The antiseptic feel of a stark white hospital room rarely provides comfort to a dying man. Travis Johns tried to lift his head up to vomit but nothing was functional and the nausea just sat upon him. The room began to spin and by the time it stopped, he saw the man in the black suit staring through him. "Time to conclude our business, Travis," The man said, as he moved around the gurney and kinked the IV drip. Travis began to choke then seizure. The man in the black suit showed no emotion as he looked into Travis' fading grey pupils and stated simply, "Can not say I am surprised by any of this, Travis. You were an easy partner. Fame was your drug, even if heroin is in your veins, now. Goodbye, Travis. When we meet again, I doubt you will recognize me." The man in the black suit moved his hand over the Travis and took his last breath. Travis Johns, 27 year old lead singer of the hip hop group Nine, died. The autopsy would read, drug overdose.
Flames singed the skin of Lark McKissic as she walked into the hotel suite. The fire was controlled but seemed to follow her as she stepped, slowly, into the bedroom. Lying on the bed was a pile of money. There had to be two or three million dollars stacked perfectly ibviting her into the sheets. The man in the black suit stood next to the bed, stoked the flames with his pale, dead hands. Lark remained emotionless as the man in the black suit produced a tall, handsome man on the bed who motioned for Lark to come toward him. He rmoves his shirt and picks up several piles of the money. Lark ignored the man in the black suit and never again, looked at the shirtless suitor on the bed. She walked into the flames and made her way to the open window, the fire moved away from her and she climbed on the the window sill and jumped into the air, hundreds of feet from the ground. As he hurled herself towards the ground, a bump startles her. The pilot says over the intercom, Ms. McKissic, we are taxiing towards the gate. You have about ten minutes to gather your things. A car is waiting. Lark, sighed, wiped the sweat from her lip and forehead. She reached for her compact inside her bag, and applied some makeup. "Time to go to work," she whispered to herself.
T.I. Was Right About One Thing
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