The Crimes of 1999 // A Chuckle Sandwich Fanfiction

( 1 ) They Call Me 'Mr. Knife'

New York City, September 10th, 1999, 1:38 a.m.

Rain flooded the gutters that lined the awning of a liquor store. The steady trickle of leakage sputtered as it hit the ground, speckling the boots of a scraggly man who resided underneath. A cascade of bright fluorescent lights leaked from the windows and wrapped around him from behind like a blanket. He breathed a heavy sigh, and traced the rough edge of an empty soup can with his calloused fingers. The clinking of the few coins joined the pattering rain as it dove into the puddles.

He leaned his head back against the rough bricks of the building, closed his eyes, and started to doze into yet another restless sleep. The occasional passage of a car was his untimely alarm clock that was eternally set to snooze, coughing up the accumulation of rain from the road and onto the sidewalk.

SPLASH!

Sigh.

He rolled over and scooted himself into the crevasse between the store and its stairs, hugging himself; his patched and weathered jacket doing all it could to shield him from the September night.

Down the road, a figure trudged down the sidewalk.

The masculine silhouette was only visible for seconds at a time when he passed under the streetlights. He wore a thick, black, ankle-length coat, layered on top of it was a bright yellow rain jacket. His boots sloshed as he took heavy assertive strides through the puddles. The homeless man – drowsy now from being awakened – situated himself up straight to get a better view of the figure making his way down the street.

Slosh slosh slosh.

He rubbed his eyes.

Slosh slosh slosh.

He strained his neck to get a better view.

Slosh slosh.

The man was only feet away now.

"Excuse me, sir?" His voice faint. "Sir!" he raised his voice, but the man paid him no mind. The homeless man slumped back into the wall, disappointed. But the heavy clops of the boots came to a halt. He looked up. The man in the raincoat was standing under the streetlight across from the liquor store, he turned to face the homeless. "Sir, please, do you have any spare change?" He reached for his empty can, where nineteen cents clinked inside.

"I have something even better!" He had a thick New York accent and spoke enthusiastically in a tone like that of a salesman. He reached into the innards of his thick jacket and pulled out an unopened can.

An unopened can of beans.

He extended his arm out towards the hungry man. "Here, for you!" His ecstatic tone was not accompanied by a smile.

"You want it?" He turned the can over in his hand. The homeless man nodded vigorously. "Then come get it," he taunted. The homeless man rose from the concrete and shuffled his way to the edge of the awning. He paused, hesitant of the stranger's odd demeaner. But the protests of his stomach won over. He inched his way towards the man under the New York Street spotlight; eyes locked the whole way.

They were about three feet apart when he paused; shielding his eyes from the pounding rain, he looked up. This man was tall. He was tall and looked quite young; no older than twenty-one. He had a round face and scruffy facial hair. He was missing a chunk of his beard, right on the chin. His eyes were barely visible in the shadow cast by his Yankees baseball cap.

Eyes locked with the young man, he reached hesitantly towards the can of beans. He paused, hand wavering. The man smirked, a silent dare to take it. Rain pouring on their heads, the homeless grasped the can and slowly pulled it out of the man's hand. He looked down at the beans. He cradled it in both his hands, feeling the smooth, cold aluminum against his tough skin. He beamed up at the kind stranger.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you!"

The man bent over. Eye level with him, he flashed his teeth briefly in a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"My pleasure." 

The homeless man -- happier than he'd been in months-- turned around to get out of the rain and eat his beans. That simple gesture from a kind stranger gave him hope.

An unbearable pain pierced through the center of his back.

Twice, three times.

He collapsed to the ground and didn't have time to utter a single plea before the back of his neck was slashed. He watched with his dying eyes, his own blood seep into the puddles on the New York Street. Scarlet stains taint the fresh rainwater and flush into a mix down the street, draining away his life. His short, desperate breaths polluted his lungs with the shallow copper-tasting puddle he was laying in.

The man knelt down by his side, grabbed his face, and turned it towards him.

"They call me Mr. Knife," he chuckled sinisterly. "Keep the beans." He stood up again and drove a sharp kick into the ribs of the dying man. The force of the kick from his steel-toe Timberlands forced a yelp out of the man.

"Why-" the man inhaled a shaky breath, "why... beans?" 

He flashed that same cold grin and laughed, "It's my favorite way of doing it."

He towered over the heaving body. Despite its wretched state, he was unphased. As if it were nothing more than an invasive bug, stomped his head into the ground with one swift motion.

 Finishing the job. 

He carried on his way down the road.

As he passed a telephone pole, he noticed among the colorful fliers and adverts, there was a black and white paper that read: "Have You Seen This Man?" in bold, black lettering. Under the text was a police sketch of a man. A man with a round face, a mustache, and a scraggly beard, like he was missing a chunk, right on his chin.

He snatched the wanted poster off of the pole, crushed it in his bloody fist and shoved it deep into his coat pocket.

Slosh slosh slosh.

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1,000 Words