No Place I'd Rather Be...

The bight Chicago lights gleamed like sparkling diamonds into the cold, inky black night sky. Taxi cars crammed the streets, honking their horns angrily and people walked quickly on the busy sidewalks eager to get home and out of frigid air. Patrick Cleary was among the throng of people desperate to get out of the cold, his wool coat wrapped tight around his built frame and pulled his hoodie low over his head and eyes. His mind was relatively blank, completely exhausted from a long day of pouring over a corrupt CEO's bank accounts. Busy work or what he liked to call it, his form of punishment. Punishment for what, he had no clue, but then again this was his boss he was talking about.

Patrick Cleary was just a young man, only twenty-four years old, devastatingly handsome, and a hit with female onlookers. He would always get looks sent his way, and why shouldn’t he? He was a brownish blonde haired single man living in the wonderful city of Chicago. And he had a pair of blue eyes that could melt the soul.

He turned down a side street, where the flow of foot traffic was much thinner, in hopes of getting to his house faster. The street was claustrophobic and narrow, the tall buildings casted long shadows, throwing most of the street into complete darkness. Patrick lifted the collar of his coat up and pulled it around his neck as a cold wind whipped down the street. Chills ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the freezing temperatures. He could feel eyes on him, watching his every move.

"Hello there, young man," a tall, dark haired man greeted, stepping out of an alleyway. He looked sickly and dark shadows hung under his eyes and his skin was pale and waxy. Patrick stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that voice all too well; it wasn’t kind by any means and it was the same kind of tone that one might here before an ambush or something bad.

"Hi." Patrick tried not to make eye contact, as he focused on his walking and mission to get home. He had lots to do. He tried to keep his face completely expressionless as he quickened his pace.

The man took a step forward out of the shadows and the dashing young man saw that he was a hulking man with prison tattoos. Patrick’s heart raced in his chest. Something was definitely wrong here. He picked up his pace some more, passing a dark alleyway to his left side.

Sure enough, before the young man could make it any farther, he was halted by a cold grip on his wrist, which yanked him to a halt. He was in the center of the entrance to the eerie alley. His panic rose in him, as he spun to look at the creepy, smirking stranger.

"Is there something you want sir?" Patrick asked, his voice clearly panicked and shaking. He glanced from the mysterious man, gripping his wrist, to the alleyway behind and to the right side of him now. A meeting with any stranger was never a great thing, and a meeting that involved any stranger with a creepy look like this guy had, on a dark empty street was a very, very bad thing.

“My name is Keith Ballard and I just want to talk to you. I noticed you are a pretty popular man around here. You might be able to help me out with something.” He nodded to the briefcase in Patrick’s hold. It was his work with all of his papers and information he needed for cases that he handled.

“Look, I don’t really have any time, sir. I’m sorry.” Patrick started to turn away.

The man pulled his lighter, leather, and gang-style jacket tight around him, attempting to conceal his face and looked up and down the street. He cracked his neck and knuckles, before he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew something. "I didn't necessarily ask." He hissed, pulling a small handgun out of his coat and pointed it at Patrick's head.

Patrick raised his hands instinctively as fear flooded through his veins. He heard the case drop to the ground. What was going on? Was this man going to mug him? Or worse…kidnap him?

The man chuckled at the sudden appearance of fear on the young twenty year old’s handsome face. He pushed him back into the alleyway and the darkness at gunpoint. "Oh and we wouldn't be taking your case with us, don’t need it where you’re going."

The man kept the gun trained on him and walked forward, up to him, withdrawing a few objects from his pockets. None of them looked entirely fun or exciting to the brunette man and thinking fast, he stumbled, falling forward onto the man in an attempt to get him away. The man pushed Patrick off of him cursing, completely oblivious to what just happened. He fumbled the gun, but rapidly recovered, before Patrick could snatch it or run and escape. He halted in place once more.

"What the hell is your problem man?"

"I slipped," Patrick snapped harshly. “I don’t like having guns pointed at my fucking face!”

“Well, be more cautious, because you can’t escape me!” The creepy man stated, maintaining his villainous smirk.

“Oh really. I think you are bluffing. Trust me I know when someone is bluffing!”

“Is that so?” The man cocked the gun and pulled the trigger back.

“Okay, okay. What do you want?”

