Board Thread:Fun and Games/@comment-29711200-20170206103720/@comment-29669939-20170206191715

Slowly, he strolled to the exit of his house, clasping his hands behind his back, glaring at jet-black, void night. Slipping his hand inside his jacket, he slid out a bedraggled pipe and a small satchel containing minuscule, mahogany chunks of tobacco. As if loading a cherished gun, he cautiously pinched a batch and evenly inserted it into the opening of the scratched pipe, as if he practiced it many times. Searching for his ancient fire-striker, he clutched it as well as his short char cloth and lit the tobacco alight. Gradually inhaling the flavoured smoke, a recent memory struck his mind, where his younger brother (who also works in his department) asked him:

"Why smoke? You know it can harm you."

"Because I hate the way the smoke chokes me, but love the way it intoxicates me." His inexperienced brother always disagreed with him about many things. Just recently, they had an argument about guns, something he loathed.

"Brother, why don't we learn to use a gun? In case of dire situations?"

"Sam, you don't need a gun when you have the Mayor, Jailor AND Vigilante roaming the streets! It's a waste of time, and I wouldn't get involved in those things." Sam muttered something under his breath, before leaving.

Exhaling his last smog, he too disappeared into the darkness outside. In an agile and effective way, he stealthily wandered across the frigid, stone roads, quickly coming upon a huge building, with a sign stating 'House Number 13'. Nimbly, he hauled out his cramped, ripped notebook, and flicked to a page, suddenly writing something down with his pencil, which he removed from the top of his ear.

Stepping into the mansion (of course, after knocking down the door), a foul stench infiltrated his nostrils. This reminded him of one thing:

Blood

Venturing forwards into the house, bloody knives and saws starting appearing in front of him, before stopping, beaming at what laid on the floor.

He rushed out of the house, closing the door before saying hello to his dinner. With his last strength, he noted down 4 words, 2 in bold - 'SERIAL KILLER' . He strolled back to his home.

Without warning, an afraid Sam popped into his residence.

"Brother, there's something wrong." Anxiously Sam spoke.

"Haven't got the time Sam, I got things to do," He casually replied, Sam sometimes annoyed him.

"No, it's something important."

"Fine, what is it?"

"I'm sorry." A loud sound rang across the room, followed by tears.

"You know I could've done it." A dark figure uttered, with a thick Mexican accent.

"You do your job, I do mine."