Well, whenever it says “John Garcia was asking R.B. to arrange the killing of Eric Bost”, what I was going for with the word “arrange” was to mean that he wasn’t exactly an ASSASSIN, but rather the head of this entire underground assassin… union? I guess you would put it. I thought I put in just enough information to interest the reader, yet not enough for them to know everything about what the Rallyman is, but I guess not. Any suggestions?
Please login to continue.
Novel Treatments / The Rallyman revised prologue
The man with long black hair, greasy and unkempt, and a complexion that was pale and sickly, hunched over his desk with his thin, bony fingers massaging his scalp and his bloodshot eyes peeled to the golden envelope that lay before him.
The envelope was slightly larger than a standard mailing envelope, by approximately two inches in length and one in width, with a higher volume of a couple of millimeters to allow for multiple letters, photographs, and of course, dollar bills. The opening was sealed with an insignia: The letter “R”, bold and elegant in calligraphic style, and above and to the right of the letter the number “3”, in a plain font as if an exponent in a mathematical equation. Both were violet. This was the mark of The Rallyman.
The envelope addressed the man with long, black hair as simply “R.B.”, keeping his actual name hidden, as was standard for the elusive position of Rallyman.
Although his unabbreviated name was rather normal, the initials seemed to stand for “rat bastard” at the moment, as part of his own mind’s persisting of beleaguering him. Half of him was internally insulting himself, yelling at himself for breaking the rules, and the other half was trying to justify his actions.
“I didn’t think it would have this kind of effect!”, he thought to the other part of his brain, which responded didactically with “It’s the most important rule there is! ‘Don’t Dirty Your Hands‘! You read it yourself! It’s on the walls!”
Indeed, the four-word admonition “Don’t Dirty Your Hands” was printed in crimson letters on each of the four walls in the room between which he was presently driving himself mad. He had remembered hoping it wasn’t blood.
“But maybe no one will find out! Maybe I’ll be fine after all!”
“It’s over, asshole! Of course they’ll find out! Do you realize how many people actually get away with killing an entire family? And you aren’t exactly ‘slick’, you trashy son-of-a-bitch? Even if they don’t catch the fingerprints that you most certainly left behind, you’re going to have to deal with THIS the rest of your life! Give it up, you rat bastard, you are INSANE!”
“Enough!” shouted the man named R.B. in a fit of rage, and the noise was followed with a “BANG” that sounded like dim gunfire. He had smashed his forehead onto his desk, and although the force wasn’t strong enough to knock him out, small streams of blood trickled down his face, around the corners of his eyes and down to his chin, leaving a warm sensation. This was a quite painful experience for R.B., but the voices temporarily ceased to harass him.
Yes, maybe he was insane. He was having internal schizophrenic fights with himself. Yet he did not realize WHY.
In the list of rules set aside for The Rallyman to follow, “Don’t Dirty Your Hands” was indeed the very first one. Given how these rules were originally constructed over a century ago, the fact that this one remained the first was a mysterious sign of it’s importance. Did this happen to all Rallymen who directly murdered someone?
In an attempt to preoccupy his mind with something that would keep the two bickering voices from sounding again, R.B. opened the envelope in front of him with his knife, and took out it’s contents: A folded-up paper of the same golden shade as the envelope, three photographs, and a crisp $100 bill. The golden paper was in fact a sort of application, and it was from a well-known New York lawyer named John Garcia, who spoke of another man, the Vice President of a major corporation named Eric Bost. R.B. attempted to read it, but was so badly shaken that he wasn’t able to focus on the information in front of him. What was obvious to R.B., however, was that Garcia was making a request.
John Garcia was asking R.B. to arrange the killing of Eric Bost.
R.B., having been The Rallyman for six straight years, knew this fact instinctively. Any mail he received in a gold envelope was as an application for an assassination, and he had an entire other room for storing them; at least 600 were in there for the time being. The photographs were of the individual being requested for, and the $100 was a bribe- Many clients thought they needed to prove how much the assassination meant to them.
Suddenly, the loud, rambunctiously angry voice of the part of R.B.’s brain that made incessant jabs to his mental state of mind clamored in, “DON’T DIRTY YOUR HANDS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
To which the meager voice of the part of his brain that made excuses to justify his actions retorted, “What else was I supposed to do?! She knew EVERYTHING!”
The man called R.B. by the opened envelope sat back and soaked in the words from the two bickering ideas in his head as he looked around. The walls made of faded, dark gray stone bricks that once blissfully reminded him of the study in an impenetrable fortress seemed now like the hopelessly morose dungeon in the same fortress. The majestic red door that brooded in the corner leading to the mail room reminded him of just how many letters he needed to tend to (it was basically an endless supply), and the pressure was magnified when he noticed again the crimson letters on the wall. “Don’t dirty your hands” was on every side of him, and it seemed to be inching nearer to him every time he allowed his mind to wander.
