Four days to be influenced...
President Simmons hoped to finish early...instead he never finished at all. A yawn so loud that it could be heard from the other side of the globe departed the thin lips of the man. He was tired. He had campagned for this job for so long, but now he seemed to have paperwork for his paperwork, and he had began to feel as if it was all for nothing. Nevertheless the people wanted him, needed him. That was why he was there, sitting at a royal desk, in the biggest room of the top floor, in the tallest skyscraper, in the largest city. That was why he was in America. His hand ached from writing endless letters of perswasion on behalf of the local homesless charity. He didnt assume it hard to make people want to donate, even just a little, to those who had hardly anything to call their own. He had assumed wrongly, yet again. He placed his parker pen on the desk, the black side gleaming under lamplight. Placing his hands over his face and rubbing his eyes distracted him from hearing the first knock. But the second one, he heard.
"Come in" he answerd in place of the usual 'who is it?', straightening his posture and attempting to fix his aroused hairstyle. He was clearly distracted by his ongoing thoughts. An odd man of medium build stood in front of him, closing the door with a harsh bang, nearly tripping over his own feet. He appeard to be stairing right into the eyes of the president, blinking cautiously at intervals. That was when he noticed the mans eyes. An iris as black as night, but not quite as hidden . Their reflection eerie under the light glow of his rectangular glasses lense. Before he could posses a second thought, an action, he eyed the mans sandeld feet...they were moving towards the desk, towards him.
His footsteps were ghostly, yet the thud was a defening vibration in the president's ears. He stood up backing away to the window, blinds closed. He regreted ever wishing for privicy at this moment in time. His heart skipped a beat as the figure crashed into the desk handeling the wood with the grace of a shark. A loud crash echoed through the spacious room.Shards of broken glass lay on the carpeted floor, a golden liquid surounding them. There goes my whisky he thought. He diverted his attention back to the intruder, he could just make out the gleaming shillouette of a testube protruding out of the mans clentched fist. He grabs the pot vase off the windowsill for protection. Spilling the greenery carelessly onto the floor in a heap, teeth clenched in a determined growl. He notices that the tube is filled around three quaters to the top with what looks like a grainy type of gravel. Like sand, only it was inky black. Before he knows it the creature has smashed it on the antique desk. The grains spread evenly in a smudge of ash on the mahogony.
The glass of the tubes glinting edges glint with exagerated sharpness. That would be what would make his face bleed. The man reaches violently out for him. He dodges his fist and it hits the wall. He cries out in pain and the president takes the oppertunity. He darts forward towards the door. He doesnt make it. The man finds his tie, finding his way up to his perfectly comed hair,the fringe a clutter of brisles unlike the rest of it. His head is thrown towards the desk's surface, lashes flutterd shut, the creatures grasp on his head defaning. Sharp pricks dig into his flushed cheeks. His vision blurrs. His blue eyes are wide as his head is flung towards the black sand once more. Almost replayed in slow motion as the blended browns and black blend together. The ash forming bubbles of invisible flames on his pupil, he closes his eyes. He is blinded.