Rainy Day In Paris

Chapter 1: An Eiffel Suicide

Rain. Thick, heavy blobs and globs of conspicuous matter gliding downward in a homologous pattern ever so gracefully, yet ever so atrociously; flocks of people, children and adults alike, flood the streets of a drab and dreary metropolis with said liquid born, or perhaps reborn, of the sky. This particular city isn't what you might think of when you hear the word "metropolis", being known for it's tremendous tower; Paris, France and it's gargantuan Eiffel Tower, dripping with the condensation from the humid storm, is by chance a very dreary place this particular evening.

    It's raining cats and dogs; soon, a man will fall from the sky alongside the many drops of water - everyone unique yet uniform as they descend. Brian Lambert, atop the aforementioned Eiffel tower, stands pondering what reasons he has to live, and possibly what reasons he has to perish. As his heels are nearing a foot from the edge, his voice angrily shouts in his head "I don't want this anymore!"; his light brown suede jacket flutters from the wind, all the while being pelted by heavy precipitation as a bright web of lightning reaches across the sky, cracking some of the loudest thunder he's ever heard. He looks up, his silver eyes drenched as he glares into the heavens, perhaps seeking guidance or feeling intense anguish toward the universe's Creator; he holds his arms up and out, letting the rainfall tickle his palms as he closes his eyes and softly smiles as if he were enjoying some wonderful dream.

    He stands there, on the East edge of the very top of the Eiffel Tower, listening. Listening to the rain hit his jacket; listening to the rain as it rattles the tower he stands on; listening to all the moments of his life, visualizing them all as a montage while he listens. He watches his life, flashing slowly before his eyes; he watches his best of times, laughing, as well as the worst moments of his life, with a cringe. Still listening, he notices the murmur of the citizens below; he awakes from his life's collage and looks down, watching the tops of umbrellas as they glide along the sidewalks below, smirking at one with a rotund "smiley" face. And of course, between two sidewalks lies a road; this one with scales like a lizard's, many old fashioned automobiles -- mixed with some modern types -- strolling along with tiny yet quickly recurring bounces.  All the while, the suicidal man atop the Eiffel Tower watches; no longer smiling at anything and staring down at the stony street, he feels he's ready to go.

    He adjusts his sight to focus on his feet, less than half of them dangling off the edge; he slides them around a bit, preparing to fall as he holds his arms out and toward the skies once more. A young man, some teenage American tourist visiting France on vacation with his parents, is the first one to point at Brian; his eyes closed as water rushes past him and his suede jacket waving like a cape as he soars downward to the street. Nearly everyone in the vicinity stops what they're doing - be it driving, walking, shopping, or talking - and watches Brian plummet to their level, probably somewhat scared from the haunting whispers of the rain and what is otherwise complete silence.

    Brian is less than ten feet from the ground, his momentum extreme. What was a chilling silence, excluding the seemingly muted rainfall racket, is interrupted with a couple of loud pops and cracks.  It wasn't thunder.

    He lies in the middle of the street, with two broken legs, a broken arm, and a damaged neck, limp as dead can be.  But why would he kill himself?

Chapter 2: Brian Lambert

"Yeeerrrrkkkk!" A suave, blood-red Ferrari screeches to a halt, avoiding a man ignorantly standing in the middle of a city street. His suede jacket's very straight everywhere except near his shoulders, where there are wrinkles from his arms being extended upward. His distinct, platinum eyes burst open with awareness as he notices the atmosphere surrounding him begin to cease its flustering. After the screech of burning rubber, honking ensues, surprising him.

"Darn it!", he murmurs, quickly continuing on to wave and apologize as he jogs out of the street to the sidewalk.

Once he's made it to a sidewalk, leaning on a row of newspaper machines, he looks around for a moment to realize where he's at. He recognizes his favorite downtown hotdog stand and runs toward it; he's good friends with the manager, who is often the one operating the stand - cooking and selling a few delicious varieties of hot dog, in addition to a couple other snacks and several beverages.

He creeps up on Dave, the manager, who's turning over a few freshly grilled hot dogs. Trying not to sound so depressed or serious, he says "Hey, Dave."

Dave hesitates with his tongs before he turns around to greet him by responding, "Hey, man! Long time no see! Hungry?"

"Sure! I'll take a... I'll have a... Jalapeno Cheese Dog, please."

Dave turns over a particularly succulent looking brat, carrying it to a bun and asking "Ketchup, mustard, relish, chili, anything else you'd like on this?"

"Hmm... How about just a little relish. Oh, and... I guess I'll have a beer", he replies, his voice thick with solemnity.

"You got it."  Dave saw in his eyes a clear and gleaming glass, half empty.  "Hey, Brian, are you alright dude?"

"Yeah, man. I'm alright." Brian grabs the napkin wrapped hotdog and an ice cold bottle of some decent beer, taking a bite of the dog then a sip of the drink.

"Well, okay then... How's your lovely gal Susie doin' these days?"

Brian swallows his food to contemplate aloud, "She's... good."

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An engine growling, the squealing screech of tires burning rubber as they struggle around a corner.  The glare of moonlight rolling off the shiny tire-frames, bouncing around in the air of the city; it passes along the same walls that echo screams of speed’s friction.

“A gun in the glovebox” Brian thinks to himself, his muscles stuttering with anxious fear as he grasps the wheel and gasps for breath.

He glances nervously between his road and his right, the motion more jagged than a broken bone; the sweat flung from his face soars in several directions.  His arm reaches with hopes of opening the glovebox and his hand spasmodically succeeds.

Dark lines in the weapon's sleekness attract his spastic pupils with their shiny shimmer.  For a brief breath, his skin stops skittering; his teeth aren't chattering and his chin isn't stuttering.  But his mind still races without pace.  For a brief breath his body stops jittering; contemplation quickly becomes reluctance.  So he inhaled somewhat sharply and shoved the chilled gun to his stiff skull.  His hand could not stop shuttering.  Neither would the gun cease wavering.

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Brian Lambert married Susan Merrot in the summer after they got out of college; she majored in French literature, while he studied just about everything else - although he found most fascination with architecture.

Chapter 3

Chapter Grand Finale