“I want you to face the wall with your face pressed against it.”

“Why?”

“Just do it or I’ll blow your fucking brains sky high! Get your ass turned around and press against the wall, hands and arms at your side!”

Before Patrick could react and even do as he was told, he was grabbed from behind, as the gun was tossed into the coat pocket once more. A gloved hand shot to his mouth and clamped over, muffling his screams and cries. He was slammed against the alleyway’s brick wall, where he was pinned in place. The hand was removed, but now a cloth of some kind was wrapped around and tied at the nape of his neck. Patrick put up a fight, as he tried to get free and escape, but the man was strong, as he shoved both of his arms behind his back and bound them together at the wrists.

Then he was flipped over onto his back and stuck against the wall. He tossed his head back and forth as the rough material of the cloth rubbed against his lips, uncomfortably. He gazed into the cold eyes of the man who pointed the gun to his head.

"Not a very smart move man," Patrick tried to state still hoping in some way he could talk his way out of this. "The FBI will be here soon."

“I don’t speak that language and I don’t care! But we should get a move on it then." Just then an unmarked black van sped down the street at the other side of the dark alley and came to a halt. The doors swung open and Patrick was shoved in. He still tried to fight and struggle, but it was useless with his arms bound behind his back. He hesitated, thinking hard. There had to be a way out of this. "You can't run Blue-Eyes.”

Patrick’s eyes were wide, as he whimpered and struggled to hold back his fear and tears. The man didn’t pull the trigger though, as he pressed it deeper into the skull of his terrified victim. A blinding pain erupted from the side of his head followed by the sensation of falling, falling into the darkness.


Patrick woke in a haze of pain; his head throbbing as if every nerve fiber in his brain was on fire. Cold plastic bit into his wrists and something warm and sticky was slowly trickling down his head. He was slumped forward, his arms tied behind his aching back, and his pounding head resting on his chest. Muffled sounds of traffic and low voices slid in and out focus like an out of tune radio. Gingerly, he lifted his head, only making the pain worse, and opened his eyes.

He was in a large open room with dirty white walls and boarded up windows. Bright florescent lights were set up in a corner providing the only source of light for the room. The man named Keith was there, lounging in a chair, a baseball bat sitting across his legs. He was talking quietly to someone who was setting up a camera.

"Is it ready yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Almost," his buddy responded shooting him a dirty look. "It would go faster if you helped out, Keith."

"I helped you outta prison," Keith snapped back. "That's all the help you're gonna get from me."

"Ah Mr. Cleary, you're awake, good," Keith mused, with a smile. "How's the head?"

Patrick glared up at him, as he came over and loomed over his hostage. The brownish haired man tried to answer his question, but he found the cloth was still on his face, stifling his voice. He had attempted to say, “Piss off.” But all the came out was a low, pitiful humming noise. He winced as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. It made his lower his head a little bit and blink back tears.

"Yeah, I can take it that it does," Keith growled, absentmindedly. "Know where we are Patrick?"

Patrick heard his name and glanced up in shock. The cloth tugged at his hairline and mouth, underneath. How did he know his name? He hadn’t told him anything!

“That’s right,” the man remarked, flashing his sinister grin. He reached his hand out and grabbed Patrick’s chin in his thumb and index finger, lifting his face up, so that their eyes locked with one another. “I know who you are, Patrick Cleary. After I got you all nice and set up here, I went and did a little research. I didn’t know you were a Detective for the CPD!”

Patrick jerked his head away and looked to the side. He didn’t have to tell him anything and he wasn’t going to cooperate. This guy was holding him hostage and violating his freedom. And yes, he did work for the Chicago Police Department or CPD, but he wasn’t necessarily a detective. He was more of an assistant and an intern. He was in training.

“I can tell that you aren’t really a “detective” in the normal sense…you must be in training or shadowing, maybe!”

Patrick muffled something. He really didn’t like this guy. He was too cocky and almost like a murderer off of some TV show like CSI or NCIS. He was definitely not new to the killing or whatever sadistic scheme he had. Maybe he wasn’t even a killer, maybe just some sick madman who kidnapped, bound, gagged and robbed him?

“Why did I kidnap you? What have I tied you up here? Why are you gagged with a cloth? Well, I have some unfinished business with you. So, I’ll ask you again, do you know where we are, Patrick?”

