Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20160618163439/@comment-28060931-20160820013534

I have not been updated this post with a second draft for such a lomg time because I was busy, and then I just felt uninspired and disinterested in writing. I tried to adress all the issuez you pointed out, and I hope did a good enough job with it.

The new ending is, hopefully, a tiny bit less cliche, but I find it hard to jugde my own work. I tried to add a little more charecter by making Jason hate his boss, and try to supress his emotions to maintain his job, I'm saying this in hopes that you can please let me know if failed, or not.

***

The Lunar Murder (Draft Two)

There might have been a murder; there might not have been a murder, Jason was indifferent: as far as he was concerned, he might have been in a drug induced hallucination; he might not have been in a drug induced hallucination. But one thing was certain – therapy was hard, and withdrawal was a pain in the ass.

Constable Jason McLaughlin liked his job; he did not want to lose it. If his superiors were not assholes, his life would be easier, they were fat perfectionists who thrived on degrading others. But Jason would have to put up with it if he did not want to be scrubbing a McDonalds floor for a living.

As Jason turned east from Nahaval, the scenery became melancholy. The sun waned, and the evening cloak of darkness cast a gloomy vibe over the grass, moors, and valleys.

After three hundred kilometres of a mostly straight course, Jason turned his ‘96 BMW south and headed for the village of Avery Springs. It started raining as Jason entered a forest. Dark oak trees frowned on either side, and the dark depths of the forest laughed shrilly as Jason drove forward.

Jason was filled with awe at the sight of the vista, yet repelled by five dozen sparse houses.

The vista caught his attention first, a huge lake, surrounded by colossal yew, oak, elm, and willow trees. A village, a towering cliff overlooking the scene beneath, and a few tulips, roses, and poppies growing all over the place.

The village was a horror inducing sight. About three dozen houses were barn-like structures with gambrel roofs, and covered in moss; there were some animals staring at the outside world. Jason's first thought about them was that they resembled Holocaust victims.

Jason drove past the houses, trying to divert his attention to the cliff overlooking the village. It helped. Or at least until he saw a sign reading “Avery Springs Cemetery” on a cross on top of the cliff.

“There is no happy place in this shithole,” He sighed.

Jason checked his email: “Meet at the east of O' Mahoney’s road, when arrived at Avery Springs. -RD.” RD stood for Richard Donovan, the superintendent at Jason's garda station. Before the email, he got a call saying there was a murder committed in a town called Avery Springs, a town not marked on any map.

This interested Jason. He thought it was a great way to take his mind off drugs. Following the directions, Jason arrived at a desolate, cordoned-off area. Red and blue lights were flashing, sirens were roaring.

Jason got out of his car, and walked towards the area of commotion. He ducked under the tape, and walked over to a semi-circle of officers looking down at a body. There was a hill, and at the foot of it was a mangled corpse; the intestine was hanging out from a gory aperture in the victims stomach. the victim was middle-aged, a buzz cut, and sporty clothes.

“Jason, how good to see you, my friend,” said his former assistant, who was mistaking in calling Jason a friend, as he had none. “This is a particularly bloody one, no evidence as far as we can tell?”

“Let me have a look at it.” Jason said, trying not to let any emotion find its way into his speech.

“The victim was a tourist, and soldier?” Jason said, seeing the well-built man: he was not a body builder, but was very fit. There was a tan line ending on his wrists. The man was wearing long sleeves when in the sun, but he had a t-shirt on now, so it was a uniform for a job. His knees were in a bad state, so he did a lot of crawling. This led Jason to conclude he was a soldier.

He saw officers examining a wallet with US dollars in it, so a tourist. Plus, no sane person would come to the village if they were natives.

“If you think that you're gonna impress anyone with that bullshit,” Richard said; “You're gonna be fuckin' disappointed. Now stop with the bullshit and get your scrawny ass up and lookin' for traces: Tell us something we don't know, and maybe catch a criminal.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jason clenched his teeth, ascended the hill, and dropped to his knees. He did this for a while.

“Does anyone here smoke cigars, not cigarettes mind you?” He asked “No? Very well then. The killer is an old man. Wealthy. He smokes Dunhill cigars. I found cigar ash on the hill, I used to smoke Dunhill and Pall Mall – the ashes differed – I now smoke cigarettes, the ashes are thinner than a cigars.”

