Jeff is dead

Six men were organised around the tacky cafe table. Their eyes were kept solidly towards their drinks as an aura of anxiety began to form around them; as this anxiety reached breaking point, the screech of an opening door filled the room as a seventh man seated himself at the end of the table. This man was unlike the rest, stocky in build and reclusive in dress. He donned a simple jacket that's hood obscured his identity with the assistance of his hunched position. The other six men, quivering gently, began to shift uncomfortably as they passed a small package from one another under the table, until the package lay at rest on the seventh man's lap. The seventh man grasped the package, sliding it deep into his mass of clothing and left with a brisk pace.

A feeling of self-importance and righteousness filled the man as he widened his stride, he was Watcher, and he was more than just a hitman. Finding shelter in an alleyway and clumsily tearing open the package, Watcher examined the inside of the package; a photo, a note, and a sizeable wad of cash. The note read: 'To “Watcher”, I am in need of your services for the dispatching of a person named Jeff Woods. Jeff Woods has no acquaintances who would file a missing persons report and so I ask you do not dispose of the remains, I want the world to know that fucker is dead. I have enclosed £20,000 for your services and entrust the job will be carried out swiftly, once it has been done I will send another £20,000 your way.' Watcher examined the photo, delicately shuffling it into his fingers and scanning every detail; the man in the photo had large bulging eyes set into a paper white skin, accompanied by a forcefully widened smile.



Jeff stumbled down the street, street lamps illuminating his path as drops of blood sprung free from his clothing and formed a sinister trail through the misty town. He giggled lightly, exploring his dripping knife with worrying familiarity. Suddenly, Jeff spun around, his eyes darting left and right across the street, but only silence awaited him. He continued stumbling until he half fell into a small building on his left with a wide open door.

Somewhere off in the distance, Watcher smiled. He elegantly slid down from his roof top position and began quietly shuffling towards the building. He still wore his pile of coats and scarves, and these woollen tendrils fluttered in the breeze behind him. Entering the building, the walls were littered with mould and damp, spiders nesting in darkened corners whilst cockroaches scurried across the sodden carpet, burrowing downwards for cover. Watcher slunk forward through the dark, like a panther stalking prey. His ears absorbed every click and creak presented by the house, until he heard the footsteps of his target in the room above him. Gently teasing the door open, Watcher saw a hunched over figure in the corner of the room; he slipped a hunting knife from out of his outermost coat and made his way towards the figure. Raising the knife above his shoulder he prepared to strike, when he stopped. The figure's head snapped around and he was confronted with the twisted paper white face he had seen in the picture. Watcher paused, for just a moment too long, and Jeff lunged at him, knife in hand, screaming with anger.

“MOTHER FUCKER DON'T YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM? I'M JEFF THE KILLER I'LL K-” Jeff was cut off when the watcher sent a crushing blow into Jeff's stomach, leaving him winded and crumpled on the ground. Wasting no time, Watcher flipped Jeff over and slammed the hunting knife into Jeff's bruised chest, causing Jeff to gargle as a steady stream of blood flowed from his mouth and chest. Watcher drew the knife from Jeff's flailing body as Jeff weakly tried to slash at Watcher, the strength being drained from his arm with every heartbeat. Watcher then raised his knife again and plunged it into Jeff's tender throat, Jeff's spasms began to ease as his body stiffened and his eyes glazed over. A cold sickness grew inside Watcher, his previous bloodlust had dissipated and he was left feeling and sick and empty; rejecting these feelings Watcher tore off his outermost coat and climbed out of the window, sprinting over rooftops into alleyways, getting into cars before changing cars, before sunrise he was miles away from his work, and then the feelings of pride and accomplishment set in. Now, for a short time at least, the whispers would stop calling to him, and he could sleep.