By David Enicks
The rain fell in waves that illuminated the air around the innumerable neon signs and blanketed the city with a reflection of the night sky. It added a gentle static to the murmur of the crowd and busy street-shops and sheltered bazaars below. The air smelled of smoke and electricity and stung with a bitter cold. From the rooftops, one could get a view of the nighttime sky by both looking up or at its mirror image in the city streets; and could see the lights of the city by its reflection in the rainy nighttime air.
Regal Sloan was atop one of these rooftops, but he was not there for the view. He was there, in the wind and rain and cold, for business. He looked at his watch. 12:50.
Regal was a very average looking man- almost six feet, with short, black hair that hung just above the eyebrows, and a gut that protruded from the rest of his body. Money was his priority, and was one of the few things that he applied value to. Even the loss of human life, he found, could be justified by the exchange of monetary objects.
Nothing was personal.
Three years back, he had undergone a mid-life crisis of sorts. His wife suffered from dementia, her mother was dying from Alzheimer's disease, his own mother had been addicted to drugs, and his children were showing signs of depression. This simply would not do. Regal had a business to run.
He could not do much because his ever-growing wealth had created an ever-growing gap between himself and the rest of his family. When he realized that they were becoming a problem, he tried to help them by moving a bit of money around from his company to them.
He was charged with fraud.
Regal Sloan, president of Sloan's Neon Advertising and Appliances, was given a 14-year prison sentence.
After three years there he had come into contact with a man called Clear. He was well-built, not to heavy nor too thin. He was blonde, and wore a tight black shirt and spectacles. He looked very business-like.
Clear told Regal that he, in collaboration with Mrs. Sloan, had secured both the company and the family. He made it very clear that he was in control. He said, that in exchange for Regal's participation in the murder of four people, he would sneak Sloan out of jail, and return to him his company. His family, too.
When Clear said this, Regal wasn't listening. When he finished, Regal said:
'How much money will be there for me when I return?'
'Oh, don't worry, sir, very, very much. You will meet with your victims next Wednesday, on the roof of Abbeyson's Automobiles at approximately 12:50. A revolver will be provided for you.'
And so the deal was struck. Here, in the rain and wind and cold, was Regal Sloan, about to murder four people, and be given back all of his money. And his family, too.
He nearly forgot.
He checked his watch: 12: 53. He heard the clank of sole against metal, and in the mist of the heavy rain he could see the faint outline of a person. Regal covered his face behind his collar and sputtered, "Clear?! What's happening?"
"Your gun is under the garbage can," said the figure. It was very difficult to hear, and Sloan's vision was becoming blurred. Whoever it was, it was not Clear.
Regal found his gun and cocked it. He had fired a gun once, as a child, at his grandfather’s farm. He had been very good at it. He shot clay disks with his grandfather.
The red door leading down into the building blasted open, and Regal stumbled. He dropped his gun. He could not see; he was drenched in rainwater. Out of the door came a figure. It ran to Sloan, its arms were held wide open.
Regal’s eyes were wild, his mouth was sputtering and gaping, and he was trying to get a grip on the weapon. He held it up with a shaking hesitancy and fired. The body fell and slid across the ground. Regal let out a breath, and it joined the smoke of gunfire and drifted away.
The other three people emerged, looked at the body, and froze. Regal would have cringed, but people die every day, he realized. What really mattered was the business. People depended on his company. He wanted his money back!
He fired again. Another figure fell. The other two figures were quite short. He shot one, and the other slipped and fell. Regal got up, dripping water, and limped over to the figure. He looked down, and saw the face of his son. His eyes wide with fear, the boy stumbled up, and tried to run away. He slipped and hit his head.
Regal grunted. He looked down at his hands, and then at the bodies. He ran to the other one. it was his wife's mother. He looked next to her. His other son. He limped over to the body of the person that ran at him. It was his own mother. He looked, then, at the figure who gave him the gun. The figure yelled at him.
"You get your riches now, Regal! They're all yours! That's all you ever cared about!" The figure came closer. "People die every day, right? People depend on you, right?" The voice was getting louder, and the figure closer. The rain and the nighttime blinded Sloan. "You want your money!" The figure was Sloan's wife. Her face materialized out of the rain, and in front of his own. It was grim.
"You've got what you want, asshole." She grabbed his hand, pulled the gun to her chest, and fired. She fell, and tainted the reflection of the starlit sky and the neon lights with crimson.
"I'm sorry, Sloan. I had no choice, it's my job. I... I do things other people won't do." Sloan looked down at his hands. They were wet. He looked up at the voice. It was Clear.
"Its fine. All in the name of business, eh?"
"Um."
"I was just curious- how much money did you say I get again?"
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