形容词
August 1st 2025
My fairest of greetings to the curious eyes of the reader, I'm Eikon and I’m an International Private Investigator. I was born and bred in
***
Said era had already commenced before I even realised. I was at a coffee shop stalking and eavesdropping on a man, Matthias Yerig. His [ex] brother-in-law hired me under fear that Matthias had murdered his wife. Matthias was sitting at a table which was off-centre to the café; a stern, watchful look was draped over his face, with 3 days growth of facial hair masking the lower regions of his face; in contrast to the shining baldness of his dome. He sported an ill-fitting, mud-brown tee shirt and grimy white three-quarters. He stood at around 6’6’’, rather well built too. Definitely not someone I’d want suspecting me. I assumed I was safe nonetheless, seated at the corner of the shop near the hall which led to the restrooms.
I sat there at my seat and drew out a cigarette from a tin I was carrying, using my silver Zippo lighter I set the rolled up tobacco alight and drew a few puffs. At that moment a man stood over Matthias’ table. The man was around 6 feet and had shoulder length, snow white hair. His complexion was fair as was his air. He wore a hooded, leather coat that was tied by a pair of belts at his midriff; the coat then flowed down to his knees but was also parted just above his buttocks. His pants were black with a tinge of green, presumably denim. He sat himself down across of Matthias with his head hanging. Matthias seemed to be interrogating the man for his purpose there. The man callously raised his head and gave Matthias a deep stare. They both rose and walked over to the restrooms. As they approached I stared at this mystery man’s face, he had a cute, youthful face; his eyes… his eyes were extraordinary; one was a deep emerald green, but the other… the other was a simple pupil; two red lines crossed down his face, one on either side of the pupil, it couldn’t have been a tattoo for the scarlet lines were marked even on the white of his eye.
Flustered from the sight I looked back down to my news paper, my fedora hiding my eyes from those of the two men. As I heard their footsteps fade out a little I put out my cigarette and rose, making my way to the men’s bath-room. I saw them both enter the bathroom, yet upon entering, I saw that the stall doors were wide open and the window was gated shut; not a trace of the mysterious man or my suspect, all I found was a note on the bathroom mirror which stated “The Chitan is gone, you’re welcome. J ” That little yellow paper was a tiny entity that left me stupefied, that little; mustard-yellow sticky note was as dreadful to me as the Atomic Bomb was to Oppenheimer. Thousands upon thousands of questions rioted in my head. For a man to wander off into a room, nowhere to hide and leave a lone note talking of something as dreaded and long-thought gone as a Chitan… could this man actually be insinuating the Chitan are still lurking amongst us?
***
I made my way home to my flat and typed out a report on my typewriter. I had a computer, a Macbook pro to be exact; however I preferred having my official documents typed through a type-writer. Ne’er had the typewriter shown any tangible benefits bar the fact it simply soothed my nerves; from the sound of the aged keys to the font and ink marked on the paper. The clock ticked and the report had come and gone, I was restless in my apartment. The questions still remained dormant in my mind. The fear of the Chitan I remember so vividly from my adolescence has resur-faced. Rising up I grabbed my mobile phone, lighter and cigarette tin and pocketed them, I draped myself in my trench coat and fedora, grabbed the keys and walked out of my flat. Trying to displace the thoughts in my head I analysed the hallways of the flat, the staircases and windows. I searched for any changes, something interesting to replace the questions in my mind but the search was for naught. The same dated, green wallpaper; the same, puffy maroon carpet; the same, chipped, white wooden windows, nothing had changed at the block of studio flats that housed the litter of John and Jane Does. I lit up a fag and paced along the
It was at the Park that I had my restless questions put; finally, to rest. It was at the park that night where I first wet myself since I was an infant. I walked by an elder Englishman who was walking his parson Russell terrier when this timid elder asked me for the time. He started talking to me, he started droning on how he had to fetch a taxicab for his bones were brittle and his legs were fragile; not sturdy enough to carry his body back to his abode. As far as honesty goes, this is right up there with “I did not have sexual relations with this woman.”
Upon ending his speech the old bastard gripped my arm. Tightly, this was the level of tightness that would be compared to the jaws of a lion enclosed on the spine of a wildebeest. The old man’s humble veneer had dissipated and his visage was now home to an animalistic sense of hunger. His skin darkened and seemed to get firmer, his pupils dilated and his eye turned yellow, rows of sharp, gritty teeth burst out of his vein-lined purple gums. He whispered to me words that sounded like a dozen voices speaking in unison, adding a very certain effect to the otherwise weak words. “You won’t see the sun rise, kid.”, That’s what the sod told me. I expected to feel pain; I expected to die. However, all I felt was the realisation that my crotch was very warm and very damp. Opening my eyes showed the mystery man gripping the my attacker’s scaly and muscled arm; I saw my saviour held a short, black blade held high above the old man’s head, seeming to embrace the white purity of the Moon. Swiftly the arm of my saviour came down, and the black blood of my attacker was momentarily suspended in air, I caught a glimpse of the creatures head detached from its shoulders, flesh twisting and rippling in the night air; and then I saw the entire entity of this, now dead, being turn to a fine, black sand.
My jaw dropped, the nameless sir sheathed his blade and sniffed. For a while, I felt that time had stopped. In my career I had already seen a lot of gore and had my fair share of shocks but it all paled in comparison to this moment.
“Smells like someone had a little accident!” Said the man in a cheerful, friendly tone; the kind of tone you’d expect to hear from a teasing friend, not the man that just killed a ravenous Chitan.
Mustering up the nerves to speak, I timidly uttered a ‘thank-you’. The man introduced himself,
“My name is Anima, Anima Gigae to be exact. Would you care to share your name?” He asked, while a humble smile rested upon his face.
“Eikon, I’m a Private Investigator.”
“So I’ve seen.” Exclaimed Anima, “As you may have noticed, I’m not exactly what you’d call a vigi-lante. Nor am I an eccentric person. I’m more of an Angel/second coming of Christ kind of deal. I figured that’s a large detail about me so I’d get it out in the open right now.”
Upon hearing these words, alarms sounded in my head. I instantly labelled my saviour as a tenant at an asylum. At that moment he directed my attention to his eyes, I felt my body go numb; my mind go soft and my vision blur. I awoke on the couch at my flat, my mobile phone on the low, oak coffee table with another of this psychopath’s yellow notes beside it. The note stated that I should call upon waking; for this he left his number on the note
“3567931277”I mumbled. I shrugged the thought off and heaved myself to bed.
[/end session;; ‘proofread1’]
~
JAMIE: Good morning, I can’t assume when you’ve read this, but I can tell you that I wrote this on the sixth of the eight, 2008 at 2:03 am.
/end note
1 comment:
so this is what makes shpow a night ow-l....
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