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<hr class="bbc-hr"/><hr class="bbc-hr"/>​</div><br/>The Mustang's "Cyclone" V6 engine roared with deafening thunder as Dane weaved between traffic and lanes to reach his client.<i>I need your help,</i>was what Dane heard on the phone; his reaction was to cut a path of fucking destruction to bring Devin to safety.<br/><br/>When a situation turned ugly, everyone<i>except for</i>police officers was allowed to crack and spread chaos with self-serving hysterics. Police officers<b>did not </b>panic, doing so meant that someone could be thrust into peril. In the face of such danger, a code of honor and sacrifice beat in the heart of every police officer -- that those who swore to "serve and protect" only put themselves first when fate decided whose soul to claim. Under duress,thoughts erased from the mind as instinct kicked in: training over years to create a compassionate machine who responded with the sole purpose of saving lives.<br/><br/>That was precisely the aura that radiated from Dane Kuger as he sped down SE 128th. His knuckles had turned white from the strength he gripped the steering wheel, his dark eye focused hawk-like on every single element between himself and the parking garage where Devin lay stranded. Those inculcated instincts proved irritating every time his hand searched the central console for the emergency signal dial for lights and sirens, or reached for the tactical radio with the hope that a closer unit would respond in shorter time. No, he thought, I'm not on the force anymore. He was all Devin had in that moment. Her husband would likely arrive in due time -- a likeable chum, Dane predicted: out of shape, cautious, liberal, and ultimately ineffective. Dane could tell from the desperation in Devin's voice that she contacted him first, and that poignant honor of selection gave fuel to the urgency that propelled the swiftness of his motion. Dane felt every inch the white knight, racing to save a damsel in distress; regardless of the cliche, a villain had finally revealed himself. Even without having arrived, Dane felt an unhappy vindication -- only the confirmation of their fears could spook the urbane professor.<br/><br/>Dane felt grateful that the young man happened to be present, both to break up the assault and provide a physical presence. Victims often felt most vulnerable in the immediate aftermath of an attack, and that meant Devin could not be alone.  That was one reason Dane defied death in traffic by holding his phone in one hand — Dane wanted to keep Devin on the phone as he drove, engaging her and putting her mind at ease. He had her describe what happened, as clearly as possible, but didn't force her to relive the trauma. Dane needed nothing, only to know that Devin was alive and safe. "I'm here, Devin," Dane would consistently assure her. "I'll be there in ten minutes ... just hang in there." A car horn blared nastily as Dane swerved quickly to avoid collision.<i>Fuck! </i>he seethed to himself, observing the sea of brake lights ahead of him that effectively locked down the expressway. Tired peeled and screeched as Dane veered into opposing traffic, circumventing the herd of sheep waiting to be trapped on a road leading to nowhere. He headed straight for a construction and commercial freight haul-road that skirted the southern tip of Lake Washington. Technically not open to public access, the haul-road wasn't entirely private either. Police would sometimes use the road when they needed to traverse traffic and transit either to or from the city, and although Dane was not on official police business he knew the back-roads that accessed the highway.<br/><br/>Headlights on, Dane dodged a parked concrete truck at high-speed, and he wondered just what drove him toward Devin with such frantic velocity. Sure, she was a client and in danger; but, the thought of her being harmed in any way sparked a visceral — almost primal — need to intervene and safeguard the woman. When the obstacles dwelled safely behind Dane's Mustang, he applied more thought to his devotion to a woman he had only met a week prior. As the road turned into a continuous arc, devoid of traffic and allowing Dane to reach 90 miles per hour, he pensively acknowledged that he harbored an infatuation with Devin. In him mind, it was impossible not to and any man would feel the same. She was bright, gorgeous, classy, and retained that deep, reserved shyness that protected a precious inner core. Woman like that deserved to be cherished and worshiped, not manhandled and made to fear for their lives. The stakes in Devin's safety had grown to being quite personal in nature, which only made him wish to find this psycho immediately. She was married and likely thought of him as a guard dog for hire; she could never — would never — love a down-trodden schlub like himself.<br/><br/>In-depth knowledge of Seattle's side streets proved useful as Dane wove closer to the scene of the attack and Devin. Wherever Devin was, she would hear the roaring engine of a muscle car racing up the levels, hell-bent on arriving where it wanted. The crime scene flooded in illumination from the Mustang's headlights, and a last series of revs from the car announced that Dane had finally come to protect his client. Dane literally jumped out of the Mustang, his 9mm pistol slung in a black, chest holster. A short, tactical LED flashlight sprang to life in his non-shooting hand, and he hoisted the small device near his ear as he rushed to where Devin sat. "Devin ... I'm here. No one can hurt you now." The man implored with the greatest assurance he could muster, which was a feat considering all the man wanted to do was comb the parking garage and find the perpetrator ... and tear him apart limb from limb. "It's okay," he said. "Do you know where he ran off to?"<br/><br/>The sound of the teenager shuffling his feet drew Dane's attention for a moment before red and blue flashing lights lazily ascended the garage ramps. The flashing became blinding in intensity and strobe effect, turning the cold concrete walls of the crime scene into a duo-chrome disco. A large man stepped out of the squad car, leaving the door ajar as he pulled out a longer flashlight. "Dane?" the officer asked. Before the officer's mind could sort through the myriad information presented in front of him, a Lexus sedan pulled up and the window rolled down. A man wearing sunglasses leaned slightly outward.<br/><br/>"Problem, Officer?" the man asked.<br/><br/>"Nothing to see here ... move along, please," the Officer responded.<br/><br/>After the sedan pulled out and many waiting cars followed it toward the exit -- their collective fumes polluting the scene -- the Officer approached the pair. "There was a call about some sort of incident?"<br/><br/>"This woman is a client of mine, and her stalker just attacked her," Dane said over his shoulder. The man's sole attention focused on the distraught woman, ready to hold her or search every square inch of the garage. But first, he needed assurance of her well-being. "Devin," he asked, softly, "are you alright?"<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr"/><hr class="bbc-hr"/><div style="text-align: center"><br/>
