APB: Bonesaw

Travis ducked through the narrow alcove, and pulled his hood up. His leather jacket was barely keeping his arms warm, and THANK GOD that the hood was sherpa-lined. He pulled a cigarette out of the pack that he kept in his right pocket, and returned the pack to his pocket. He put it in his mouth, and then took his scratched silver lighter, and lit up. He blew twin trails of smoke out of his nostrils and was just about to turn to walk away when that sixth sense of his told him that his client was here. Stepping out of the shadows, a curmudgeonly old man stood there. Travis knew better than to laugh, as his client was supposedly one of the biggest playboys in the city, and more then a few hookers had been known to disappear after making comments about him.

The man held out a thick leather satchel, dropped it on the ground and walked away. His voice, harsh yet cultured, rang out in the cool air. "Everything you need to know is in there, my boy. Your payment has been wired to you. Don't even think about fucking me on this, I have eyes and ears everywhere, and I would hate to have to kill the infamous "Bonesaw". Travis sauntered over, picked up the satchel, and walked off. As he walked out of the alleyway, still puffing on his cigarette, he was accosted by two young teens, looking to get their start in the local gang that controlled the area, the South End Kings. Both of them flashed knives and demanded the satchel that Travis so nonchalantly carried. The first "thug" had soft brown eyes and acne all over his face, and his skinny body twitched with energy. The second "thug" was a young Hispanic male, with a mustache, and long sideburns. He was well-built, but neither of them were in Travis' league. "C'mon man, fork over the bag. I don't wanna have to use this." The second said. Travis reached into his jacket, and fingered his trusty bonesaw. He slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, and made the saw clear to view. The first thug turned an ironic bone white and turned to run, but was held firm by his partner. "C'mon, Ese, what's this guy gonna do? Take your best shot, ay homie?" "Don't mind if I do." Travis' voice, rough and deep echoed throughout the alley. He swung his arm rapidly in a C motion and quickly slashed the first man's face, upper arms and chest, and then kicked him hard in the face. He crumpled to the ground, and lay there prostrate. The second man lunged forward with his knife, only to find his petty lunge easily batted away. The saw swung again and found soft flesh in the man's neck. As his lifeblood ebbed out of him, Travis flipped him off before stepping out onto the streets.

The loud wail of a siren echoed across the empty community. "Fuck!" Travis swore, before he turned and sprinted up the street, heading for one of his safehouses. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder and while running, he pulled out his 40cal. semi-auto handgun and began shooting back. His bullets impacted with the window screen of the cop car, the laptop computer sitting on the dash, and the first cop's right arm. The gunshots abruptly stopped as the cop bent over in pain, clutching his upper shoulder as blood spread out amongst the dark blue fabric. His partner, who was in the process of deciding whether or not to make chase, shook his head, and rushed to his partner to tend to his wound. Travis laughed a bone-chilling laugh, as he holstered his gun back into his waistband and jumped up onto a fire escape, easily traversing it, to get onto the rooftop, and run onto the next building's rooftop.

Travis threw open the door on the roof, and ran down the stairs. He was standing in a ghetto area of town, and he walked over to the first apartment building, the door once green, now stained a brown-greenish, bore the number 234 into it. He opened the door, tossed his gun into his safe, and sat down on the mangy faux leather couch and turned on his TV to the local news channel, before walking into the bedroom and passing out on the bed.