Fucking Masks (a super-hero story in 635 words)
The eyes were like fish eyes, flat and staring, ever unceasingly staring up. They bored at the back of Detective Wilson Willow's head as he tried to look at the deep claw marks in the walls, tried to pay attention to the minute details gouged into the sheet rock and plaster. The floor was covered in newspaper clippings, mainly Nobilis, but he could spot some Raven, Windstorm, Midnight Crescent, and a few other names that didn't make the papers all that often. The Black Phantom's autobiography was dog eared, and the first fifty pages of Jebediah Heathrow's confessions as a masked man of mystery in the 1930s were flung about the body, and the rest of the book scattered the floor amid the clipping. The hamster padding of a dead fanatic at least soaked up some of the blood, coloring every mask into the same shade of wet crimson.
It was obvious from the place that the late occupant had been a bit of an obsessive. The entire appartment was practically a shrine to the profession of superheroism. Judging by the fact that the entire wall facing East Street had been ripped clean off and thrown into the adjacent tenament building, someone had been rather less than impressed. The plastic that now covered the remains of the wall kept the cold wind out, keeping the papers in place, but the snow that it was driving hard had stuck to the plastic, a shoddy insulation against the low temperatures of a winter in America's North. The single, bare bulb screwed into the ceiling to replace the demolished light fixture gave off a half-hearted luminesence, staining the blood black.
The main room had mixed living room and bedroom, with the couch-bed joining the desk, computer, and television on the street six stories below, while the kitchen and bathroom had been left relativly untouched. Fingering the hole, Wilson turned to one of the numerous, faceless blue-uniformed officers swarming the room, taking pictures and gathering evidence. "Thompson", he said, forcing the name up from his memory, "We got a name for what did this yet?"
Looking up, a little in surprise, Officer Thompson flustered. "No, sir. Not yet, I mean. I mean, Forensics is still running the pictures...maybe we'll get something soon."
Wilson nodded and sighed, "Never a mask when you need one, eh? Well, we've got photos. Tell the guys outside that they can cart away this corpse whenever they want. We sure as hell don't need it anymore. I want every book in this place catalouged, especially anything that the perp damag...ah hell. He broke just about everything here. I'm going over to talk to the neighbours. You guys fine here without a babysitter?"
"Uh, Detective? I think you're gonna want to see this!" called back one of the uniforms, the ones who were checking out the bathroom. Squelching across the crimson stained newsprint, Wilson sighed and walked into the amazingly pristine bathroom.
"For an obsessive weirdo he sure kept things clean. Now, McNally, what have you g...well, shit on me." he said, looking over at the hidden panel the uniforms had pulled out of the wall. Folded neatly inside was the all too familiar red and black jumpsuit, executioner's hood, and the small satchel filled with rune-carved bones.
"Hey, Detective, you think that guy out there really was Hellsing?" nervously injected Officer McNally over his shoulder.
"Well, let me just say that I bet there's a patent liscence in there for his name, costume, and signature superpowers. Hell, I guess it explains the marks out there. They weren't made by our perp...I bet we find ashes on his hands for one of his Summoning Bones. Demon probably went berserk after he died, ripped the place apart...which puts us back to square one again. Fucking masks."
It was obvious from the place that the late occupant had been a bit of an obsessive. The entire appartment was practically a shrine to the profession of superheroism. Judging by the fact that the entire wall facing East Street had been ripped clean off and thrown into the adjacent tenament building, someone had been rather less than impressed. The plastic that now covered the remains of the wall kept the cold wind out, keeping the papers in place, but the snow that it was driving hard had stuck to the plastic, a shoddy insulation against the low temperatures of a winter in America's North. The single, bare bulb screwed into the ceiling to replace the demolished light fixture gave off a half-hearted luminesence, staining the blood black.
The main room had mixed living room and bedroom, with the couch-bed joining the desk, computer, and television on the street six stories below, while the kitchen and bathroom had been left relativly untouched. Fingering the hole, Wilson turned to one of the numerous, faceless blue-uniformed officers swarming the room, taking pictures and gathering evidence. "Thompson", he said, forcing the name up from his memory, "We got a name for what did this yet?"
Looking up, a little in surprise, Officer Thompson flustered. "No, sir. Not yet, I mean. I mean, Forensics is still running the pictures...maybe we'll get something soon."
Wilson nodded and sighed, "Never a mask when you need one, eh? Well, we've got photos. Tell the guys outside that they can cart away this corpse whenever they want. We sure as hell don't need it anymore. I want every book in this place catalouged, especially anything that the perp damag...ah hell. He broke just about everything here. I'm going over to talk to the neighbours. You guys fine here without a babysitter?"
"Uh, Detective? I think you're gonna want to see this!" called back one of the uniforms, the ones who were checking out the bathroom. Squelching across the crimson stained newsprint, Wilson sighed and walked into the amazingly pristine bathroom.
"For an obsessive weirdo he sure kept things clean. Now, McNally, what have you g...well, shit on me." he said, looking over at the hidden panel the uniforms had pulled out of the wall. Folded neatly inside was the all too familiar red and black jumpsuit, executioner's hood, and the small satchel filled with rune-carved bones.
"Hey, Detective, you think that guy out there really was Hellsing?" nervously injected Officer McNally over his shoulder.
"Well, let me just say that I bet there's a patent liscence in there for his name, costume, and signature superpowers. Hell, I guess it explains the marks out there. They weren't made by our perp...I bet we find ashes on his hands for one of his Summoning Bones. Demon probably went berserk after he died, ripped the place apart...which puts us back to square one again. Fucking masks."
posted by Derek the Bard at 11:13 p.m.
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