In It To Win It [The Sociopath’s Script 1]

Chapter Two-2

Officer Alan Smith barged back in with a tall disposable cup full of cold water and placed it in front of Cornell.

The lad drank the water half-way, set the glass down and took another drag. He exhaled and began talking, “So far, all I know is bits and pieces that I pieced together from this morning. If I skip a part, then you can ponder upon it and draw your own conclusions; fill in the blanks, officers. You are cops. You refer to yourselves as ‘intelligence’ so please play the part and don’t let it be an ironical joke to label yourselves as that. I believe it is part of your work to draw an appropriate conclusion on some of the accounts that I am not aware of, right?”

Agent Tamara Cummings smiled as she spoke, “We’ll do our best.”

Cornell continued, “This is only a logical account of how things must have gone down in my opinion. Some of it is drawn from memory and the rest is drawn from speculation, officers…” He took another drag and began explaining, “Anyway, a lot can happen in a year. To the best of my knowledge; this entire account revolves around a gun…”

Agent Tamara Cummings licked her lips and then asked, “What gun?”

“The Nayak Punjani pistol…”

“What the hell is that?”

Cornell took another drag and spoke, “The Nayak Punjani pistol is a priceless collector’s item that apparently has a streak of either bad or good luck; depending on how you acquired the gun. From what I saw this morning, that is partly true. It was commissioned by a wealthy Indian leader, Nayak Punjani as a present for his first wife on their ten year anniversary in the late 18th century. Nayak Punjani apparently snatched and used his subjects’ most cherished stones to make the gift for his wife. At the time, his loyal subjects were starving so they apparently cursed the gun.”

Tamara asked him, “Hold on… of what relevance is this?”

Cornell answered, “Look; I’m giving you the entire story that led to me being here. I fancy myself a bit of a story teller and I’m giving you everyone who is involved and how they are linked to this; from the moment they are introduced, to what they did, to what happened to them. Just to make everything crystal-clear; I’ll start with every relevant detail of every relevant event. I will only give you the details of the significant events; and I will disclose them to you in a chronological manner, so as to avoid any confusion, okay? My account will be sequential… from what happened a year ago, to what happened nine months ago; to what happened 3 months ago; thus leading to what happened earlier this morning; bringing me here. Got it?”

Officer Alan Smith took out a pen and a small notebook; ready to jot down anything of substance, “Okay, what happened?”

Cornell Simpson leaned in and began telling them the tale that led to the homicide and the concurrent accident that happened that morning, “Well, you got to hear this, Officers; about a year ago…………”

Cornell’s Account:

About A Year Ago:

Location: A Local Club Scene; A Night Full Of Promise…

Dusk Had Matured In Los Angeles:

At a local watering hole somewhere in downtown LA; a man bearing an expressionless visage was quietly sipping a somewhat cold Dos Equis beer. At the time, he had secluded himself by taking a load off on a tall barstool located at the farthest end of the counter in the establishment.

The man’s name was Darius Hart.

Since he had sauntered into the joint, the only words that had escaped Darius Hart’s lips were, “…ice-cold Dos Equis, please.” That was about an hour ago and he was still sipping the same beer that had then lost its chill.

The club Darius was in was called ‘The Classy Hooligan’. It was established by the owner to draw more attention to his favorite soccer club; Manchester United.

Since the majority of the USA population is well-known for not really caring about soccer that much, the owner of the club was attempting to bring more popularity to the sport he was passionate about. The overall theme and color scheme in the entire establishment was red; garlanded with various Manchester United logos and regalia.

Contrary to what the owner initially wanted, the bar drew in youthful crowds from all over the state representing all manners of other activities but soccer; not what the establishment was originally intended for.

At some point, the place had drawn in male gay clientele. When that hype died down, older women then flooded in because they discovered that it was really easy to score a young, vivacious, vibrant and vicarious lad from the joint for the purpose of s****l conquests.

The owner of the place now just went with the flow. He didn’t fully comprehend that it was the name of the establishment that was mainly to blame for its fluctuating performance. Who names a joint ‘The Classy Hooligan’?

Anyhow, Darius Hart was quite a handsome gentleman. With light-blue eyes and a baby-face, he didn’t exactly fit his vicious and horrific past, but it was still part and parcel of him.

At a quick glance; one could assume Darius to be the perfect boyfriend material. Upon second inspection; his deeply chiseled features and frigid deportment gave away the fact that he was a military man. Upon even closer scrutiny; one couldn’t miss the cold distant look in his eyes; those appealing, blue… wintry, soulless eyes.

The look that he sometimes bore was a look that not many had. In fact not many could even recognize that blank look; as though someone was directly staring into oblivion. The nightmares encountered during covert ops in Syria and Afghanistan never quite left Darius Hart’s subconscious. To the few people that knew him; he was a troubled man, with occasional bouts of psychosis and rage triggered by unknown elements. That was quite understandable from a man with as many kills as he had in the field.