“All right, at least your not completely useless,” said Donavan. “There is an inn here, ‘Red Robin Hood'. Get yourself a room, and interview the locals. Maybe you'll actually be useful. Oh, and try not to run out of breath before you get there”

Jason nodded and followed orders. He bit his lips: he did not want to say anything. Jason took out his interviewing equipment from his pockets; It was not a cosh -- It was a few mints and perfume. The perfume was for himself, the mints were not.

When the superintendent went to harass the forensics, Jason's former partner asked him what he had been up to, and did he have a girlfriend, as he found met a girl last week.

“A girlfriend? Fuck no! I have a job that relies on critical thinking and logic, I have no time to get bogged down with sentiment – love is a defect in our brains: it caused pain through loss and rejection. Humanity would be better off without the emotion.”

“But isn't it great to be attached to someone?”

“No, so get back to work. That's the only thing that matters. I love the thrill of the chase, the suspense; that's why murders are fun. Yeah, someone died – too fucking bad, no one can change that, but chasing a killer is fun, and people praise us for doing so.” Said Jason.

“Is that why you... quite, the umm...”

“Yes.”

The conversation felt awkward. Jason did not mean to be so harsh, but having a shitty boss with a good reason to fire you, and a withdrawal, affects you. As Jason left the scene he heard Richard say,

"Hey, you lazy fuck! Check if this guy is a soldier, will you?"

Upon entering the inn, Jason dry heaved. There was a stench of rot, and filth; the wallpaper was peelslammin. Among the sea of staring peasants, there was one casual looking character in a corner.

Jason walked over to the counter and ordered a Jack Daniels from the hunchback barman, and tipped him fifteen euro.

“Can I sit down?” Jason asked the man in the corner. The man nodded.

“Care to join me in a drink?”

“If I wouldn't be imposing on you.” Was Jason's reply.

Jason took a seat and poured them both a pint. The man was well spoken, had an Oxford accent, spoke with authority, and sounded well educated. The suit was tailored and he had an expensive silk shirt, and polised shoes, as smooth as the water in the lake.

“Oh, and for you, my good man, a mint.” Jason said.

By giving the man a mint, and making it seem personal, while complementing him, established a trust and liking, even if the second party was unaware.

“Forgive me for my folly: I never inquired about your name. My name is Jake Connors.” Said Jason, deciding to keep his real identity a secret.

Jason knew these kind of people, you had to communicate with them using a exaggerated form of English, or else they would consider you a "lesser human being".

“No worries, friend. The atmosphere of this cesspool is enough to make a man forget his own name,” Laughed the man. “As to my name, it is Keaton Rileston.”

“Greeting, Mr. Rileston.” Jason said.

“Same, Mr. Connors.”

“Care to have a cigarette? I prefer cigars, but I am all out. Do you know a place in the town where I can get some?” Jason asked.

“Thank you. As to a store that has cigars in stock, “The Maller” should have some. Harold is the only one who smokes cigars in the town.” Said Keaton.

“Harold who?”

“Harold Delaney, an old man living in the mansion on top of the cliff. He is rich, but whenever he shows himself to the public, which seldom happens, his clothing consists of tattered rags, and bare feet.”

“Curious, but he could have inherited the mansion, and lost all his money through, let's say, gambling.” Jason said.

“No, he is rich: never afraid to show his thick wallet. And he is a decent folk, friendly, and calm, though he never buys you a drink. Despite his usual tranquillity, there was one event that shocked the townsfolk.”

“Please do tell me about it.” Inquired Jason, showing no interest. With these people, Jason knew, you could not appear to be interested, or show signs that their information was of any value to you. You have to make it sound like your only trying to get on their good side by pretending to be interested in what they have to say.

“So it was Halloween night, a bunch of village kids strolled up the cliff with a bag of eggs. They hid behind a deadfall, and bombarded Harold's mannsion with them. No one beside the, now traumatized, kids saw it. The windows were cracked, the yolks stuck to the walls, and the shells littered the garden. After the assault ceased, Harold emerged looking furious.

“The kids laughed at him, and flipped him off, as they call it now days. Steam was bursting from Harold's nostrils, his muscles grew taut, and he launched himself at the kids. Never could I, or any other sane person, imagined the unrelenting speed, and vigour this eighty year old man showed.

