The Illustrator

30 October 2010, 12:25

Sunshine over a garbage town, the agency not helping. Kyle crouched behind the precipice. His view was perfectly unobstructed. His time management meant the rifle was perfectly calibrated and would slip neatly into his leather shoulder bag when the assignment was complete. Then it would be breakfast in a more appetizing place, maybe the Heights. He could sketch while nursing his second cup of coffee.

Everything about this city offended him. An aesthetic sense of justice compelled him to take this job, even though it meant two hours in this dump, where his career had been trashed without a drop of compassion. They took his future in art away from him. That’s when he became known as The Illustrator.

He drew a peacock in his head. Then he drew a bead. Pay per click.

Suddenly a woman came into view—shit!—the target’s blood and a Starbuck’s latte splashed over her as she screamed. She’s going to be mad about the coffee, thought Kyle. The rest was no surprise.

The Illustrator knew the Pantone color of blood was always the same.

Rodney Eric Griffith



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