Path of Contempt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man named Chris Winters wants revenge on the man who killed his parents, Howard O'Shea. With his friends Foster and Gordan, he will try to reap that revenge.

Submitted: September 06, 2012

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Submitted: September 06, 2012

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Path of Contempt
By: Caleb Turner

A single tear ran down the pale face of Chris Winters.
“I promise you,” he said while choking back tears, “I promise you guys I’ll make them regret everything. I swear it.”
He looked upon his parents graves and all he could feel was the want for revenge. His steel-blue eyes almost caught fire in the cold night. His clean-shaven appearance was a facade; at that moment he had turned into a beast. A cunning, smart beast, who’s only goal was to have vengeance on the death of his parents. The man’s 5’10” healthy-sized body was now an instrument of his revenge. Chris’ short, sleek black hair put up little resistance to the wind, but he was not cold. The raging inferno of contempt ran through him like electricity, and he knew one man who was responsible for the terrible deed.
“Howard O’Shea,” he muttered.


 * * *

This was going to be difficult, Chris thought. Howard O’Shea was the most prestigious and revered scum in the United States. He had spies, safe-houses, and outright forts all over the globe. What I’ll need is a team, he thought. Chris pondered on who he could recruit to join his team. After careful consideration, he chose two other men.
Foster Nichols was one of the selections. He and Chris were old high school chums. Foster was one of those kids that never won a race, never grew over 5’ 5”, and never had many friends. But what Foster did have was plenty of smarts. Chris figured that if he were to ever have a chance at killing O’Shea, he would need somebody to plan out their operation. Foster was the perfect man for the job because, while having smarts, Foster always had a streak of mischief in him.
If Foster was going to be the brains, then Gordan Smythe was going to be the brawn. Gordan was a 6’6” monster of a man. He was broad shouldered and had a thick and blond curly mustache. In college he could bench press the whole cheer leading unit, and everybody loved him. He was the complete opposite of Foster being strong, fast, tall, and he had many friends. One of them being Chris, whom he had met in college. This will be an unusual team, Chris thought. But, he added, it just might work.



* * *

The meeting place and time was set. It would be in the alleyways of the projects in New York at 10:00 pm. It was a dark and bone-chilling night, but yet again Chris didn’t feel the cold.
“Chris...?” stammered a feeble voice, “Are you here?”
“Yeah Foster I’m here. Just like I said.”
“So... uh... why am I here again?”
“Patience is a virtue, Foster.”
After that remark Foster decided to just shut up and wait. An hour passed, then two, but Chris’ icy expression was unrelenting. Somethings changed him, Foster thought. Another half hour passed then finally came a tall and burly man.
“Chris?” muttered a gruff voice.
“Yeah I’m here. Good to see you buddy.”
“If only I could say the same. I get a mysterious call from my old college friend telling me to meet him and some man named Foster in one of the most dangerous corners of New York. To tell the truth, I’m a little confused, Chris.”
“I will tell everything in due time. First we must insure that this meeting place is secure and safe to tell you-”
The sentence didn’t get a chance to finish. A hand, swift as a ninja, swooped down and clamped Chris’ mouth with a wet rag. The last thing he remembered was seeing Gordan and Foster go through the same.


* * *

The first sensation Chris felt was the sense of smell. A pungent aroma burned his nostrils like the hot coals of a fire. He was shackled to a chair in a mildew covered dark and small room, with a guard standing outside of his cell.
“Foster?” came his raspy voice, “Gordan?”
No answer. The silence was deafening. Then it all came back to him. The meeting. The surprise attack. And now he was here. Wherever ‘here’ was.
He screamed out “Foster! Gordan!”
There was no reply.
“Foster!”
“Shut up! Just shut it! Your friends safe... for now,” came strong voice with a thick New Yorkian  accent, “Just shut up or you’ll never speak again!”
Typical New Yorker, thought Chris. Maybe if I talk to the guy he’ll give me some information.
“So uhh... what part of New York are you from?”
“That’s none of yo’ beeswax, so just shut it, ‘ight?
“I can see your not in the mood to talk. That’s fine with me. I mean its just that I have nothing else to do... you know, being shackled to this chair and all. No biggie, but still. It’s not my favorite experience ever. Hey, Mr. guard, where exactly are we?”
“My God! Shut up or I’ll shoot you! I will!”
My plan is working, Chris thought. He’s getting really annoyed. And now I know he has a firearm.
“Say... what’s that smell? Did you forget to change your diaper, Mr. guard?”
Now the guard was really mad. He opened the cell doors and walked over to Chris.
“Now. Mr. Winters, I really did not want you to go through this, but I guess I must.”
With pinpoint precision, Chris calculated the guard’s next move. He was reaching in his pocket for his pistol, Chris guessed. Instead, the guard brought out a box of matches.
The guard laughed and said with extreme levels of spite, “Time to play, Mr. Winters.”