“A couple of people noticed the chase. The old man was quickly gaining on the athletic kids. When he caught up with them, he hurled them onto the ground with strength no other man of his age possessed. He then delivered a series of kicks to the kids. It took ten people to restrain him, foam was spurting out of his mouth. Blood was spurting out of the mouths of the kids in huge waves of crimson gore.

“No legal action was taken, considering this town, that is no surprise. The kids ended up with eleven broken ribs between them, and one experienced severe internal bleeding.”

“Dreadful!” Exclaimed Jason, who was ecstatic on the inside.

He then finished his drink and bid the man farewell. Jason wasted no time in sprinting up the hill, and looking for the mansion. The cemetery looked grim in the shadow of the night, and Jason noticed an opaque mist settling in from the north. The trek through the briars, thorny bushes, and mud was exhausting, but when he saw the mansion, Jason sighed in relief.

It was huge, and in a good state of repair. Jason stumbled to the oak door and knocked. A sharp green eye appeared amid a dark void as the door opened at an acute angle.

“Yes?” Barked a hoarse voice.

“Joseph Moriarty;” Jason said. “I'm here to ask you about the village. I am an amateur journalist. I took interest in this town because of it's solitary location and dark history. Since you live isolated from most of the village, I though your opinion might not be biased.”

The door opened fully. A man of about sixty appeared. Despite his age, he looked vigorous, and was well built. He considered Jason for a second.

“Hello, sir, nice to meet you. I'm glad you've stopped by, I'm sure the village gets some negative attention, but the folk there are really nice. Sorry my wife is not here to greet you: she's in the city. Oh, how rude of me – come in!”

The inside was demolished. Jason's mind recalled his trashed apartment, in turn recalling the drugs which it craved. The house was dark -- illumincand by a few wavering candle, a pale mist hovered above the ground -- twirling into vague shapes, the floor boards creaked, and there was a miasma hanging in the air. Jason breathed. An old grandfather clocked rang out. Jason's ears became sensitive from the withdrawal.

Bugs were scurrying along the edges of the walls. Jason's hands clenched into fists. The kitchen he was led into was in the same condition. Harold waved him into a chair. Jason dug his fingernails into the wooden table.

Jason's mind was in a flurry of thoughts about Xanax. He was so busy fighting the thoughts, he did not notice that Harold went to make some tea. When he returned, he filled both their mugs. Jason took a hearty swig, trying to distract himself from drugs. The tea was horrible.

“So, your name, if I'm not mistaken, is Harold Delan...” Jason paused, scanning his host's uncanny smile. Something was wrong. He could taste it now, the succinylcholine chloride-based tranquillizer.

Jason's legs faltered. He got up and frantically looked for his gun inside his jacket. As Jason made contact with the butt of the gun, a cold grip tightened around his arm. His hand was thrust aside, and he was pinned to the wall with the strength of a stampede. Jason's vision blurred and he blacked-out.

He woke in a damp room, gasping for air Jason processed the situation: he was in a dark room, blood was smeared on the cobblestone walls, and chains were swinging from the cieling.

Jason looked around in the dim light supplied by a grate in the roof, and saw a metal bar door. He limped towards it, and shook it to no avail. After his attempts proved in vain, Jason sat in the corner. Then a shadow appeared in the circle of light below the grate. It was getting bigger.

Jason rose and grabbed a lose stone from the ground. Sticking to the wall, Jason inched towards the door, stone grasped in hand. When Jason got as close as he could to the door, he saw a vague shape of Harold.

Suddenly, a hand sprang from the other side and grasped Jason, slamming him into bars.

“Sneaky, sneaky,” laughed a familiar voice. “I would recommend dropping the piece of gravel from your hand, you wont hurt a frog with that thing.” Jason complied.

“Yes, before you ask detective, I killed that tourist, and no, I'm not a psychopath, just a misunderstood person.” That's what every single fucking psychopath says, though Jason, deciding it's best to not say that out loud.

Harold produced a syringe filled with a brown liquid. Jason struggled but Harold held him tight. The piston descended, injecting the fluid into Jason's veins; Jason burst out screaming with a passionate ecstasy, he was delirious – frenzied.

Blackness.

Bad Headache.

Limbs in pain.

A kaleidoscope of colors.

Jason woke up in the same room. He struggled to get up. A rining started in Jason's ear when he got his bearing -- suddenly his hand was jerked upwards in a spasm-like motion. This sporadic flailing of limbs happened involuntarily. His vision blurred, and he saw horrible vistas of alien territory.