Deep within, Darius never really felt anything. Killing never bothered him in the least. He had gotten quite used to it… He had a natural inclination towards it… He had an unbridled talent in it… He had an indisputable aptitude and propensity for the brutal sciences of demise… And somewhere along the way, he realized he missed it… No; saying that would be an underestimation… He realized that he was created for it; and without it, he felt as though his life had no purpose!

Darius Hart had come to terms with the fact that that he loved to kill!

He was once quoted for saying that God truly loved him because he kept Heaven packed with new souls. And that was the reason he believed he was still alive; in order to keep doing what God created him for; which was a belief he had dwelling deep within his being!

The silent bloke, Darius was engrossed in thought when a wide hipped blonde lady in her mid-forties spotted him from across the room and instantly got infatuated by his mysterious demeanor. She approached him at the bar. Not having any inhibition, she dragged out the tall bar stool beside him and took a seat, “Can I buy you a drink?” She murmured.

Darius could barely hear her. His mind was quite a distance away. He kept thinking about how unfair it had been for him to be chased away from the Navy like a dog. His superiors had seen it fit to label him with a ‘dishonorably discharged’; which really riled him up.

The lady beside him talked but the only voice Darius perceived was the one sounding off loudly within his noggin. The voice within him repeatedly said, ‘The nerve of them! After all I did for the bastards! After all the s**t I went through! How dare those bastards discharge me!’

As he took another minuscule sip of his beer, Darius Hart’s mind drifted to the events that occurred prior to his arrival at the Classy Hooligan, LA. He recalled what transpired vividly……

Seventy Two Hours Before Darius Hart Was At the Classy Hooligan Bar and Grill:

He Was Miles Away From LA: Where He Lived, in Miami:

In his opinion; having been unfairly chased away from his ‘navy family’, Darius Hart had become a lost soldier without a course. He felt as though he was a Japanese Ronin; unfairly cast into the shadows where he didn’t belong, doomed to wander solo for all eternity.

Back then in Miami; Darius felt sick, tired and manipulated by the world. He was ready to give up and ‘put’ a bullet in his own brain… so he approached the desk drawer in his tiny domicile and pulled out a Smith and Wesson 500 revolver.

That gun was quite the shooter. It was a sure thing; the most powerful hand-gun in production. A single bullet was all he needed to seal the deal with the Reaper.

Without any further hesitation; he picked up a single .50 caliber bullet and shoved it into the cylinder. A flick of the wrist swung the rotating cylinder into place. He then walked back to his bed and sat at the edge.

A bullet of that size would ensure a 3 inch exit hole at the side of his temple; and that is quite a hole to have through one’s skull; with the possibility that the bullet would blow his entire head clean off!

He brought the large hand-cannon to his temple and shut his eyes; feeling the cold metal pressing against his cranium. His eyelids trembled as he wrapped his index finger onto the trigger. His wrist vacillated. He took a large gulp of air and let it all out with his lower lip shuddering as the gust breezed through.

Amid all the adversity he was experiencing, a thought flashed across his mind. He remembered something… something utterly disconcerting to any other Tom, d**k and Harry; but to him, it was crucial.

What he remembered that day was what saved his life. He gradually lowered the pistol wavering in his palm and set it beside where he was seated on his bed.

In the most sincere of intonations, he engaged himself in a barely audible monologue, hissing like a madcap, “Wait a minute, Darius; why are you killing yourself? Huh…” His eyes darted around as he perused his thought waves. As though he was a nutty, he continued talking to himself, “…Darius, you have unsurpassed talents and that’s not bullshit either; you are the best. With such skills, you have the capacity to become very rich; you can get whatever you want…”

He took a moment to ponder upon various items on his recently chosen road to wealth and then continued his monologue, “But where can you go to use such talent? Where will your aptitude come in handy? Which state can I easily blend where they’ll need my particular skill-set?”

He then leaped onto his feet as the thought flickered brighter in his mind.

He thought of a place with a huge population of rich people; where the probability of running into someone who knew him was almost nil. He thought of a place where some people had screwed each other over to get to the top. He thought of a place where affluent people of a certain character would have many enemies. He thought of a place where the solve rate for murder would be averaging 20% or lower. With a grin boding evil plastered on his face, he grunted, “Los Angeles, California!”

He picked up his phone, unlocked the screen, dialed and waited for an answer. Within a jiffy, a female voice at the other end received, “Hello…”

Darius spoke, “Yeah… after you begged me year after year; I think I am ready to reconsider. I think I am I’m done with Miami for now… yeah… yeah… I’m coming to your city!” With that he ended the phone call. He then tossed the cell phone back onto his bed.

Immediately after that, Darius packed up and hightailed his way to his new-found place of hope.

3 Days After The Phone Call:

Darius Hart Found Himself at The Classy Hooligan Joint;

The events of what happened before his arrival in California were plaguing Darius Hart’s mind. He recalled how he was just about to blow his brains off. He remembered the sickeningly sweet feeling of release. In a way he couldn’t explain, it was all somehow surreal. As he sat down on the tall barstool at the furthest end of the counter slowly sipping his Dos Equis beer, what was now happening around him at the Classy Hooligan was slowly becoming clearer and clearer as his memories faded away.