Kansas, USA
Route 54
Jim Brothers Repair Station [Abandoned]
It was an unpleasant night.
Not only because of the bombing that occurred in the urban area during the day, but also because of the sudden rain that night.
The raindrops poured down from the dark night sky with the gust of wind, as if there was an invisible giant above the sky opening its jaws and dripping its saliva into this world. Route 54 is close to a semi-abandoned state, and few cars are willing to drive on this old road built in the 1980s. The municipality also didn't care much about the drainage around the road, and the heavy rain quickly caused water to accumulate on the roadbed.
And on such a night, even those stagnant waters are black, as pitch black as the Styx flowing out of hell.
The tattered "Jim Brothers Repair Station" sign hangs between two rusted railings. What makes people uncomfortable is that above the tattered sign, a row of brand-new lights is shining brightly and brightly in the dense rain. A cheesy yellow-green glow.
A used Nissan Toyota wobbled through the potholed path in front of the pits before finally coming to a stop under the sign.
The car door opened, and a man's shoes stepped heavily on the standing water. It was a good pair of shoes, but they were so worn that they were about to break in two. Perhaps because of this, even though almost the entire instep was no longer in the stagnant water, the owner of the shoes did not make any sound of annoyance.
Step by step, he pulled the soles out of the mud with difficulty, and walked heavily towards the lighted place.
The strong wind blew this crumbling house, and there was often a sour rubbing sound between the iron and the iron due to the agitation of the wind. Around the house, the shade of trees swayed up and down like ghosts.
He walked down the hallway to the back of the pits, and slammed the door open.
Inside the pits was misty air, reeking of marijuana alcohol and urine.
The air here is as warm as hot milk compared to the icy, humid temperatures outside.
However, the moment the man walked in, the noise and music in the air stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of water droplets on the man's body falling on the dry ground.
"Hey Mick? How is it, is everything going well?"
After a brief silence, a bearded man in the room put down the beer in his hand and staggered towards the man. He was terribly thin and limped when he walked.
Mick Brewster pulled off his raincoat and pushed the man who walked into him to the ground.
"How am I? Damn, how dare you ask me?"
Mick threw the raincoat on the ground and roared angrily at them.
"You told me it was a dead rat! But it was a fucking bomb! Bomb! God, I blew up an entire building!"
There was no blood in his face, and his muscles were twisted and trembling from excessive tension.
…
"Oh, if I didn't tell you it was a dead mouse, you wouldn't dare to send it in, Mick." Another person in the room stood up, it was an old man with gray hair and a full coat of clothes. Grease replica military uniform, his mouth sunken inward, as if smiling forever.
"We are also for your own good. You must know that if it weren't for our deception, you would never have the courage to launch real revenge against that person."
said the old man.
On the dusty wall behind him, a huge banner hangs.
It was the word "Xia Chou" written in odd Chinese.
The man who sold them the banner told them it was Japanese for "revenge," and in the middle of the banner, a photo of Rand Sivers was printed, smeared with red paint, and held in place by a dagger. There.
This is a club organized by the victims of the "Lilith" case.
Sixteen years ago, Lena Mekinson committed dozens of shocking murders while kidnapping Rand Sievers, and these cases involved not only those who died, but also countless people who were related to the dead. people... family, friends, lovers...
Time has healed the wounds of many people, but some people are still immersed in that great pain.
Mick Brewster is one of them.
A few years ago, he was absorbed into the organization called "Vengeance". Some of them lost their daughters and their family, some of them lost their lovers who were about to get married, and some of them just had a psychological shadow simply because of the blood... But they all have one thing in common, that is, they both firmly believe that , Rand Sivers should pay the price for the bloody murder that year.
They managed to get hold of some videotapes from before the victims were killed, where the horribly sadistic child, Rand Severs, was the only surviving person, and his " Cold-blooded" and numbness thoroughly angered the group.
Year after year, day after day, they gathered in the small repair shop, thinking and discussing how to make Rand Sivers pay.
Most of the time, though, they're in vain, and sometimes they don't even know where he is—until Mick Brewster met Rand at a pet shelter not long ago.
They discussed a lot of plans, a lot, and finally Mick was persuaded by them (he was the most injured one, a real victim, after all), and his mates managed to convince him to send a dead rat to him Entering Rand Sivers' workplace to intimidate.
Unbeknownst to Mick, however, the dead mouse was eventually replaced by a bomb with his comrades.
"Rand Sivers isn't dead at all!"
Mick roared at the group in a collapsed manner.
"How could you do this to me, now everyone thinks it was a terrorist attack, they will find me..."
His companions were not as worried as he thought.
"Hey, don't worry about it, man, if you put in enough disguise, no one will notice you."
Someone comforted him lightly, with no sincerity in his tone.
Mick looked at the group of people in front of him tremblingly, his head began to hurt violently, and an emotion that was about to explode swelled in his chest.
"You bastards, you've already planned - ah ah -"
He screamed and lunged at the crowd, but the next second was kicked hard in the stomach and rolled straight to the door.
"If you did kill Rand Sivers, we might have a little respect for you, but Mick you can't fucking do anything, we even gave you a bomb but you still put everything Fucked up, at this time you came to get angry with us?"
The old man sneered at him with his lips crooked.
"You might as well eat shit!"
He says.
Mick curled up in pain, tears and snot running out of his mouth, and began to cry.
"You ruined everything for me, you ruined everything for me..."
He repeated the sentence mechanically.
Until another voice interrupted him softly.
"Aha, yes, sometimes your life is just messed up with some rubbish."
Mick's body stiffened for a moment, he turned his head slowly, and saw a pair of high heels, a pair of thighs in python-print leggings, and a tall man with strawberry-colored hair with a smile on his face.
"Whoa-"
On the other side, someone pushed away the table and stood up vigilantly.
"You, who are you?"
They didn't even know when this strange young demon started standing in that corner.
"Well, who am I, it's hard to say, look, I'm actually here to work... To solve the troubles in your life, probably like this."
Rogers lit a menthol cigarette.
His pants were caught.
Mick looked at him with tears on his face, and said shiveringly: "You have a way to kill them, right? I, I can pay... "
As a former survivor of the tragedy, Mick felt the danger emanating from Rogers faster than others present, but he obviously misunderstood the meaning of what Rogers said before.
He thought Rogers might be a killer.
Oh yes, Rogers is indeed a killer.
So the next second, Rogers gave him a friendly smile, then he raised his foot and stomped it hard on Mick's head.
With a wet piercing sound, Mick squeezed a short, sharp breath out of his throat. His cheekbones were fractured, and blood poured from his eye sockets and nostrils.
When Rogers lifted his foot and pulled out the sharp high heels, a large, bloody hole appeared in Mick's temple, and blood was gushing out.
The unfortunate man died soon after.
"Go on, God..."
The others in the room showed a panic at the sudden death.
They all stepped back, their faces full of fear... and confusion.
Obviously, they simply don't understand what's going on here.
Rogers couldn't help sighing at the stupidity.
He flicked the menthol cigarette in his mouth, put on a special black glove, and pulled out the thin and transparent silk thread on the wrist.
"Let's put it this way," he winked at the group, "I need to help my friends with some, um, media issues, so I need a bigger news... You say, a What about the multiple murders and dismemberment cases in the suburbs? I quite like the idea."