Four Writing Assignment: Second Draft & Final Draft

Inspector Willard stroked his not-yet-grown beard ever so deviously. With each passing stroke of the hand he could feel the tough red bristles slide along his weathered hands. Was the end near? Had his secret assassination of New York’s biggest crime lord been discovered? There were simply too many questions and too little time. As the hour hand struck midnight Willard closed his eyes and slept, preparing himself for the coming day’s grueling endeavors.

Willard’s sleep was cut short. Sheets of rain were thrashing upon his den’s Victorian windows, creating a howl better fit for Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” Perhaps the weather was a dreaded sign of what was soon to come, a fear, a horror greater than Inspector Willard had ever encountered. The first signal of their coming was a single spot light steadily locked upon the window. This light at first was blinding, and in a strange way welcoming. It played lazily over his shoulders, creating an odd, if not comical silhouetted figure of himself upon his bookcase and ceiling. Inspector Willard new better than to move, at least until the inquisitive light passed on to judge another window of his house.

Once released from his daze, a new site appeared before the rattling window; a blockade of black stretch limos, with a single white one at the head of the herd. Finally, the beast had awakened, roaring out a single, command to his pride.

“Up th-…! Find him and sho-…!” was all Willard could hear over the deafening rain, yet the message was clear.

It was now time for the inspector to move on from his previous plan. The obvious appearance of his next big target meant that he had made a grave miscalculation. The once calm and collected private-eye broke into a fast paced sweat and quickly lost his cool composition. The only thing on his mind was the primal urge of flight; and so he did.

The bullets began to pour in like rain, Swiss cheesing the wall he once stood near. In haste Willard snatched his trap door key, opened the door, and fled to the wine cellar. Here his cold cobble stone walls would provide the protection he so desperately needed. The hidden cellar had fulfilled its purpose, protecting him from the enemy that devastated his dwelling as fast as a Californian wildfire. Pleased with his narrow escape, Willard picked up his finest wine and drank.

“The fools must think I’m dead.”