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Richard Ciciarelli - 11:39am Nov 8, 1998 PST
Guest User

The car rolled to a stop behind the jet black Cadillac that was parked in the driveway. The driver's door opened and the big man stepped out from behind the wheel.

Looking around to make sure he wasn't seen, he quickly stepped to the back door of the house and mounted the three steps of the stoop.

He glanced back at the big car and sneered.

"Look at that," he mumbled to himself. "The guy doesn't know what to do with his money. He's got cars laying around he doesn't even use."

His eyes glanced at the personalized license plates: JH1015. It was Jack Harris' initials and birthdate, he knew. Harris was famous for his ego mania. He signed important documents only on his birthday. He submitted his novels to his agent only on his birthday. He was so proud of himself and that date that he did more than just have it on his license plate; he also had 1015 as a phone number and had 1015 worked into the personalized logo that had become his trademark.

The big man chuckled to himself. "The fool even uses those numbers as his security code. That's going to make things a whole lot easier for me."

He turned his attention to the numerical pad that was situated above the doorbell on the doorframe. Confidently he pushed the numbers 1015 and watched as the red light blinked out and the green one lit up. He grinned and entered the house, closing the door behind him and resetting the alarm.

Once inside he felt a tremor of trepidation ripple down his spine. Was murder the solution? It was, after all, so drastic, so final.

He shook himself as if to throw off any doubts.

"No," he mumbled. "It's too late to turn back now. This is the only way. Harris has to die."

He walked through the kitchen in no particular hurry and made his way toward a long hallway. He wasn't worried about being heard. He knew Harris' schedule as well as the author himself did. Today was Tuesday, the servants' day off. The house would be empty.

The big man walked slowly down the hallway, checking as he went the pictures that adorned the walls -- pictures of Jack Harris, all in gold frames. Alternating with the photographs were floor-length mirrors.

"He really loves to look at himself," the big man thought. "He's his own god and religion, and this house is his shrine to himself."

He peeked into one room off the hallway. It, too, was filled with portraits of Jack Harris. Walls, tables, piano, television set, all had photographs of various sizes of a handsome man smiling in a way women found irresistible. Four oval mirrors hung on the walls so that Harris could admire himself live when he was tired of looking at his pictures.

"I can't believe other people can tolerate him and his conceit," the big man thought. Then he snorted a laugh. I can't believe I worked with him as long as I did."

  • Anger began to well up in his heart... by Richard Ciciarelli - Nov 8, 98 (#1 of 13)
  • Ok, Richard, please tell me there's more... by Fran Hinkel - Nov 9, 98 (#2 of 13)
  • Top notch characterisation and expression... by Alex Dent - Nov 9, 98 (#3 of 13)
  • His eyes glanced at the gun in the drawer and a... by Richard Ciciarelli - Nov 17, 98 (#4 of 13)
  • Wonderful!.. by Fran Hinkel - Nov 10, 98 (#5 of 13)
  • This was brilliant... by Spooky Lady - Dec 1, 98 (#6 of 13)
  • In the very beginning I thought of the two being... by geni - Dec 1, 98 (#7 of 13)
  • Good story... by Curious - Dec 1, 98 (#8 of 13)
  • I certainly did not expect that, no wonder he had... by Eclipse - Aug 29, 99 (#9 of 13)
  • Oooooh... by - Nov 25, 99 (#10 of 13)
  • Richard, I don't know if you look at these... by deb48146 - Dec 27, 00 (#11 of 13)
  • um... by kinki_kinki - Mar 11, 02 (#12 of 13)
  • Excellent job with this!.. by Lasso - May 3, 10 (#13 of 13)

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