Patrick looked around. Something about that room did seem familiar to him; only he remembered it being light and happy, not so desolate and grim. And when did this place have plastic sheets set up everywhere?

"My apartment,” Patrick squeaked in almost a whisper, behind the cloth. He wondered why he had to answer a rhetorical question, when it was obvious he was gagged and could not. But he was scared and he didn’t want to upset this Keith Ballard guy. Cause this man could hurt him and kill him.

"What's that Patrick, I didn't quite catch that?" He threw his hand out and with his thumb, pushed the cloth back, causing Patrick’s lips to form around the material.

"It’s my apartment," Patrick repeated, in a louder voice. He could hear his voice was louder and a bit better at forming actual words, then just simple caveman grunts. His hate for Keith was bubbling up inside of him. And now his mouth was aching, as the cloth forced his mouth to be wide at an uncomfortable angle.

"Yeah that's right, it’s your apartment, Patrick," he stated, his smirk still playing on his face. "You know it’s a pity really; you were such a wonderful man, it seems…you had some good times and really loved life…I can tell." Patrick struggled against his restraints wanting nothing more to beat Keith to a pulp.

"Easy there Patrick." Keith laughed as his victim grimaced with pain yet again. “Don’t use up all of that muscular strength that you have there, you’ll need it.”

"Why am I here Keith?" Patrick hissed into the cloth, almost unable to finish, before gagging rather violently on it and noticing the pounding in his head getting worse.

"Like I said, you and I have some unfinished business."

"And what might that be?" Patrick managed to get out, very slowly. He was annoyed at being forced to talk with a rough cloth in place.

"I have a problem that I need to fix. You see I got this enormous hatred for blue-eyed young men, like yourself." Keith didn’t take his eyes off of Patrick's blue ones.

Patrick didn’t respond, he noticed the camera was set up and it was trained on him. Keith helper was in the chair, where his friend had been sitting in at the beginning. He was watching the scene before him in interest. Patrick couldn’t help but wonder about who he was, but Keith didn’t tell him.

"That doesn't sound like my problem," Patrick attempted to say, trying to keep his voice under control, even though it was impossible to do, behind the cloth gag in place.

"No, see because of you, I've got this problem, so you're going to help me erase my debt."

"How, are you going to make me rob a bank?" Patrick tried to retort. "Cuz' that most defiantly won’t work."

"No I had something else in mind." Keith stood up and his smirk grew wider. "I'm going to enjoy this Patrick, I really am. After all, I have already killed before and I know what I am doing."

Patrick swallowed hard; this couldn't be good at all.

“Alright, I’m done talking and I’m sure your pretty little lips are too. So, let’s get down to business.” Keith ruffled Patrick’s hair, as he walked off from him. He headed toward the camera and turned it on. His partner fled at his command, bolting out of the room.

Keith stepped to the side, out of the camera and cleared his throat. Then he began to speak in a low, deep voice, obviously disguised, as he raised his arm up, with the gun held firmly in his fingers. He pointed it right at Patrick, clicking the trigger back into place and held it there. “City of Chicago, this is the newest killer speaking. I want to be labeled and called “The Slasher” and to prevent you puny idiots from trying to figure out what my type is, I’m going to tell you...it’s blonde men with blue eyes!”

With that, he released the trigger and the gun sent a single bullet flying outward at the helpless victim. Patrick terrified and muffled screams echoed in the air, as the bullet hit him dead in the chest. But he wasn’t dead.

He continued to frantically pull at the ropes binding his wrists, screaming like hell into the cloth. But another crack of the gun went off, as another bullet hit him in the shoulder. He howled.

Blood began dripping from him and his vision blurred, until the final crack of the gun went off and a third bullet...the kill shot...hit him in the head. His jerking and struggling stopped and his vision went black, as he saw the killed pocket his weapon, quickly snatch up the bullet casings and shells, turn off the camera and recording, and dash out of the crime scene.

“Shoulda been born with brown eyes and brown hair!” And with that final message, Patrick stopped breathing and bled out to death.

Notes

Shit is only gonna get more real and the intenseness of this will only ramp up....wait until Kinny gets involved....

Next up: We go back to catch up on our Dynamic Duo in love!!!! Kazer!!!! <3