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    Act I --The Opening Act-- Henry

    Perspiration built not only upon shaking hands, but shivering arms and legs. The whole of the '97 Chevy Suburban's dull gray interior was moist with anxieties of a dead man. The dashboard was blanketed with candy-wrappers, McDonald's Quarter Pounder boxes, and endless Big Gulps, testaments to a life that was led in an ever-rushed, manic style and a budget that couldn't even afford a home-style meal.

    In fact, this was the most still Mr. Henry Ford (yes, like the car man) had been for years, allowing six hours of sleep a night. He worked a night shift at a Chevy door-manufacturing plant (the only way he'd been able to afford a car) and bused tables at a local diner during the day. In between the two, he would crawl home wearily to meet a hollow-eyed woman he had once called "honey" and they would exchange curt words and part ways. She had other men to see. Men that weren't such failures. He had a baby to take care of. There were no bitter words, just the ghost of a once fervent romance that had spiraled downwards to a mutual detachment. She remained there while he worked to care for the child, then would leave to ******** other guys.

    Henry didn't mind any more. It had bothered him while they had still been sleeping together, but now that she had developed into a baby-sitter rather than a lover, the dirty broad could do whatever the hell she pleased.

    The baby was something of a mistake. Neither he nor she had wanted it. But when it happened, they didn't exactly have the spare cash to make it unhappen. So the baby was born, the funds stretched tighter, and they grew more separate.

    Shifting forward to look out his rear-view mirror, Henry could see the person he had been waiting for. In a floral-print dress and red wool coat that could have come from any department store, the stout lady crossed the lonely street and stopped in front of a shop door. It was part of a strip mall that had been recently renovated, so the worn bricks and weathered glass looked out of place. The woman fumbled with a set of keys for a moment, then opened the doors and walked in.

    She was old, and that was his only objection. It didn't really matter that she was a woman. There were countless things he had done to women that he regretted, but after all he had been through, he was numb to it. But he'd never imagined himself threatening an old lady. Henry wasn't a violent person, but when he'd first learned the rules of the world in a dark alley and a gang of well-dressed rich kids, he knew that he'd have to fight just to catch a glimpse of sunlight. That, or wither under the concrete he'd been given to root in.

    Gripping the wheel tightly, he stared straight ahead. AC/DC blared out of his speakers, and he felt consumed by the consequences of his soon-to-take-place actions. The sweating had stopped, leaving him chilled and balmy in the forty degree weather. His apartment didn't have heat, let alone his car. Heat, his mom told him when he complained about being cold, comes from the heart. Henry was stiff and frozen, and figuring in the fact he'd felt like that since his early teens, he figured he had made do without a heart for quite some time.

    The murky gray clouds parted for a moment, and Henry shuddered as the light hit his bare arms. He hadn't bothered to put his jacket on yet, nor his mask. The only preparation he'd actually done for the job was plying his license plate off the day before. Driving around, Henry had been constantly watching for blue. It was stupid, really. There were never any blue in his part of town until they needed a body bag too, and then they were too preoccupied to pull over a guy missing tags.

    A cold cup of coffe, from McDonald's no less, sat in his over-sized cup-holders. It was supposed to keep him awake until the old lady arrived. He'd fallen asleep twice. Rubbing his red-ringed eyes wearily, Henry thought of going home.

    The idea was laughable. There was nothing but a screaming baby, a silent woman, and a freezing apartment. The fridge had long out-served its purpose, the rooms being both colder and more full than it at all times. The neighborhood was filled with drug-dealers and gangs, some of which he was a part. Henry tried, friends lied, people died, the baby cried. It was hell.

    There had to be something more. On his way to his night-shift, Henry would drive by white-washed suburban homes with fences, lawns, and giggling children. That's what he wanted. And one of those big, in-ground pools. It seemed so bright on that side of the world, Henry felt like he was scuttling around in the dark. Or maybe it was dark because he was blinded by the light. He wasn't sure. All he knew was that there had to be something else.

    Carefully sliding his slender arm into the worn work jacket, he concentrated on breathing. He'd committed lots of crimes before, but this was different. These were people who had people that cared about them. These were the Chosen Ones. His kind were below the law. If they hurt each other, there were no more rules than if one animal attacked another. The law only acted as a clean-up crew. This... this was a crime that could result in being punished by the government, some annonymous force with enough power to lock you in a tiny cell forever if you rubbed them the wrong way.

    Henry somehow, despite quivering fingers, managed to zip the black coat up to his neck, wincing as the claws pinched his sallow skin. Next came the mask, something he'd taken from a burglar, like a trophy hunter takes an animal's head, who'd been foolish enough to try and rob his apartment. First of all, there was nothing to steal. Second of all, Henry always kept a baseball bat under his bed. The nameless man, who'd escaped with a bloody face, a smashed shoulder, and less a mask, would have trouble working his cut-throat, skill-less job the next day.

