1. A Mans End
A Mans End
There is a reason for everything, some are reasonable, some strange but still slightly believable and some that make no sense whatsoever. Although I do very much like the strange and unexplainable this time I really must say I need a reasonably explainable, excusable reason to get me out of that noose in seven short days or at least out of this cold, dark and gloomy jail cell that I am stuck in this very moment- but you probably already know if you are reading the walls in cell no. 37, if you aren’t though this has hopefully been written and published by someone claiming to have come up with this, although unfortunate, extremely well written piece. No matter who you are or where you have found these dreadful words I feel I must warn you and tell you to put this book down or turn around and not read these scrawny and hardly legible words or to close these yellowing pages and not take another look at the neat, black print. I do although want my unfortunate story to be known, so for those who can’t listen to my pleads then read on. I can do nothing but let you read these taunting words. Either that or I want my name to be written on these grimy walls, so here: Missy Plume.
This story begins with an end like all beginnings do. It starts somewhere in France- but where I forgot the minute after I ever knew. It was a foggy autumn morning, a morning in which one could only see to the tip of their nose, if not then not much further. There was a man; well dressed in an elegant black suit with two identical coat tails like it should and a tall top hat placed precariously on his balding head. Slowly but very carefully he stepped over the cast iron beam of the train track near his old hideout. The fog engulfed him and his surroundings even more, the air fresh and damp.
There was something coming but the fog covered it um so all that could be seen was white; and heard only the faintest, distant, but still familiar, sound of metal on metal. But the train was much closer than was to be heard. The air had picked up speed and had cleared the fog away from the track tacking with it the mans top hat that easily swept off its precarious perch on his head and danced only just out of sight. There was a deep whistling; the exact sound of an oncoming train and he turned his bare head slowly and stiffly in time to see red, just red.
In the first compartment, in a train on its way into Paris that very same foggy day was a woman her dark brown, mid-length hair falling in big and neatly assembled curls. She was tall and dark green silk tightly wrapped around her thin frame and a bigger coat that kept her from freezing in the cool outside air made her look starved and underfed. She took a seat by the window, pulled a leather notebook and dark green pen from her bulky looking dark green hand bag she had brought with her and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long though as she heard a chilling crunch; bones being grinded into miniscule pieces and then a hat: a top hat to be precise, a tall one at that. Her hand moved and the words: Monsieur Macabre is dead.