Author's Note: Here it is; the opening to the re-write of my abysmal first book, Ben Hawkes. Enjoy!

21:37, 03.05.2003
The rain was unlike any he had seen before. It didn’t seem content with falling on you; instead it attacked you. Watery bullets firing relentlessly from heavenly guns, as if the gods wanted him dead.
It wasn’t surprising. They obviously knew what he had done. They knew of his ‘career’, his deeds, his life. They had, no doubt, been watching him since his early days, from his thievery at school to his current occupation. They had probably made a list of all of his crimes, and aided the police in their search for him (though to no success, so far). They had probably even put aside their petty differences, stopped the War of Religions and come together, in an effort to stop people like him. They had probably even reserved a space for him in Hell, where he would be tortured for all eternity, with a new level of pain for every man he had killed, every item he had stolen, every gun he had sold…why was he thinking like this? He didn’t even believe in gods.
He checked his watch once more and grunted. His client was late. They usually were. And still the rain attacked him.

21:39
He turned smoothly into Viaduct Road and cruised down towards the park, before smoothly swerving through the historic arch (one of many) of the viaduct and parking neatly beside a black Mondeo. He turned the engine off and calmly got out, ignoring the rain and nodding courteously to the waiting man.
“You’re late,” the man said.
“I know,” he replied casually. The man merely sighed in reply.
“Your reputation spreads far,” he said in a flattering tone, “If it was anyone else, I would have left half an hour ago. This meeting was for nine!”
The customer shot him an evil look.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said.
The man turned to the boot of the Mondeo and opened the boot, watching with delight as the customer’s eyes lit up at the sight of his hardware.
“Where’d you buy all of this?” the client asked.
“Buy it?” the man spat, as if insulted, “I make it myself. I’ve got about twenty five men throughout the county putting them together for me.”
“Did you buy the kits off the Internet?” the customer joked.
“Yes,” was the truthful reply, “There’s a great front run by some bloke up in the Midlands.”
“Care to tell me the address?”
“No chance. I must keep my sources to myself. You understand.”
“Yes, I do.” Not that he had needed to know, but it was worth trying.
“See anything you like, then?”
The customer didn’t reply. He merely extended his hand into the boot and moved it over the vast array of guns, stroking each one as if to feel its power. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns (double-barrelled or sawn-off), SMGs, machine guns, silencers, ammunition clips – ‘and no explosives, he noted with disappointment.’ Still, it did make sense, safety-wise.
“What if I wanted something explosive?”
“Then you’d have to come to one of my warehouses.”
“Where are they?”
“Are you going to buy anything or not?” the arms dealer replied, changing the subject.
“Where are they?” he persisted.
“That information is for paying customers…”
The client reached for his wallet.
“…Regular paying customers.”
The client returned his hands to the weapons. He picked up one of the more modern pistols and a silencer.
“How silent is this thing?”
“Why don’t you try it?” the dealer suggested, “It’s loaded.”
“Loaded?”
That was surprising. It was true that only fools sold guns, and that those who sold loaded ones were the more foolish.
“They’re all loaded,” the fool replied, “in case the ‘boys in blue’ drop by.”
This man truly was a fool, which was an encouraging thought.
After screwing the silencer on firmly, the customer turned away, aiming for the nearest lamppost. Satisfied, he squeezed the trigger and listened. The only sounds were the rain, the passing cars, and the gentle shattering as the bullet burst through the light, turning it off as effectively as pulling the plug. The shot couldn’t be heard.
“Good enough,” the client agreed, gazing down at the weapon in his hand.
“That’s one hundred and fifty pounds.”
“What?”
“It’s good quality merchandise, don’t you think.”
The client wheeled around and pressed the gun barrel into the dealer’s forehead.
“I’m didn’t arrange these meeting to buy your do-it-yourself water pistols,” he said, his tone now low and menacing, “I want to know where your warehouses are.”
“What’s it worth?” the dealer grinned, never frightened by a man with a gun.
There was the sound of flesh and bone being penetrated as the client shot the man in the foot. This was followed by a scream of agony.
“UGH! Sorry,” he gasped in pain, “I’m…just trying to…make a living.”
“So where are they?”
The dealer shook his head, before screaming as he received a bullet through his other foot.
“Widford Industrial Estate, next to the A414.”
“Thank you,” the gunman replied
The dealer froze in fear as he saw the man’s rugged features stretching into a smile. He’d heard much about this man’s reputation; his origins, the number of people he had killed. This man was something of a legend simply for his tradition before killing someone: he never smiled unless someone was about to die. Seeing those gleaming teeth, his lips in the widest grin possible, and a murderous glint in his eye, was the omen of death. Paralysed with terror, the dealer watched as the gun barrel returned to his head and the trigger was pulled.

Wow! That was a great piece of writing. I don’t think I can find anything to criticize.

I… must… hear… more!

:P haha! I've read it ALL! and it wasn't abysmal Batch, so there. *watches Lugana twitch, awaiting more story*

must resist urge to...must rsist urge to...compliment...batchgc....must!!!!!!!!!!


seriously great......dammit! :angry:

what up with the clock? cant you tell the time :D

Thanks all, but this is one I'm keeping under wraps!

Lugana shrugs

Fine! Be that way!