"iggy for prez!"
- ProtectorOfAuir
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| The Deadly Secret | | | Author: | | | IP: | 24.128.1XXXX | | Date: | 02/02/02 07:02 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 6, Min: 6
Lifetime Rating for George: 6.0000 |  | Hello, I'm pretty much new here. I thought with all these fanfictions being posted, I would post one of my own. I wrote this in high school under the assignment: Write atleast a three page document that has a moral. It got a B+ =). My English teacher also found it very amusing that I used my name as the main character's name, heh. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. It was entitled: The Deadly Secret
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In the finest restaurant of the city, where the waiters wear tuxes with fine, black ties and
the grand tables are decorated with silk tablecloth and beautiful vases with roses, where the singers and dancers perform wonderful acts and the smell of the dining room is filled with lustrous scents of fine wine and meats, in this finest of restaurants, George went for dinner.
George was a bachelor, and he didn’t mind it. He was a tall, wealthy man who usually ate alone at fine places. His face was young and bearded with short, black hairs like the ones on his head. His eyes were dark brown and his body was slender. Everything about him was neat except for his clothes that were dirty and unkempt. He didn’t seem to care how he dressed. He could be described in two words: Rude and Loud.
From the moment he stepped out of his sleek, red motorcycle, he began to make long strides to the entrance of the restaurant. He swung the door open and asked, rather rudely, for a table.
The greeter rolled his eyes as he lead him to his single’s in the corner.
“Thanks a lot, you high school drop-out! Haha!” He exclaimed rudely at the greeter, who normally didn’t receive such abuse. The couples at nearby tables didn’t much like his loud voice either.
George didn’t work for his money. He inherited it from his father, who was a very rich lawyer. George was previously a drunk at a local bar, which could explain his rude behavior. Ever since he received this money, which he obviously didn’t deserve, he began wasting it on fine foods and unneeded art.
As usual, he ordered the most expensive meal on the menu, Alaskan king crab. The waiter happily wrote it down on his notepad as he walked to the kitchen. Rich customers meant big tips.
George was an inpatient man, and waiting the twenty minutes he did for the meal angered him greatly. “Hey! About damn time, you loser!” A group of people next to him angrily got up and left.
“That’s it!” Yelled the manager of the restaurant, “You’ve done nothing but cost us customers ever since you got here! I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
George was also stubborn, and he didn’t like being forced out of a building, which happened to him in the past. "What if I refuse?” He asked, crossing his arms.
“I was afraid of this,” said the manager as he snapped his fingers. Two big waiters walked up to George and grabbed him.
“Hey! Let me go!” George screamed and squirmed. Not wanting him to be shown in the front, they tossed him out the side door into a dark, dirty ally. They slammed the door behind him.
“Lousy bastards!” He yelled through the door. “Hope they go outta business.” He started his way back to the main rode, but then he heard something. It was a faint voice, off in the distance. Being the curious type, he followed the voice deeper into the ally.
The voice got louder and louder as he crept deeper and deeper into the wet ally. He dared not speak or make noise to reveal his existence. Finally he made his way to a parking lot, and he saw the small group of three people. He quickly backed away and stood completely still.
“So, where did you hide the body?” A deep, creepy voice asked.
“In the graveyard over there,” he pointed, “I buried the corpse next to Herald G. Jordan’s body.”
“You buried it in a graveyard! Hah! The last place they’d look, eh?” He laughed.
“Yup, don’t worry, we won’t be charged for anything, man.”
George couldn’t believe it. Things like this only happened in movies or books, he thought. It was like he was the star of some movie, which had always been his childhood dream.
Suddenly, a huge rat crept up next to George and squeaked. George hated rats, he loathed them. But he couldn’t start running away or yelling, or they’d hear him. So he stood completely still, praying the rat would go away.
But it didn’t, it crawled on his shoe and placed his claws on George’s ankle. He couldn’t stand this.
“AHHH!” He screamed as he kicked the rat off. His location revealed, he made a run for it.
“Who the hell?” One of the men yelled, “He’s been listening to this whole conversation! Get him, he ran into the ally!”
George’s life was at stake. If they caught him, they would surely kill him. He could feel adrenaline flowing through his body as the men got closer to him. With a sudden burst of speed, he made it to his motorcycle. He hopped on, hastily started the engine and sped away.
“Damn it!” George could hear them, “Get the bikes!”
George felt a sudden relief flow through him. He had made it, and there was no way they could catch up to him now.
But he was wrong.
Through the rear-view mirror he could see three bikes getting closer to him.
“Stop the bike, punk!” He heard one yell.
A high-speed chase, he thought. His life was turning into more of a movie every minute. I would be overjoyed except for the fact this is real and not acting.
