Tales From Brightburn City... Hawke: Eternal Rain.

Chapter 1 - Holy roots.

336 days since the incident.
I beat the alarm clock today.
I didn’t sleep a wink.

I still see my old partner bleeding out like a lamb slaughtered on an abattoir floor, even after 2 40oz bottles of bourbon, words he mumbled still echoing in my head like a drill burrowing through my skull or maybe that’s the liquor…

What did he mean, The Devil? …

Must it be linked to the symbol?

(Hawke sat up in his bed, brushing the Ash of 40 cigarettes off his chest and onto the bed sheets.
The smell of cheap bourbon, body odour and tobacco smoke fuming a smog of pollution through his apartment.)

I rise up and stagger towards my bathroom. I’m greeted with a piss-stained toilet seat from a ruff night cap at the wishing well.
Huh, wishing well…
Yeah, funny right? it’s a cesspool of a bar, just a block over from my apartment, run by an old Irish Broad named Jan.

She did a little time back in 83, Armed robbery.
She Now pulls pints for the scum of the city…
Fine by me as long as it keeps me watered.

(Hawke finishes his piss, and flushes the toilet. Stepping across; he grips the sink and stares at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Flashbacks haunting him with the echoes of his past.
The visions of him walking through the catacombs of St Michael’s cathedral.
The horror of infants being Drained of blood and bodies stacked up in some sort of satanic ritual.
Hawke then splashes his face with cold water to wake up to reality.
He then stands up straight and rummages around in his pockets looking for his carton of cigarettes.
Upon finding them he slides one out, places it between his dry cracked lips, and then begins to scurry for his matches.
After finding his last match; which had been broken in the bottom of his pocket, he strikes it off his stubble and lights his cigarette.)

“Ahhhh, breakfast”

(A rumble comes from Hawkes jacket, which had been disregarded onto a cheap dog-shit brown rug which was covering a worn-out oak floor.
He then staggers over to where it lay.
Hawke holds his cigarette in between his dry tattered lips, smoke almost blinding his vision.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, Grips his phone and answers.)

“What!”

(Not noticing who was on the other end, a female voice responded to him.)

“Charming, you grumpy prick, good morning to you too.
I’m down the precinct. I’ve been doing some research on that symbol, but can’t find anything on the Web.”

(Sinclair, sounding very confused, muttered under her breath.)

“God damn it”

(Hawke's eyes rolled back, head pounding from the extensive liver abuse.)

“Books, give me 10, ok? I’m on my way.”

(Hawke inhales a deep toke of his cigarette, he then releases it through his nose, and hangs up the call.
Hawke then stubs out the half-smoked cigarette on the palm of his hand, and conceals it into his trouser pocket for later.
He then makes his way over to his dresser, and proceeds to find the rest of his clothes.)

The Devil? …

What did Davis mean?...

I’ve never seen a man like that be so scared. Back when I was his partner, I was the good cop.

Davis had knuckles of steel, and wouldn’t be scared to bend a few rules to solve a case.
I remember him pasting a priest’s head in; due to a nonce ring led by the church, and people ask me why I’ve lost faith.
Then there’s the Hernandez case.
How can there be a God when you see a mother and daughter decapitated whilst the father watched; just before being shot point blank range with a 12 gauge. Couldn’t imagine that being the last thing I saw before I met my fate...
There are some cruel people in this world
We never got to the bottom of that.
The whole case went cold.
It still keeps me up at night…
Davis, you poor bastard, you were due to retire at the end of the month…