    There he sat, covered from head to foot in black cloth. He was no longer Henry Ford. He was a desperate man with an empty burlap sack, a crow bar, and a immitation gun. He was the epitome of scum, a scoundrel who threatened the helpless people for his own personal gain. Then again, he was helping Henry Ford, the simple, heart-broken single parent that worked two shitty jobs just to live in a rat-infested apartment with the mother of his child, who gave him less thought than the baby she'd left him with. He may have been a criminal in their eyes, but if they walked a mile in Henry Ford's shoes, perhaps they'd see him in a new light.


    Act II --The Closing Act-- Rita

    The shop was emmaculate. It always was. But there was something about the out-dated cosmetics that made the whole place seem dirty and out of sorts. Rita Hendersen had contemplated remodeling a decade earlier, however decided not to after consulting her daughter; the late Mr. Hendersen, she felt, was still with them in spirit in the shop. These were his counters, where he'd weighed, measured, cut and hawked diamonds for the past half century. The glass by the register was scratched and worn from his wrist watch sliding to withdraw or deposit money in transactions. The forest green carpet had perpetuated his memory by locking in coffee stains from his morningly cup-of-Joe. The musty smell was only apparent to customers; when Mrs. Rita Hendersen inhaled, she could imagine her handsome, proud man with his bifocals on, cutting the perfect diamond.

    Sighing with the weight of a lonesome, weary human, Rita turned the dim, sallow lights on, hung up her out-of-pace bright, crimson wool coat, and dutifully shuffled to vault in back, determined to count the stock like she did every day. Her relatively quiet and agreeable nature tended to draw a lazy sort of scum to her; like flies, the applicants for a part-time clerk had yielded the lowest of the low. She'd already been through six. In fact, it would probably be seven by the week's end. The girl who was supposed to come in this morning had called in sick for the fifth time this month. Rita had climbed out of bed in the early hours, quickly pulled on respectable attire for a well-off old lady, and driven her Honda to the store. It wasn't so bad, getting up early. The only real down side she encountered was an extended period of silence that could be devoted to brooding. Brooding which mostly encompassed Mr. Hendersen, a tender subject in itself.

    They had been married since their teens. It had been something of a scandal, back in those days. Their courtship hadn't been prude as it should have been. George Baskin, father of Rita Baskin, lost his voice many at night to screaming and shouting at his impudent daughter for her improper behavior. She took the disapproval in stride because, unlike most romances, she knew something about it that they could not: this was the man she was going to spend her life with.

    Sighing, world-worn and weary, Rita hung over the safe box. The combination was, and had been since the couple had first purchased it, 9-22-56, their anniversary. There were little reminders of Mr. Hendersen hidden in the shop's nooks, and if she wasn't careful, Rita could be assaulted by painful memories at any moment. It was probably why she'd retired shortly after Mr. Hendersen's death, but she always found herself coming back to it, like a bug drawn to the light.

    The door swung freely, the invaluable contents within reflecting brightly even in the dim light. Rita wrinkled her nose at the stones; she hadn't wanted to go into the jewelry business. In fact, Rita disapproved of gaudy rings and necklaces almost as much as she disapproved of smoking and cussing. However, her husband had convinced her that it would be the source of a large income and financial security. The latter of the two had been the deal-maker, since George Baskin had cut off all ties to her; the couple had racked up quite a debt from the wedding and the honeymoon, despite the humble manner in which it had been carried out. So diamonds it was.

    The thought of selling the shop had been mused and dismissed on several occassions; yes, she might have hated the business and the customers it brought in, but for the same reason she couldn't renovate, she couldn't sell it either. Every time Rita entered the shop, she felt as though Mr. Hendersen might just be in the store room, seconds, yards, a holler away. The shop itself had become a part of her husband, and he had left it to her as if it were a piece of himself. Rita embraced it; even if it was a part of him she didn't much like, it was still a part of him. It was him.

    There was a clear, light tinkle; the bell hanging above the door had been disturbed. Rita furrowed her wrinkled brow. She clearly remembered that she hadn't taken the Closed sign off the door yet. Most of the lights in the shop were off too. Ignorant people who were oblivious those obvious indicators really irritated her. Standing rigidly, Rita came out of the store room to give the empty-headed youngster a piece of her mind.

    "We're closed right now," she snapped, coming around the doorway. A single man was squatting in front of one of the display cases, fiddling with the lock. He jumped up, dropping a oblong, metal object with a loud clang at her voice.

    One look and Rita screamed; he was clearly a burglar. He was dressed in all black, his face covered by some sort of halloween mask. He pulled something from his left side and pointed it at her. A dull, black gun. "Don't do anything stupid, lady!" he shouted, shaking the weapon at her, "Cuz I'll blow your ******** brains out!"