He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and left them in the dust. But, like George, the bike gang was stubborn. They continued to follow him. They persisted through the city and into the suburbs. Why haven’t any cops stopped them? George said aloud.
Just when George thought he was too far ahead of the gang to be caught, his bike started stuttering. “Damn it,” he said softly to himself, “Don’t die on me now, bike!” But the bike continued to stutter, and slowed down greatly. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and the bikers were gaining on him. “My bike is trippin’!” He yelled out loud. By now he had come to a complete stop. “It’s trippin’ again!”
The gang had caught up to him now, and they circled George and his broken bike. They were all wearing black, leather jackets, with black sun glasses. Not much else could be seen in the night. “What did you hear?” One asked.
“Nothing.” George said, slightly scared.
“I doubt it,” The same one started, “You heard the entire thing didn’t you?”
“No, I heard very little.”
“Stop lying! We’re gonna have to take you back to our place, and question you there!” This man seemed to be the leader of the group. He did all the talking and seemed to have the biggest motorcycle.
“Lou, get this bastard and put him on my bike.” The man behind him in the circle stopped where he was and got off. He rolled his sleeves up as he grabbed George, who sat on the ground helplessly next to his bike. He then shoved him at the leader’s bike, which stopped earlier.
“Get on!” He commanded. George knew he couldn’t resist or run away, so he did as he was told. But then he screamed as loud as he could: “Help! I’m being kidnap---Ah!” He had been punched in the stomach by Lou. George could barely breathe after this blow, much less talk. The bike began to move, so he grabbed onto the small handles near his seat. The other two quickly began to follow.
But his plea for help was not made in vain. He was in the suburbs after all, and in a small house near the rode, an old man heard his call. The bald man was in his sixties with brown eyes and a wrinkled face. His thin, chapped lips moved as he thought. He thought about calling the authorities.
“I’m calling the police.” He said to his wife. “The man is in trouble!”
“Are you sure you’re not seeing things again?”
“Damn it, I’m not senile. There was motorcycles out there!”
“Fine, fine, go ahead. See how I care.” She said, reading a newspaper. The old man called the police and described the men and motorcycles. He even told them which way they were going. This single call might have saved George’s life.
The three bikers slowed down their speeds, trying not to get pulled over by the cops. “If you scream out anything, I will push you out of this cycle at top speed. You want that?”
George said nothing.
“Good.” They continued the uneventful drive into the city for about ten minutes. They stopped at every red light and drove below the speed limit. In general, they acted as good citizens would act. That is, until the cop cars came. George usually hated the sound of police sirens, but now the sound couldn’t have been more welcome.
“God damn it!” Said the man George rode with. He gave some sort of hand single, and with that, the speeds of the cycles increased greatly. They did the exact opposite of what they did before. They drove through red lights and cut off cars and flipped off anyone who yelled at them. All to get away from the cop cars, which were still very much on their tail. George felt as if he would be thrown off at the next turn, so he held on as tightly as he could for his life. He hung his head down low, and never raised it. He had never been this scared in his life.
The policemen must have called for back up, because off in the distance some rode spikes had been planted in the road. The two other members of the bike gang, who were ahead, didn’t see the spikes. Once they heard the loud popping noise, they knew their life was over.
But the leader of the group wasn’t as stupid as his associates. He made a daring move to avoid the spikes. He actually made a sharp turn and started driving on the sidewalk of the city where the police neglected to put road spikes. After performing this stunt, he swerved back onto the road, driving at full speed. And the cops had to remove the road spikes before advancing. “You lucky bastard.” He said, as he ran another red light.
“You---Agh!” He had no chance to finish, because George had punched him in the back of the head, which was an idea that he would never think of doing until the other two bikers were gone. “You little punk, cut that out---Damn it!” But George wouldn’t stop punching him. He knew that the biker had very little ability to fight back, being that he was in front of George on a high-speed motorcycle get-away game from the law.
Suddenly, the bike came to a complete stop. The biker quickly got out and smacked George in the face. Instead of fighting back, George decided to run. “Good! Run away you pansy!” The biker yelled at him as he got back on his bike and ran away.
George’s nose started to bleed from that crushing blow, but it was nothing serious. He just wanted to get away. He wanted to get far away. He wanted to get very, very far away.
He sat down near a drugstore, and he began to think. He thought about how this all started, and why it all started. George traced back his ordeal to the restaurant. If only he had been a nice guest, he thought, none of this would have happened. Perhaps this was a message from the gods that he had to be kinder with his riches?
The last of the three gang members was caught later in the day. He and his two comrades were charged with resisting arrest, kidnapping, and (after George testified) murder. The body of a young man was found in the graveyard under Herald G. Jordan’s grave just like he told them.
And a week after this ordeal, George donated half his inheritance to charity, and he acted quite the opposite he used to around other people. Nice and Quiet.
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