Murder

The clock ticked and tocked the steady rhythm of which life revolved around. The fifth hour of A.M., the sheets thrown back.

A man bustles around his small limited space that he owns. He tugs on his overalls, slips on his boots, shimmies inside his overalls and a thick coat. The weather was not agrreable to lighter clothing. Twenty past five, now. Breakfast was skipped, ready to be sacrificed for the work ahead. Thirty past five.

Sweat of Panic cataract down the mans leather brown skin. He bursts through the door, Expedience and Rush in his wake. Forty past fiv e. The man bursts through the door of his master’s possession. A five minute delay would not be tolerated.

Fifty past fiv e. The lashes of the long black weapon of Satan lick the back of this tardy man. The sixth hour of A.M. were never met by this man.