|
Post by Tillian Panthesis on Mar 17, 2016 13:09:14 GMT 1
16th March 2016
It was 1931. Seven years later after Keaning's awakening. He should have feel alive, with the magic at his finger tips, yet he feels lifeless on the inside. A few years ago, he thought he could take on the cases and solve them without a hitch. Nowadays, he felt helpless and fustrated, as the red tape within the department held him back too many times, to the point he didn't cared about his job anymore.
"You're going to the Bordello again, are you?" Volastron asked in disgust, as he was taking the wheel.
"None of your concern, sir," Keaning replied.
"One of these days, you have to stop rutting random broads every night, son."
"But not today."
"Keaning..."
"Just drop me off here."
|
|
|
Post by Tillian Panthesis on Feb 21, 2017 17:13:36 GMT 1
22 February 2017
Somewhere inside the bolero, Keaning groaned loudly in bed as he finally reach his primal climax. Naked, sweating and breathing heavily; he felt the whole world was spinning, his senses barely registered the escort that rutted him before, was now crawling to his side. Once she lay herself there, nested underneath his well toned arm, she began to twirl her long graceful fingers onto his brass amulet, tracing the intricate patterns that swirled around the blood red ruby stone.
"Nice pendant. Was it from your mother?" The escort asked as her dark chocolate eyes were widen with curiosity.
Keaning shook his head, "No. It was from an accquitence from Harlem. He said this thing would help to bring me good luck."
The escort rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Oh those Negroes and their primitive ways."
"Not all African Americans are like that. Some of them can be the most sophisticated individuals that I've ever seen," Keaning remarked as he remembered about that black man in the bookshop again.
Despite the fact that Keaning has been asking that man's services for a while now, the detective is still uncertain about Nightbear's history. Who is he really? And where did he came from? Keaning suspect that Nightbear might be originated from France, judging by his collection of books that were written in French, along with his accent occasionally slipping its true origins. If he really was a Frenchman, then why settle here, in this shithole? Especially when this country is not so kind to the people who share the same shade of skin as he is.
Then the escort interrupted his train of thought unwittenly, "If they are smart, then why I didn't see running for mayor, winning awards or something?"
"Because we didn't give them a chance unfortunately," Keaning replied, while looking up the ceiling aimlessly.
-------------------------------
It was morning. Keaning was heading towards the station, head still throbbing from the whiskey and fucking that he engaged himself in last night. Then he some sobbing from the hallway, a familiar voice.
"Shit," he muttered to himself and rushed into the area where the source of the crying was heard. Then just as he feared, he saw his Cousin crying in her seat, her husband was trying to console her.
"Why? Why did he do this?" The woman wailed.
"Candace... what happened?" Keaning asked.
Candace's husband stood up from his seat and immediately grabbed Keaning by the shirt with both of his hands. Keaning was violently shoved into the wall nearby.
"Where the fuck have you been? And how the fuck you let that mad dog running freely in the streets?" Keaning's brother-in-law yelled.
"I- I don't know what you're talking about!" Keaning protested his innocence.
Then Keaning's brother-in-law spitefully spat to the nearby ground, before he continued, "You're fucking useless as the rest of the cops. Our son is dead! By those fucking gangsters!"
Keaning let the horror sank in. His little nephew, Michael Vengalli, was murdered in cold blood.
|
|