birds typically travel in flocks, he’s fairly sure of that. which is what draws his attention to the little feathered beast when it croaks and nothing else calls back. it’s WEIRD, ennit? in his business, weird isn’t usually good. weird is usually an omen of shit about to hit the fan, a warning to grab himself an umbrella before it does. in this case, it’s an omen of another person close by, and someone who fits the whole bloody list of things that set teeth on edge. especially when they know his NAME.
“ was gonna ask you the SAME THING, mate. halloween store’s closed, s'fuckin’ june. give the ‘aunted ‘ouse make - up a rest, yeah? “
Long, bloodied leather coat echoes his movements as he turns ( along go the six-stringed instrument strapped around his shoulder, and the twelve-gauge shotgun underneath ), painted brows arching above a piercing hazel gaze. Head tilting, appreciating the man’s words.
⊰ IDIOT ⊱ — the bird hissed from above, frustrated, scolding Eric for wasting time.
“Apologies.” he speaks in a low baritone, eloquent pronunciation, rhythmic syntax. Much like a poet in mid recitation. Eyes close as his head bows in a gentle nod. It seems, he’d startle the magician. “I assure you, I meant no harm.” boots approach the asphalted sidewalk. One down, message sent, three to go. The nightmare had begun – in a blaze of violence, blood, death and vengeance. A deserved carnage to come which could not be stopped. Eric sat for a moment, on the vile of wet, poisoned ground, where the rain felt so cleansing.
⊰ NOT TO HIM ANYWAY ⊱ the black feathery creature caws, remaining ignored.
Wet asphalt against loosened pebbles screamed in inanimate pain beneath the dead man’s boots. The dark of the night offered melancholic solitude. A solitude dressed in blue & cold as rain— a rain that was so cleansing, so damning. Like that of the night he scratched & punched out of his coffin.
⊰ STAY AWAY FROM THAT ONE, KID. ⊱ The bird cawed & took a dive, landing on the edge of a building across the street.
Intense eyes followed the the crow’s focus. A man in a trench coat registered in sight. “Are you lost— Mister Constantine?”