“I must be the worst Rallyman to have ever existed“, his two separate voices seemed to agree upon.
After a few minutes of musing over his situation, R.B. pulled out a pencil and a sheet of lined paper and began to write.
It was a lengthy letter, one which spanned a couple of pages. His handwriting was atrocious- large and sloppy- but he hadn’t the time to worry about such trivial matters. He had a message relay, and he had to copy it down before he was too out of his mind to think clearly enough to do it. Afterwards, he sat back into his chair, let up a cigarette, and wondered. The police could arrive at any time. If they did, and he wasn’t there, his property could be searched, and the cellar-like chain of dungeon-like rooms may be discovered; That had to be avoided at all costs.
What if he killed himself? Then, the humiliation of being locked away in a correctional facility (or at this point, a psychiatric hospital) would be spared for him.
But then he realized it was impossible. He was too weak to kill himself. Maybe it was because of his devotedly Catholic mother, who had always taught him that to turn to suicide was to “commit your soul to the devil”. Thanks, mom.
He slowly stood up, and wobbled for a second- he seemed to have been sitting for days- but regained footing, walked over to the rusted steel ladder, and began his ascension. He opened the heavy metal hatch at the top, and was greeted with the blistering summer heat outside.
After closing the hatch and covering it with branches to make the location look less conspicuous, he took a deep, painful sigh. He wouldn’t be returning here. He began walking towards the house.
The air-conditioned kitchen did nothing to alleviate R.B.’s mental state. He was still just as nervous as he was before, not so much from being locked into confinement, but that the area out back would be found out. It hadn’t, though, for at least a couple of centuries, so maybe it would be alright.
The man with black hair, dirty and frayed, and the complexion that Death himself may have been frightened of, hunched over the kitchen table, sipping on some unsweetened tea that just tasted repulsive.
Police sirens could be heard in the distance.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
Earl_Daniels reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This 372 word review has not been unlocked.
jkazimer reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
Good way to open with a crazy man, definitely caught my attention. Having read chapter 1, I’m completely taken aback at the prologue. This is very different from a connect four game…
Couple of comments, as I will try to save you some credits since I noticed a JayG review on chapter 1.
The opening paragraph needs some work in terms of the use of description.
Stick with one or two descriptors. You can characterize a person in little ways that are much more powerful than bloodshot eyes, bony fingers, pale and sickly skin, and unkempt hair.
Example:
The Rallyman looked like Nick Nolte after a weeklong binge. Says sort of the same thing right? I’m not saying to reference a known person because that can date you piece, but clarify the descriptors.
One or two grammar things:
“I didn’t think it would have this kind of effect!”, he thought to the other part of his brain, which responded didactically with “It’s…
Should read:
“I didn’t think it would have this kind of effect,” he thought to the other part of his brain, which responded didactically with, “It’s…
Of course(,) they’ll find out!
“I must be the worst Rallyman to have ever existed(,)“ his two separate voices seemed to agree upon.
Watch your use of exclamation points. I know you are showing insanity and mania, but too much weakens the point.
- add/view comments (0)
shelerella reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This story interests me. If I had the whole book in front of my hands I would keep reading. I would like to a better description of what The Rallyman is exactly (I assume an assassian) but maybe a little more, something to excite me more about what R.B. has to do. I like the descriptions about the room, the man, the envelope. Very vivid.
Potk reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I’m with the reviewer that said you were using too many adjectives. Definitely cut the doubles:greasy and unkept, pale and sickly.
You’re trying to sneak in too much description in one sentence. It’s like static, dims the picture.
“A man sat hunched over his desk staring at an envelope that lay before him.” Simple, straighforward, dramatic. Give us his description in bits.
You’re probably not going to like this, but I’d dump all those long words. The best writing is simple. Figure out what you’re trying to say, then say it—and, believe me, that’s the hard part.
I liked the bit where RB’s voices yell at each other. That shows his mental state better than all the telling.
The mother segment is much better. Again, a little dialogue, even if self verbalization, helps with the action.
LeahD reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
Very atmospheric, and mysterious. You could do with a few fewer adjectives, in my opinion, especially in the first sentence. There are a few awkward sentences
“Although his unabbreviated name was rather normal, the initials seemed to stand for “rat bastard” at the moment, as part of his own mind’s persisting of beleaguering him” that last clause is just all knotted up, and I can’t even think of a way to unknot it.
I do want to know more about the Rallyman, and that must be the aim of this prologue.
(I have the same problem with italics in my work—I decided to put brackets around the bits I needed italicized.)
Showing 1 - 5 of 5
Review item
Add to favesCreator
Relevant Links
Item Stats
GENERAL
5 Reviews 5 Comments
Version 1
Latest Activity: about 1 year ago
REVIEW QUEUE
Appeared in Queue: 0 Times
Skipped: 0 Times
Ratings & Rankings