    Rita cringed back against the wall, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. He had, luckily, turned his attention back to the display case, and had retrieved his other tool: a crow bar. He was circling the case, eyes flicking to her sporadically to see if she was still there, quivering.

    If only she could get to the register. Below the counter was a panic button, reserved for such occassions. It was useless, since he kept looking at her. Oh, how careless she'd been! He'd probably been sitting, waiting for her in the parking lot. He probably knew that the door was never locked, unless it was night time. And he'd probably figured out that the place didn't have any security cameras. It had never been renovated, afterall.

    Sliding down the wall, with her back to it, Rita watched the burglar carefully. He didn't seem to notice her drop to the floor. He was absorbed in a newfound weak-point in the edge of the casing and was trying to pry it apart with the crow bar. She breathed deeply for a moment, trying to steady the shaking in her hands. Silently, upon gathering herself, Rita inched towards the register, the panic button teasingly within sight but out of reach. Each movement, each breath, each blink, she would cast her wary eyes towards him, fearing that he'd be preparing to execute her. But her luck held as she neared the counter.

    The weeks following her husband's death, Rita had stared at his left-over dose of pain-killers longingly. It would have been a sweet release from life, and she'd taken the pills out of the bottle several times, just trying to convince herself to be brave, open her mouth, and swallow. Of course, she had never gone through with it, but she had wished she could die. Now that she was faced with it, Rita felt abashed and mistaken, praying to have one second more each moment that passed. If only she could stretch out her unimportant existence just a little longer, just a little more.

    No one would suspect that a kind old lady like Rita would have such a fascination with death. Her grand-motherly appearance, love of knitting and puzzling, and sweet temperment suggested that she was one of the bright, open, clean ones. Mr. Hendersen was the only one that had known different. He'd spent his entire life with her, afterall, and it had been the quirky, macabre nature of hers that had initially attracted him to her. Truthfully, the woman had found the slow death of her husband to be a fascinating process; she was grieved and depressed, but intrigued nonetheless. It disgusted her, but the feeling was inescapable: when the jagged mountains on Mr. Hendersen's heart moniter had gone flat, she had felt dual emotions that over-whelmed her. That had pushed her over the edge of depression, which had turned the interest of death into obsession.

    But this experience, no matter how it turned out, was surprisingly not dampening her fixation on the very nature of dying; it was redirecting it, then agitating it beyond belief. She no longer thought it wise to execute her plan upon herself; no, how could she really experience it then?

    Rita's wrinkled hand was upon the panic button. The burglar hadn't moved. He'd finally succeeded in cracking the glass case, and was bagging jewelry frantically. She hesitated over the button.

    By the time the police come, he'll be gone, came a dark thought from the back of her mind. They won't be able to track him down, and besides, those are his diamonds. They're from his shop. It's like taking pieces of him. There is another solution...

    As if it had a mind of its own, her hand crawled to the top of the counter, feeling around. It connected with the register. The contraption was old and rusty; it could be opened by prying the coin and bill dish out of the body. Watching distantly, Rita could see her hand opening the register and flail around for something. The soft touch of folded money was passed up, along with the cool metal of coins. Then, her hand came across something solid, hand-sized, and heavy. She grabbed it and pulled it out of the register.

    Mr. Hendersen had never been a violent man. He avoided fights in his more youthful days, leaving parties and bars before brawling broke out. However, he wasn't a pacifist, and he sure as hell didn't plan on getting robbed. That's why he always kept a loaded revolver within the register. He probably didn't imagine that it would be his wife using it.

    The smooth, silky voice spoke to Rita again. This is self-defense.

    She wavered, looking between the burglar and the gun. Since she technically did have another alternative and he wasn't shooting at her, she wasn't sure if she could justify taking a human life. The revolver was heavy in her hands, begging to be set down on the floor with all six bullets.

    Even if it isn't, you won't get in trouble, the voice continued. You're old. People will pity you and never suspect anything. He's some lowlife, and doesn't have any family to leave behind. There aren't any cameras, so it's your word against nothing. Besides... you know you want to.

    Rita froze at the realization of the truth in those words. She did want to. She wanted to pump that piece of s**t full of lead. She wanted to see the agony in his eyes through the mask, discover the power of playing god. Oh, did she want to. Standing abruptly before she could change her mind, Rita pointed the gun at the masked man.

    He didn't notice for a beat, continuing to gather jewels. But when he looked up to wipe something from his eye, he noticed his victim erect, collected and pointing a gun to his head. He never suspected she'd fight back, and as such, had only brought along an imitation. She didn't know it, but from the start, he'd never meant to hurt her. How the tables had turned.




    In progress...