THIS IS A TRUE STORY.
THE EVENTS DEPICTED TOOK PLACE IN [REDACTED] IN 2006.
AT THE REQUEST OF THE SURVIVORS, THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED.
OUR OF RESPECT FOR THE DEAD, THE REST IS TOLD EXACTLY AS IT OCCURRED.
A deputy walks into a broken home.
What do they see?
Blood trailing from the front door down to the stairs of the [REDACTED].
A [REDACTED] abandoned by its user.
The user’s wife [REDACTED] by the hands of the beholder.
The user frightened and terrified of the deputy, yet relieved to be able to spin a false yet believable tale of the crime.
The deputy listens to the foolish cries of the beholder, absorbed by the drowning waves of his deceiving words, desperately trying to swim out and away.
Yet they are so entranced by the elaborate tale, so entranced that they do not hear the deafening click of [REDACTED].
The user is stopped in the tracks of his story and brought to silence.
The deputy is intrigued by his sudden pause. What could have caught the frightened beholder’s eye so quickly?
As the user backs away from the deputy, the soul who produced the click steps closer, and the deputy becomes more confused.
The creaks of the wooden floorboards from the click’s feet seemingly confirm the worse (trouble for the deputy, yet not for the beholder).
As the deputy reaches for their firearm and proceeds to turn towards the click and away from the user, the click (later confirmed to be another firearm – precisely the [REDACTED]) immediately stops the deputy in their tracks with his infamous click.
And what happens to the deputy once they stop?
Their blood mixes with the forgotten trail from before as they solemnly drop to the floor as if they are dead weight.
The user, more frightened of his acquaintance than of the dying deputy, follows his crime’s bloody trail to the [REDACTED].
The [REDACTED] machine conceals the user’s identity as he prays for no further encounters with the click.
He waits. And waits. And waits. Yet the click does not make an elaborate entrance nor makes its presence known.
The user, still hidden by the mechanical machine, moves around his crime (he will no longer associate his dead wife as a person) and does something rather foolish, though he believes his act to be quite clever.
Another trail of blood mixes with the previous two, as the user now lays on the [REDACTED], not too far away from his crime (though since he is now unconscious and has a bloody bruise on his head, he no longer associates his wife as his crime as he has now made himself a victim).
The house, no longer a home, is filled to the brim with chilling silence.
Not a soul stirs in the crime scene, not even the departed souls of the deceased.
And yet, as the cold bodies of many lay in the residence, what happened to the click?
Where did it go?
How did it arrive?
How did it make the acquaintance of such a fragile man?
How did it escape? Was it ever there in the first place?
If so, was it the click’s purpose to [REDACTED]?
The abandoned scene echoes in the click’s mind as he drives the [REDACTED] from no longer the user’s crime, but the click’s finished assignment (as the click is used to this type of business).
Police sirens pass by the [REDACTED].
The sounds of his escape and success bring a smile to his face.
Maybe even a tear to his eye as well (though he’ll never reveal that detail to the public nor private eye).
The fumes fill the cold atmosphere of the outside world.
The click is satisfied.
The police in his glorious and beautified painting are not.
Yet this will never matter.
After all, THIS IS A TRUE STORY (with a [REDACTED] ending).
THE EVENTS DEPICTED TOOK PLACE IN [REDACTED] IN 2006.
AT THE REQUEST OF THE SURVIVORS, THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED.
OUR OF RESPECT FOR THE DEAD, THE REST IS TOLD EXACTLY AS IT OCCURRED.
A deputy walks into a broken home.
What do they see?
Blood trailing from the front door down to the stairs of the [REDACTED].
A [REDACTED] abandoned by its user.
The user’s wife [REDACTED] by the hands of the beholder.
The user frightened and terrified of the deputy, yet relieved to be able to spin a false yet believable tale of the crime.
The deputy listens to the foolish cries of the beholder, absorbed by the drowning waves of his deceiving words, desperately trying to swim out and away.
Yet they are so entranced by the elaborate tale, so entranced that they do not hear the deafening click of [REDACTED].
The user is stopped in the tracks of his story and brought to silence.
The deputy is intrigued by his sudden pause. What could have caught the frightened beholder’s eye so quickly?
As the user backs away from the deputy, the soul who produced the click steps closer, and the deputy becomes more confused.
The creaks of the wooden floorboards from the click’s feet seemingly confirm the worse (trouble for the deputy, yet not for the beholder).
As the deputy reaches for their firearm and proceeds to turn towards the click and away from the user, the click (later confirmed to be another firearm – precisely the [REDACTED]) immediately stops the deputy in their tracks with his infamous click.
And what happens to the deputy once they stop?
Their blood mixes with the forgotten trail from before as they solemnly drop to the floor as if they are dead weight.
The user, more frightened of his acquaintance than of the dying deputy, follows his crime’s bloody trail to the [REDACTED].
The [REDACTED] machine conceals the user’s identity as he prays for no further encounters with the click.
He waits. And waits. And waits. Yet the click does not make an elaborate entrance nor makes its presence known.
The user, still hidden by the mechanical machine, moves around his crime (he will no longer associate his dead wife as a person) and does something rather foolish, though he believes his act to be quite clever.
Another trail of blood mixes with the previous two, as the user now lays on the [REDACTED], not too far away from his crime (though since he is now unconscious and has a bloody bruise on his head, he no longer associates his wife as his crime as he has now made himself a victim).
The house, no longer a home, is filled to the brim with chilling silence.
Not a soul stirs in the crime scene, not even the departed souls of the deceased.
And yet, as the cold bodies of many lay in the residence, what happened to the click?
Where did it go?
How did it arrive?
How did it make the acquaintance of such a fragile man?
How did it escape? Was it ever there in the first place?
If so, was it the click’s purpose to [REDACTED]?
The abandoned scene echoes in the click’s mind as he drives the [REDACTED] from no longer the user’s crime, but the click’s finished assignment (as the click is used to this type of business).
Police sirens pass by the [REDACTED].
The sounds of his escape and success bring a smile to his face.
Maybe even a tear to his eye as well (though he’ll never reveal that detail to the public nor private eye).
The fumes fill the cold atmosphere of the outside world.
The click is satisfied.
The police in his glorious and beautified painting are not.
Yet this will never matter.
After all, THIS IS A TRUE STORY (with a [REDACTED] ending).
