random writing practices

lore is so lore..amirite?

(sometimes..i dream about cheese. oh yeah new story right- uhhhh ignore this little section twins, real thing is below ts!!)
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The dim skyline of the city illuminated the night sky, though not much life bustled around at this time of day...er, night. An unknowing man in about his early 20s, probably fresh out of college, wandered the near-empty streets, a set of earbuds muffling the world around him as he walked to what can be assumed to be his home. Little did this man know, that mere walk home would be the thing leading to his less-than-ideal demise, alongside hundreds of others, oblivious or not. And when it came around...it was painful to bear witness to what resonated in the city that night.
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The screams of horror and cries of agony cut through the silence of the city like a sleek knife, the blood-curdling sound abruptly stopping just as soon as it had started. It became normal in a place like this to hear such agonizing sounds...unfortunately. No one knows why this whole 'mass monthly slaughter' happened, or who even started it...but it's been in effect for God knows how long now, and I can safely say that this crap is pretty much reminiscent to the purge from that one piece of media I forgot the name to. Nonetheless, like that man that was trying to get home, hundreds other also were claimed as victims to this practice, and when peace finally settled, people like me can breathe easy for another month...until, well, this slaughter comes forth once again.

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We then come to a man, presumably in his mid to late 40s, a handheld pistol in hand and a dark, blood-stained uniform with the company/corporation name of 'Populus Balance Crew'...whatever that meant and all. He slipped the pistol into its holster on the hip of the man, the man mumbling an incoherent curse under his breath as he slipped out a cigar and lighter from two separate pockets, popping the cigar into his mouth and lighting it, heaving a lifeless exhale coated by smoke simmering from the cigar. "Man," he murmured, fiddling with the cigar, "The lot's picked off for the slaughter this month were on the younger side. Must've been a rough month for the ol' hotshots at the top of the corp chain...not that I give two shits or whatever. The pay this shitty job gives is enough to keep me off the chopping block for...a while, at least...to keep the two outta trouble for long enough to get 'em outta here." He gazed out from the blood-splattered window, looking out into the seemingly peaceful city, now silent after him and his co-workers did the dirty work and wiped out a good chunk of the population in a mere night. Though...his gaze of what was assumed to be satisfaction was hollow, the cigar now in his hand as he thought of all that he helped slaughter over the years. Was it dozens now? Hundreds? The nicotine dulled his remorse for what he did after enough use of it...but...he couldn't help but feel some form of guilt for what he did.
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"No," he whispered to himself, shaking his head and snuffing out the cigar on his uniform top, "The bastards deserved it. They didn't get rid of their incapitations, and now they're payin' the price. They deserve this." He turned away from the window, wiping off the blood from his hands on the pants of his uniform, pushing the door to the apartment open and leaving the corpse of the unfortunate soul in the room to decay and rot away, just like the rest of them.
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The last thing left in the room was a small business card on the body, the contents reading one thing, and one thing alone: 'INCAPITATION EXTERMINATED BY: Icarion S. Moon of the Populus Balance Crew.'
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[END]