LitShark
Predator
- Joined
- Nov 8, 2002
- Posts
- 3,515
It was a long way from home, that was what Kitch liked best about the island of Manhattan. So impossibly far from everything he’d known for hundreds of human lifetimes. From his fifty-third floor corner office, the whole city twinkled behind the glass, a million different colored of lights, all laughing with the sheer mirth of being above ground. The lights of the underworld never twinkled or glittered—only flickered as one writhing in agony might be said to flicker. Yes, he’d made it such a long way from home.
“*Beep* Mr. Hawthorne, I have Dr. Taguchi on line one, sir,” the voice of Kitch’s beautiful, twenty-something secretary rang out through the base of his sleek, black office phone.
“Thank you, Jenny,” Kitch answered, sweeping his fleshy human fingers through his long, human hair as he turned back from the window, “and thanks also for staying late, you can go ahead and go home now.”
“*Beep*Thank you, sir. Enjoy your weekend.”
“You too, Jenny,” Kitch answered politely as he sat back in his leather armchair behind his desk and clicked the phone over to line 1, “Taguchi San, I trust that your donors’ meeting went well.”
“It did indeed, Mister Hawthorne. Nearly all have confirmed to renew their positions for next year.”
“Nearly all?”
“Well yes, Mr. Hawthorne—“
“Please, call me Jason.”
“Indeed, Jason. Several of the donors were so moved by the images of the new wells in the Congo that they increased or even doubled their commitments for this year. The total of all the pledged donations totals over three million US dollars over the next year. Congratulations.”
“That’s great news Taguchi San—“
“Please, call me Ichi,”
“Of course, Ichi. Thanks so much for your continued patronage and make sure that all of your pledged donors have my sincerest gratitude as well. Arigato gosaimasu.”
“It’s wonderful work you’re doing over there, Jason. We’ll speak again next week.”
“Yes, let’s do that. The children of Haiti thank you as well.”
*-*-*
Jason Hawthorn was the founder and CEO of the nonprofit corporation The Global Clean Water Fund, an organization dedicated to providing access to clean and free water to third world countries and regions in crisis. Though the corporation itself does not turn a profit, its executives and preeminent employees were all paid very well for their services—this too, was part of Jason’s vision for his company. Pay for the best you get the best, and by most accounts, this maxim had paid handsome dividends. Upwards of fifty communities had been provided access to over 70 million gallons of fresh, clean water.
It was good work, to be sure—but no less profitable for its architects than if it had been selling water to the occupants of hell. There were no shortage of soft-hearted rich people, resolved to buy some peace of mind when it came to what sort of person they were, people who cared little for the specifics of what happened to their money after given and certified as a tax write-off.
Kitch, the escaped imp who lived inside the guise of Jason cared nothing for the developing world, or their access to water—his only driving desire was to avoid detection from his former peers and superiors—the ruling caste of hell, who had no doubt marked his absence by now and were no doubt desperately seeking him to end his time on this mortal plane and return him to the pits, drag him back to the flickering, gnawing hellscape that had birthed him. The righteousness of his cause was Kitch’s camouflage from hell, so long as his work was righteous and his heart was mostly clear of sin, he was all but invisible to hell and its occupants.
Nonetheless, the temptations of mortal flesh were difficult to resist for one born of hell.
As Jason walked the brightly lit streets of downtown Manhattan, it seemed that each and every light on street level was broadcasting enticements for sin: Liquor, Live Nudes, Sex Shows, Hot Live Girls—and so on. Kitch longed for the days when he and six or so of his fellows would ride down a new arrival and all take turns on her prone body as the others immobilized her with ropes of human hair… but these thoughts, these impulses were too dangerous to entertain for more than a moment. Jason’s soul needed to remain unsullied if Kitch was to preserve his anonymity.
From street level it was much harder to appreciate the twinkling lights of the city, harder still to ignore her incessant siren’s song of temptation, coke, molly, charlies—get em here. Jason didn’t do drugs, but Kitch couldn’t stop himself from wondering how and why their sale was so profitable to proliferate the shadows as they had. Yet another thing he tried not to think about.
It was then that a discordant outcry pierced through the symphonic clatter of sin and desperation, a threat, a cry, a struggle. As Jason passed a narrow and completely unlit alley, he heard an aggressive and decidedly hostile male voice, the silhouette of the voice’s owner leaning over what looked like a pile of garbage in the dark.
“…those blue eyes lookin’ up at me while I feed you my cock, you little bitch!”
“Hey!” Jason called out, diverting into the alley, away from the light of the street and letting his slow, unaccustomed human eyes adjust to the darkness—imps’ eyes see better in the darkness, yet another sacrifice he’d made to facilitate his escape, “what’s going on over here?”
