|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
ScissorsDetective Onion was the department's best investigator, dedicated, clever, he knew all the tricks to pacify a criminal with almost anything. So the perfect cop, maybe a little embittered but that's just part of the job, or so he believed. He thought very highly of himself, never mind he had yet to catch a suspect alive and had thus caused a quite big bill to the department and had almost been fired. No matter, it's all a part of the job.
The serial killer, who Onion had been chasing for a month now following clues, which only he could find, had earned the nickname "Scissors" around the department. This was earned for the fact that the unknown killer always left a pair of scissors at the body and one less finger then the victim had before death. Onion thought this was quite dumb, why the hell should someone collect fingers? And why leave the scissors; it makes it obvious that he, whoever he was, was involved. Was he trying to brag with his kills? Why not just leave a name at the victim
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
Keep in Touch!