Cycles

“Hey, you alright?”

“Fine, I'm... I'm j-just fine.”

“Good, good. Yeah, the first time is always a bit rough, but you'll learn to get used to it.”

Perhaps “a bit rough” was a considerable understatement, if the chunks of old pork and the pool of straight vomit that came from the rookie had anything to say. But the “get used to it”? No, that was just fine. The rookie himself would learn soon enough that a job this dirty has a noticeable touch of negativity associated with it, a negativity that, in order to pull of this job perfectly, would need to be saved for a later time at a later date – or even better, not at all.

The other man – I'd call him a veteran, but that would be a sin – sat placidly in the opposite corner, making sure the rookie's excrements wouldn't reach his mousse boots. This annoyed the rookie to a point that could not be described on paper, but for the sake of good will he kept his mouth shut.

As for the job, it had been cleaned up fairly well by this point. The job a crime, the crime a murder – something I'm sure you picked up on your own, but for the sake of our audience who needs a little guidance, I'll put in a few words and paint a picture; a flash, a bang, a fountain of blood. You see, a picture has never hurt anyone, but a gun sure has. At least a man with a gun. But when the man with a gun has no motivation besides a vague promise of money and a chance to be something bigger than himself, he gets a little woozy. So please take this: don't insult the guy who has done something you've never tried.

The man in mousse began to pick the other up from the ground due to the status of time. Though despite what the rookie said only moments ago, it seemed that his physical state deemed the opposite: the thousand yard stare and the thousand ton clench.

“What? Something wrong?”

And despite the fact that this was only the simplest of variations to something that was also said only moments ago, this time the rookie opened up. His hands – that momentarily stopped clenching, yet still continuing the shake – made their way to his shirt pocket, and it was from there that out came a simple polaroid.

“This was in her pocket.”

The man took it, and smiled. This was a picture of a man of unknown origin, and a woman that once was. Perhaps not as exciting or colorful as the other image, but interesting nonetheless.

“Well, young love. It happens, don't worry.”

“Check the back.”

The back he checked, and unfortunately it lead to his hypothesis being incorrect; for instead of “boyfriend”, it read “brother”.

Some tend to forget that, just as there is a circle of life, that there is a circle of death – and this circle of death lies inside one of the greatest human imperfections. Some people chase the killer's of their loved ones to the tips of the earth – others beg, and whine, and cry, and wait for something to be done while things never change. But few can recognize that neither of these paths lead to anything better, and though the man holding the picture was wise, nor experienced, nor even that intelligent, he knew this simple fact.

But the rookie had already chosen his path, even as he was meant to be the destination. The gun was cocked once again, the man heard it loud and clear – and to make it even more obvious, it was pointed right at him as he looked up.

“Listen, I know your frustrated. I was too, but right now you just need to listen to me.”

What's the similarity between a cranky child and a man with a gun? Neither one can be reasoned with.

By the time the man realized his mistake, it was too late. Too little had been put into thought, and too much pressure had been put into the trigger. Just like a circle, it happened all over again.

A flash.

A bang.

A fountain of blood.

But this wasn't the blood of the man. To confirm this, he looked at himself and found it to be true; but it was only until he looked at the rookie that once was, that realized exactly what had happened.

Impressively, the rookie had stopped the cycle in the way no one else had thought of. Indeed, he stopped the infamous circle of death, and although the feelings of the brother to this situation is debatable, it seemed that this time it worked out for the good of the whole.

But let's not forget: this is a job.

The cycle would continue as it always had, and although the rookie put a stop in the gear, it is a gear that has an engineering failure. Would the gears ever stop turning? Perhaps not. Perhaps just like there must always be a cycle of life, there will always be a cycle of death.


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