After what seemed like a lifetime, his eyes adjusted and Jason could now see clearly what was taking place, a homeless man—clearly altered by drugs, alcohol or some combination thereof, was grasping the collar of a young girl’s coat. It was difficult to tell much about the girl, as she was soaking wet to the skin and her long, dark hair was splattered across her face like a tangled mask. In his other hand, her attacker brandished a nine inch knife which he quickly turned toward Jason as he approached.
“Stay out of this, rich fuck! Unless you want this steel in your guts, you’d better keep on walking. Hear me?” the mugger’s hands were trembling, he was also very wet as a light snow had fallen earlier in the day, there were spots in the alley where puddles retained small, brown chips of ice.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jason said in a gentle tone, holding up an empty hand in the man’s direction, “just leave the girl alone, okay. I’ll pay you to leave… okay? I’m reaching for my wallet.”
It would have been easier to kill him, the man’s senses were addled from both intoxication and prolonged exposure, Jason was in perfect shape and completely clear-minded. He could have swatted the knife away, taken position behind him and slipped two fingers into his mouth, splitting his lips open and peeling off a football sized section of his face… Kitch had executed this maneuver no less than a dozen times, but Jason had to be better than that. Sympathetic, even to a strung out mugger and aspiring rapist. Money was most useful to him when he was giving it away. He extracted his Gucci wallet and extracted the paper contents.
“…five-six-seven-eight! That’s eight hundred dollars, right here,” Jason continued to advance on the scene, “you can take that, I won’t report it stolen or tell anyone about this. Okay? Just take the money, nobody has to get hurt. Just take it and go.”
For a moment the mugger looked frantic, grasping the girl’s collar in one fist and brandishing the knife at Jason with the other, deciding what he was going to do, weighing his options, what remained of his conscience… at last, he released the girl’s coat and snatched the bundle of bills from Jason’s hand and took off down the alley in the other direction, nearly slipping on the ice as he took off.
Once it was clear that the mugger was gone, Jason knelt down to the girl, instantly soaking the right knee and shin of his custom-tailored slacks in the wet. It was tough work, this Samaritan business. He reached over, slowly as he could urge his body to move, gently lifting damp clusters of hair back from the girl’s face.
“Are you alright?” Jason asked at last, gently trying to rub some warmth into the girl’s bony shoulder, “do you have some place to go tonight? Can I help you to get there?”
It was then that Kitch noticed her eyes, and strict adherence to the Samaritan playbook became that much harder. It was clear in an instant why she was a target.
“*Beep* Mr. Hawthorne, I have Dr. Taguchi on line one, sir,” the voice of Kitch’s beautiful, twenty-something secretary rang out through the base of his sleek, black office phone.
“Thank you, Jenny,” Kitch answered, sweeping his fleshy human fingers through his long, human hair as he turned back from the window, “and thanks also for staying late, you can go ahead and go home now.”
“*Beep*Thank you, sir. Enjoy your weekend.”
“You too, Jenny,” Kitch answered politely as he sat back in his leather armchair behind his desk and clicked the phone over to line 1, “Taguchi San, I trust that your donors’ meeting went well.”
“It did indeed, Mister Hawthorne. Nearly all have confirmed to renew their positions for next year.”
“Nearly all?”
“Well yes, Mr. Hawthorne—“
“Please, call me Jason.”
“Indeed, Jason. Several of the donors were so moved by the images of the new wells in the Congo that they increased or even doubled their commitments for this year. The total of all the pledged donations totals over three million US dollars over the next year. Congratulations.”
“That’s great news Taguchi San—“
“Please, call me Ichi,”
“Of course, Ichi. Thanks so much for your continued patronage and make sure that all of your pledged donors have my sincerest gratitude as well. Arigato gosaimasu.”
“It’s wonderful work you’re doing over there, Jason. We’ll speak again next week.”
“Yes, let’s do that. The children of Haiti thank you as well.”
*-*-*
Jason Hawthorn was the founder and CEO of the nonprofit corporation The Global Clean Water Fund, an organization dedicated to providing access to clean and free water to third world countries and regions in crisis. Though the corporation itself does not turn a profit, its executives and preeminent employees were all paid very well for their services—this too, was part of Jason’s vision for his company. Pay for the best you get the best, and by most accounts, this maxim had paid handsome dividends. Upwards of fifty communities had been provided access to over 70 million gallons of fresh, clean water.
It was good work, to be sure—but no less profitable for its architects than if it had been selling water to the occupants of hell. There were no shortage of soft-hearted rich people, resolved to buy some peace of mind when it came to what sort of person they were, people who cared little for the specifics of what happened to their money after given and certified as a tax write-off.
