone down in anger. It made her jump a little, as she eyed everyone warily. Something felt wrong, very wrong. She'd grown to trust her instincts throughout her young life, and while she wanted nothing more than to be out of this damnable place, there was no escape.
Ushered back upstairs, each step was filled with various sharp pains. Ella had said that she didn't think anything was wrong internally, but Myraan felt horrible. Her head was killing her, and she felt a bit dizzy. To comfort herself, she began counting, each step. Each crease in the tiled floor, listening to the people around her, for now, part of the terrible flock that was seemingly being led to their slaughter.