NUM83R0N3 -- short murder story

[the_imperfecttt_blah]

Eyes glazed with bloodlust, the man watched intently at the screen. Shoot the last two opponents and he’d win, just two more. Crawling on his belly, he was getting closer and closer to his target. Getting his sniper ready, his finger already on the trigger, a shot elsewhere went off, followed by an “Uhnnn…” sounded from the speakers and the screen went bloody red.
“Darn, darn, bloody darn! Two more men and I’d have become first! First ya hear! I’m the GAMEMASTER!” He raved, wildly waving his hands.
The online game results popped onto the screen:
First Place: NUM83R0N3
Second Place: manhunter007
Third Place: gamemaster01
“NO, no, NO! They cheated! They teamed up on me! I demand a replay!” He saw swirls of red rage. No! he thought, I must BE first. I AM first. I want and I shall have – my way or no way at all! A brilliant notion came upon him. To be first, it is necessary to eliminate those in the way. Smiling smugly with glee, he began plotting.
Tracing NUM83R0N3 was an effortless job, simply search for the IP address and the exact locations can be found. Satisfaction oozed from his pores. 12.3.2.8. Ah, life was sometimes just too easy. His luck got even better. Just two streets away lived his biggest rival.
Choosing his murder technique was harder. A gun or poison or bomb, there were just too many choices. Poison was the weapon of a coward, a gun and bomb both were too messy. A dagger was perfect and he knew just which to use.
A few years back, he attended a medieval festival. On display at one of the market stalls was a beautifully thin tempered dagger. Its handle was intricately carved with a dragon, the eyes large emeralds. At that moment, his want, no, his need for that spectacular object had grown by the minute. Even softly caressing the tip of the dagger had sliced his finger. It burned a little but the cut hasn’t been visible.
Seeing a potential buyer, the owner had expounded on its virtues. The handle was short but the blade was long. The first owner was a great warlord during the medieval time. He was an assassin and had had the blade custom made for him to neatly and smoothly fit between a man’s ribs, leaving a barely visible puncture. For a hefty sum, the dagger was his.
Now gripping the dagger he felt power surge through his hands. He controlled NUM83R0N3’s fate. He was taking control of his own fate. Slipping it back into its sheath, his choice made, he glided towards his closet. Nondescript, black clothes were best for this venture, he decided. He donned cargo pants, a plain, black tee, and thick black socks and clipped the dagger inside his pants.
It was 10:00 pm. Grabbing a small pair of binoculars and a bottle of alcohol, he was soon on the dark streets, and started moving. His light steps would disarm any observers of his murderous intent. He walked gaily and had a mysterious smile pasted onto his face.
He paused in front of a small house. Five steps took him to the front door. His eyes watched his right hand slowly raise to press the doorbell. It rang, an annoying wail. He waited, anticipation thrumming in his blood.
The door opened to a pasty, grim looking man with glasses dominating his face. The excitement within him slowed down. He doesn’t look like NUM83R0N3. Taking a step closer to block the front door from closing, his body was an inch from his opponents.
“Yes?” NUM83R0N3 asked, getting fidgety and impatient.
“Numberone?”
“What?” The man looked thoroughly puzzled.
“Are you Numberone from the online game?”
Trying to close the door on him didn’t work. “You creep, are you stalking me or something?” Ah, his opponent was beginning to fear. Fear was good. Plus, he got his answer.
“Gamemaster01.” He merely answered. NUM83R0N3’s bewildered expression ebbed away and he stepped back. “It’s too late to run, little Numberone.” He sang out tauntingly, drawing out run. Swiftly drawing the dagger from its hiding place he placed it directly above NUM83R0N3’s stomach. “Oh, what a smooth sail,” he crooned.
NUM83R0N3 didn’t even react, just watched wide-eyed at his actions. What a pathetic kill, he thought as his slid his dagger with ease between NUM83R0N3’s rib cage, cutting through the diaphragm. NUM83R0N3 stood there for a second, held by the dagger, then slumped to the floor. Quick and an invisible slash, it was a neat murder indeed.
Taking out the alcohol spray, he liberally squirted it on the door. Walking out of the house, as composed as ever, the door swung shut behind him, shutting out his sins. Pivoting on his left foot, he again applied alcohol on the doorbell.
He swayed jauntily to his steps as they took him farther and farther from his misdeeds. He murmured hypnotically, “One down, one to go, one down, one to go.”