Kitch, the escaped imp who lived inside the guise of Jason cared nothing for the developing world, or their access to water—his only driving desire was to avoid detection from his former peers and superiors—the ruling caste of hell, who had no doubt marked his absence by now and were no doubt desperately seeking him to end his time on this mortal plane and return him to the pits, drag him back to the flickering, gnawing hellscape that had birthed him. The righteousness of his cause was Kitch’s camouflage from hell, so long as his work was righteous and his heart was mostly clear of sin, he was all but invisible to hell and its occupants.
Nonetheless, the temptations of mortal flesh were difficult to resist for one born of hell.
As Jason walked the brightly lit streets of downtown Manhattan, it seemed that each and every light on street level was broadcasting enticements for sin: Liquor, Live Nudes, Sex Shows, Hot Live Girls—and so on. Kitch longed for the days when he and six or so of his fellows would ride down a new arrival and all take turns on her prone body as the others immobilized her with ropes of human hair… but these thoughts, these impulses were too dangerous to entertain for more than a moment. Jason’s soul needed to remain unsullied if Kitch was to preserve his anonymity.
From street level it was much harder to appreciate the twinkling lights of the city, harder still to ignore her incessant siren’s song of temptation, coke, molly, charlies—get em here. Jason didn’t do drugs, but Kitch couldn’t stop himself from wondering how and why their sale was so profitable to proliferate the shadows as they had. Yet another thing he tried not to think about.
It was then that a discordant outcry pierced through the symphonic clatter of sin and desperation, a threat, a cry, a struggle. As Jason passed a narrow and completely unlit alley, he heard an aggressive and decidedly hostile male voice, the silhouette of the voice’s owner leaning over what looked like a pile of garbage in the dark.
“…those blue eyes lookin’ up at me while I feed you my cock, you little bitch!”
“Hey!” Jason called out, diverting into the alley, away from the light of the street and letting his slow, unaccustomed human eyes adjust to the darkness—imps’ eyes see better in the darkness, yet another sacrifice he’d made to facilitate his escape, “what’s going on over here?”
After what seemed like a lifetime, his eyes adjusted and Jason could now see clearly what was taking place, a homeless man—clearly altered by drugs, alcohol or some combination thereof, was grasping the collar of a young girl’s coat. It was difficult to tell much about the girl, as she was soaking wet to the skin and her long, dark hair was splattered across her face like a tangled mask. In his other hand, her attacker brandished a nine inch knife which he quickly turned toward Jason as he approached.
“Stay out of this, rich fuck! Unless you want this steel in your guts, you’d better keep on walking. Hear me?” the mugger’s hands were trembling, he was also very wet as a light snow had fallen earlier in the day, there were spots in the alley where puddles retained small, brown chips of ice.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jason said in a gentle tone, holding up an empty hand in the man’s direction, “just leave the girl alone, okay. I’ll pay you to leave… okay? I’m reaching for my wallet.”
It would have been easier to kill him, the man’s senses were addled from both intoxication and prolonged exposure, Jason was in perfect shape and completely clear-minded. He could have swatted the knife away, taken position behind him and slipped two fingers into his mouth, splitting his lips open and peeling off a football sized section of his face… Kitch had executed this maneuver no less than a dozen times, but Jason had to be better than that. Sympathetic, even to a strung out mugger and aspiring rapist. Money was most useful to him when he was giving it away. He extracted his Gucci wallet and extracted the paper contents.
“…five-six-seven-eight! That’s eight hundred dollars, right here,” Jason continued to advance on the scene, “you can take that, I won’t report it stolen or tell anyone about this. Okay? Just take the money, nobody has to get hurt. Just take it and go.”
For a moment the mugger looked frantic, grasping the girl’s collar in one fist and brandishing the knife at Jason with the other, deciding what he was going to do, weighing his options, what remained of his conscience… at last, he released the girl’s coat and snatched the bundle of bills from Jason’s hand and took off down the alley in the other direction, nearly slipping on the ice as he took off.
Once it was clear that the mugger was gone, Jason knelt down to the girl, instantly soaking the right knee and shin of his custom-tailored slacks in the wet. It was tough work, this Samaritan business. He reached over, slowly as he could urge his body to move, gently lifting damp clusters of hair back from the girl’s face.
“Are you alright?” Jason asked at last, gently trying to rub some warmth into the girl’s bony shoulder, “do you have some place to go tonight? Can I help you to get there?”
It was then that Kitch noticed her eyes, and strict adherence to the Samaritan playbook became that much harder. It was clear in an instant why she was a target.
