The King and the Phantom [Rave/Rook]
Aug 10, 2014 17:56:34 GMT -5
Post by rook on Aug 10, 2014 17:56:34 GMT -5
at home there are seventeen year old boys
and their idea of fun
is being in a gang called the disciples
high on crack, toting a machine gun
When you were a little kid you looked up to people like me. You wanted to be living in a world of free will and luxury, with no one pressing down on you. Oppression doesn't exist to people like me. How you wanted to be in this surreal world of fortune and luck. How you looked up with stars in your eyes and your mouth agape. Well bow down kid, because I'm the King. Ain't no one gonna ever be like me, 'cause I'm one of a kind. I create myself, and so you cannot recreate this. You can mould yourself in my image, aspire to follow in my footsteps, but understand this: You will never be me. I'm the fucking King. Bow down.
This guy looks at me with utter confusion. I've been staring at him for the good part of five minutes, assessing him. He can't hear my thoughts. He don't know I'm the King. He don't know that I hate his fucking guts and yet to be perfectly honest I have no justifiable reason to, other than he isn't me. Fact of my life is that I hate everyone who isn't me. He wants some kind of sympathy, but for a young teenager dressed in black, mourning his father's untimely death, he still don't cut it for me. No sympathy from big Errol. I turn my nose up and walk over to the buffet.
The funeral reception ain't spectacular. Spitshine at best. Black tie and suited up, I look damn fine, but the rest of these punks look like tramps. Wasn't their dad fuckin' rich? Their suits are scruffy looking. Maybe that's just my superior sense of style and fashion. I don't exactly dress like a candy-coated capitolite, but I scrub up good. King's gotta look good for his people. I'm only here for one reason, and that's because I'm meeting someone. Colleague of mine. I call him the Phantom, 'cause he moves like one when stalking a target. Plus his name's Phant, so it sort of goes. Phant killed the dad, and he's here at the fucking funeral. Classic, I have to stop myself from giggling to myself.
I grab a few sandwiches, passing a few sorry looking fifty-something-year-olds without so much as a sideways glance. I catch the kid staring at me again, like he suspects I shouldn't be here. Whatever, I got a backstory sorted and everything - You have to if you're risking shit like this. I zig-zag through the hoard of zombified mourners and find Phant, who looks dashing in his funeral attire. I jab an elbow into his rib and pass him a salmon and chive sandwich. I sink my teeth into a crayfish sandwich and grimace. Not as nice as I thought it would be. I fucking hate granary bread. Where's the white loaf at?
I spit a seed on the floor and swallow the rest of the snack, not looking at my fellow Assassin.
"You ain't gonna fuck this up, are you Phant?" I say, taking another small bite of the sub-par sandwich. Poor effort for a District Two funeral. The guy's supposed to be rich and he can't put together a decent sandwich platter for his family once he's dead? Guess he didn't really plan on getting stabbed.
"I don't like fuck-ups. Makes it look bad on me if we return to our Glorious Leader with nothing but mustard stains on our shirts and empty excuses, you feel me?" I turn to him then, "You ain't gonna make me look bad, are you kid?"
The King doesn't like his reputation being scratched.it's silly no, when a rocket ship explodes
and everybody still wants to fly?
but some say a man ain't happy
unless a man truly dies, oh, why?