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<span>Spoiler: <span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">THE TRAVAILS OF AN ADMIRER</span></span>
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<div style="text-align: justify">"<i>She's perfect." The thought washes over my mind every day, seemingly every hour. </i><br/>
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Wonder floods the mind behind merciless, eyes of craven darkness; <i>it's hard not to get lost to the spectacle of the lectern</i>. The woman, the professor<i>, Devin </i>... <i>she ignites every illicit sensation a man could dream of.</i> His eyes rove up and down her lithe body, surveying the extent of her sleek, toned form. <i>The pencil skirts only accentuate the sexual supremacy embodied by this single woman ... <b>my Devin</b>. </i>And, when his ears to hear her words ... her intellect stimulates --<i> no, arouses me</i> -- even further. Her confident tone helps sculpt her poise: a waifu from heaven itself ... <i>though I know differently.</i> He knows the real Professor Devin Fortenot— a shy, slightly nerdy girl under the facade of a professional academic. The suits she wears are uniforms to the him. <i>She wears them to please me.</i> When she lectures, she speaks only to him, you know. <i>Only to me. </i><br/>
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He sits in the the fifth row, his eyes glued to her toned legs, genuinely curious the color and design of her panties. <i>I'm sure they are black and see-through.</i> The younger meatheads with whom I share Devin's attention likely wonder the same question. The perverts -- <i>those fucking maggots </i>-- can go to hell. In fact, if any of them so much as <b>touched her</b> ... <i>I'll castrated them and deposit their corpse in a public ditch.</i><br/>
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Raw anger flares swiftly, then subsides just as quick. <i>Forgive me, my love. I should clear my mind of such drivel.</i><br/>
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Murder leaves behind a trail that can unravel all our plans; not to mention the future that awaits us both. <i>Why spoil the meeting of soulmates with senseless bloodshed?</i> Besides, public displays impart a medieval feel that's grossly over-dramatic and unnecessary; intelligence win the day. <i>She likes intelligence.</i> He feels confident that his keen intellect and fresh ideas will eventually win Devin's heart in the end. <i> She <b>love </b>me.</i><br/>
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Would an unintelligent dolt possess the diligence and first-class forgery skills to audit Devin's psycholinguistic theory course? <i>I think not. </i>The concepts she espouses mirrors his own, especially when it comes to divining identity through analysis.<i> It's as if she's been trying to reach me all my life.</i> He considers her a compatriot in the fight against the oppressive injustice incurred by the state apparatus. Oh, how the Police shall rue the day ... She is the <b>only one </b>who can begin to understand the his pain and aggrieved suffering. Was it fate? He longs to ask her if she believs in such things. For how else can one explain the conjoining of such mental and physical excellence? Coincidence? <b><i>No. </i></b>Random events are excuses used by the weak to waive culpability for their own stupid negligence. Intentionality is the name of the game they played, and their union is destined.<br/>
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She's made for me. She's perfect. <b>Perfect</b>.</i><br/>
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In his soul, the man knows that they deserve one another. And as his green eyes glare in unsullied malice, the man write his cryptic inquires. He folds them to express the many, varied layers she has unearthed in him. <i>Dracula, the immortal love story.</i> The crisp, folded lines of the paper sculpture becomes a vessel to the sacred. <i>The Count was persecuted ... hunted ... just like I am. </i>Working the night shift came easily, as did copying Devin's office key with a $2 packet of molding clay.<br/>
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Surely, she will forgive him, <i>but one of us needs to break the ice. </i>The game grows weary without pursuit. How hard it was to not reach out and feel the texture of her short, dark hair. I walked behind her for an hour. <i>Her scent ... divine</i>. Having followed her from her home -- leaving that despicable, oafish husband -- he knows precisely where she parked in the garage. I crouched on the blind side and waited. The tell-tale sound of perfection breathed life into the inertia of his anticipation. <i>Those short heels</i>. Her cadence matched her entrance toward the lecture. <i>She comes to me now as she comes to me then</i>. The thrill of the struggle proves your fierce emotions, ones that he shall claim in snuff. It matters little that our tryst is interrupted, though the urge of vanquish needed an outlet. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and the owner of the Lexus sedan should not have buried his nose in his fucking phone. Or, he'd have seen the knife plunging into his heart.<br/>
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To think ... I stopped and inquired with that dead man in the back seat. <i>Thank goodness for tinted windows.</i> His sunglasses fit him perfectly, and he asked <i>the fat fuck of a</i> police man about their findings. He just waved me on. Insipid dullard. <i>They did not deserve me</i>. Although ... it seems that she's invited another man into their dance? Tall with dark hair ... Why must you impede his fate?<i> I thought you LOVED ME???</i><br/>​</div></div>
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