Fighting against the shadow of an unseen attack, Jerome Pitt fell under the might of his wooden leg. Taking hit after hit as his stereo system rose above the levels dictated by the surrounding establishments, his screams for help wandered lost and in vain.
Drowned out by the soft dulcet tones of a deceased Bobby Darin, the neighbouring residents were only given to complaints of the disruption. Fully expecting Pitt to have moved on from the period in his life guarded by thrash metal jams sanctioned against the very fabric of humanity, their anger burned under the pretence of caution mixed with a case of mock surprise.
Not until several hours later into the day that the bloodied corpse was discovered by Miss Bishop, a freelance agent for nearby escort service, The Governor's Mansion. Prepaid for the night's evening exercise like a meal at a food court, the woman stood patiently at the unanswered door for at least thirteen minutes—according to her watch—before even raising any hint of concern at the situation.
Behind the doors and strewn about the scene of the assault, pieces of his unassuming life thrown about with a reckless and murderous abandon. Pitt's wooden leg, removed at the stump, found fixed to the overhanging fan.
Whether or not it was a crafty, though sloppy, suicide or an unimaginative and messy homicide cannot be ascertained. The only possible witnesses to the charade are either dead and legless or fleeing the state.
Pitt left behind no one, an existence possibly caused as a figment of a collective imagination. Bishop who would later go on to miss an appointment with a rookie councillor and his mentor later that evening.
Written on Wednesday, 13 April 2005