* * *

Gordan was steaming. First he comes to New York to meet his old college buddy about some sort of ‘plan’. Then he gets knocked out with some drug, and gets stuck in a relatively small room with some some nerd named Foster who just wouldn’t shut up. All Gordan heard all day was “Will we ever make it out?” or “I wonder who captured us?”. But mostly he heard constant whimpering. At least until food came, which was always morning and night. That usually shut him up. They had been in here for 3 days and the only sign of other humans was the small hand that came through a small opening to deliver food. Hmm, he thought. And he got an idea.
“Hey, Foster, I’ve got an idea to get us out of here,” he whispered, and he proceeded to tell him the plan.


* * *

The guard lit his matches, but Chris’s class-clown act did not waver.
“So you, like fire? I like fire too, it’s just so fascinating, right?”
The guard did not answer.
“You know, this is kind of ironic. A man named Winters, getting set on fire?”
The guard did not answer.
Chris knew he had to act fast. It seemed that the guard was going to light every one of those matches, and Chris did not want to deal with that.
With cat-like agility, Chris swung his right foot into one of the hands. The one holding lit matches.
“AHHH! OHMIGOD, OHMIGOD!”
One of the matches had gone up his nose! After 3 minutes of pure agony for the guard, the man finally slumped over, dead.
Smoke suffocated his brain, thought Chris. With skill, he grabbed the keys off the man’s belt with his feet and through them up in the air. With precision, he caught the keys in his mouth. He unlocked his hand shackles then his feet. I’m a free man, he thought. But now I’ve got to go rescue Foster and Gordan. He walked over to where the dead man lie, and looked in his jacket pocket. He found $200 and an M9 Pistol. Not bad, he thought, not bad.


* * *

The food came at the right time that morning. But this time Gordan grabbed the mysterious arm, and pulled as hard as he could. The guards face crunched up to the other side of the wall with a sickening  sound.
“Now what, Gordan?” came Foster’s little voice.
“Patience is a virtue, Foster,” came Gordan’s deep voice.
Later that evening right around dinnertime, the dinner guard came to their cell, and saw the still-unconscious man on the floor.
“What in the sam-heck is going on?” came a Kansas-twang accent.
The guard rushed into the cell, where Foster and Gordan were waiting in ambush. The man had no chance, he was out cold within seconds. Foster and Gordan frisked both men’s body’s and found a Python Revolver,  and an M9 pistol.
“Now lets go save Chris,” Gordan said with a booming voice.


* * *

Chris Winters was on his way to find his chums. His only problem was that he had no idea where to find them. This ‘prison’ was a vast labyrinth of hallways, and there were many rooms. He decided to just keep moving and try to find either a clue as to where his friends were at or his friends themselves.
Chris had ran into 3 guards, knocking out all of them before they could even scream. He took a silencer from on the guards, so know he could shoot without causing a ruckus. But, he found Gordan and Foster without firing a single shot. They ran into each other incidentally, and almost fired at each other when they did.
“You almost gave us heart attack, Chris,” said Foster.
“Speak for yourself, pipsqueak,” said Gordan stonily.
“Shut up! The two of you, be quiet. Remember guys, were in a hostile place,” hissed Chris.
“Speaking of that, why are we here?” asked Gordan with an innocent voice.
So Chris proceeded to explain all the events that led them here, including the raid Howard O’Shea had set up to steal his family’s priceless heirloom. His parents hadn’t put up any resistance, but O’Shea ordered them dead anyways.
“That is why I must have my revenge,” finished Chris.
“We’re in,” said Foster and Chris unanimously.
Just then they heard a clap, clap, clap.
“Congratulations, Mr. Winters. I see you and your friends are very capable men. A shame your lives will have to be wasted,” came a cold and ice-like voice. A balding man came into view, with a thick mustache and red rimmed glasses. He had the appearance of a short billed duck, and was a short man who was about 5’6”.
Chris instantly reached for the pistol but he and his companions were apprehended from behind.
“Now I’m not gonna talk much more,” came the icy voice , “because your time is up. Guards? Kill these men,” he finished with a steely indifference.
Chris was just about to go crazy when Foster spoke up.
“Now you listen here, Mister. One of my only friends growing up was Chris. He spoke up for me when ever I was being picked on, and now I’m gonna speak up for him. So if your gonna kill either one of these men, well your going to have to go through me.”
Chris was impressed. But more that, he felt a companionship with Foster and also a new found respect.
But while Chris was admiring Foster, Foster did something radical. He bit the man’s hand who was holding his own hands, and shoved him into Gordan’s guard. Gordan only had a second to react, but he was able to anyway. He grabbed the .22 pistol out of the guards jacket, and shot him without hesitation. Chris’ guard was distracted, so Chris elbowed him in the groin. That guard went down. And Foster had already taken care of his guard. So that left only O’Shea.
“Ok. You win. You are free to leave, Winters,” came the now feeble voice of O’Shea.
“Gordan, hand me your gun,” came Chris’ voice.
“Sure, old buddy,” said Gordan, handing him the .22 pistol.
“No! Please! Don’t shoot! Take anything you want!” O’Shea pleaded.
Chris just looked into Shea’s evil and cold eyes, and knew for certain what he had to.
“Who’s defenseless now, O’Shea?” he spat out. And with on swift pull of his finger, he ended the life of Howard O’Shea.


© Copyright 2017 Caleb Turner. All rights reserved.

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