He saw cities of Mesoamerican and Maya architecture. They did not belong to this planet: The buildings were jagged; slime coated the walls of the sky-scraper, pyramid-like structures. Silhouettes of winged creatures soared stealthily behind the buildings, lurking in the shadows.

Jason was lurching wildy when he came to himself; jolts of pain ran along his bones. He moaned as he regained control of his body. He was lying on stone table, loose chains tied around his wrists and ankles.

Above him he saw a pillars and wooden arches. Silhouettes of the winged demons Jason saw in his vision sat perched atop of the wooden arches. A choir of chanting filled the air, it was inclosing on Jason; darkness enshrouded the whole room as robed figures encircled Jason.

Jason jerked his hands, trying to get out of the chains. Suddenly one gave away and he slipped off the rest. The figures drew daggers, and Jason grabbed a torch from the wall. One of the cloaked figures charged at him, but Jason lit him on fire, and he ran away screaming in agony.

Jason slipped into a side entrance, as dismay filled the room behind him. While he sprinted through a dark corridor, a cloaked figure sprang out of a door, gripped Jason's arm and threw him inside. The room was small, only containg a matteress and a table with a lamp on it.

Jason did not have much option. He was not a good fighter. Jason saw a basket with a can of deodorant, perfume, and soap on the desk. He took the deodorant and sprayed his assailant in the face. The man threw his hood off his face, revealing a pallid young man. He grasped Jason's neck, and chocked.

Jason felt the world fading away as oxygen was taken away from his brain. But, suddenly, a idea hit. Jason balanced the can of deodorant over the lamp's shade. The world was just a blur of colors. The can sizzled in the lamp's heat. When Jason tthougt he was he a goner, the tranquil sensation of gently fading into oblivion was replaced by a chaotic eruption, a blazing red, and a searing pain.

Both of the men were on the ground, the desk swallowed by a fireball. Jason regained his composure, and poured the perfume over the man's head to extinguish the fire. The man felt a cold metal against his throat.

“Help me!” he screamed, “Please, I did not mean to – drugged. You have to believe me.”

“Now the tough fucker is a small bitch, huh? You have two seconds to tell me what this deranged shit is, or I'll slice your throat!” Jason said.

“I swear I don't know. I remember a table, and a... Oh fuck. A fucking syringe, grimy fucking syringe.A soft voice telling me to drink... something – I don't know what; Shit, shit, I saw shit you can't imagine: some fucking temples, or skyscrapers you can't even comprehend. I was told things by a voice, a voice I liked – the person who spoke wanted to help m—“

Jason felt a searing pain in the back of his head. He woke up in a white room with chemical apparatus and labled bottles littering the place. He was lying on an operation table. Harold was standing beside him, turned around – fiddling with a syringe. Jason saw his jacket on a nearby chair, and he saw the butt of gun sticking out. He sprang up. Pushing the table into Harold, Jason grabbed his gun.

“Shi... you're awake. I thought you'd be out for a longer while. Look, kiddo, I didn't do anything wrong. These people their my family... I lost my real family, and my faith in god. So I created a community of people and a god they can depend on.

“I wouldn’t be able to convince them any other way. But Jason, they're happy here, they have each other, their friendship will last forever, these drugs will ensure that. You assume it's deranged, that I'm controlling these people, manipulating them – I am – but it's a necessary evil. These people have a god they can actually depend on, they have eternal paradise.

“The tourist had to die because he stumbled onto us in the middle of a ritual, I felt guilty but-“

Jason shot him. It would normally be a shit load of paperwork, but Jason was not going to press a pen upon paper ever again: this place had to go down. Jason looked around. An oak door stood in the corner, upon opening it, Jason saw a gas canister, can of petrol, and an array of bottles wrapped in aluminium foil.

Jason got an idea. He took the petrol and started to spread it across the floor, when a cloaked maniac burst through the door and threw a dagger at Jason. It missed. Jason threw the petrol at the maniac and emptied his clip into him; he erupted into a screaming fireball.

Jason searched through the bottles, until he found bromine. He went into the room with the gas canister, and shot it – the air became thick with gas. Jason smashed the bottle of bromine on the bottles wrapped in aluminium foil, they were set ablaze, and the last thing Jason heard was a *boom* sound, as the whole building was blasted into oblivion.