It’s not kick you in the face spicy, but more a flaming crisp of fate. Not even the bitterness of reality can protect you from the flares of wrath. Revenge is a delicate thing, a prowess only to be overcome with hate, selfishness, and disgust. A lesson that would befall the less fortunate. A man stood at the creaking door, not a door of oak nor ebony, but a door of opportunity. The sloshing of footsteps was only drowned out by the storm above, a relentless downpour that sought to deliver powerful gashes to the ceiling overhead. As lightning cracked and the winds wailed, he continued his march. Every footstep he made was like the swing of a pendulum, with every sway of his boot but a motion of determination. Thomas Crook would get his Revenge, he would get his wrath, and he would fall victim to his anger. As lightning crackled and shattered the sky with its powerful blows, a soaked black figure stood in the lightless kitchen, only visible by the frequent omnipresent streaks of light the storm above conjured.

The kitchen was old, Victorian style, fixed with semi modern appliances and electricity. A few pans hung from the ceiling, one layed on the gas stove, and another sat quaint alone on the hardwood countertop. The cabinets were painted a ghostly gray, chipped from years of overuse and wear. The house was passed down by generations. one could tell the infrequent patchwork throughout the hauntingly old building. Thomas reached out with a ghastly hand, a hand of desperation, and harnessed an object set on the stone island in the center of the kitchen. The object glistened and flashed with every crack of lightning, harnessing its power of the night sky with the devastation of destruction. Quickly, the object was fastened inside his coat with haste, although a keen mind could guess that object wouldn’t be there for long.

As he perused the manor Thomas’ rage boiled, he passed the parlor room with haste, heading up the staggering staircase with a prance of despair. The thumping of his shoes and slushing of his soaked attire still had ill-effect compared to the destructive natural force outside. With a brisk swivel, the man turned to a door, or better yet the door. The door of opportunity. Thomas knew he would be alone, helpless, without an audience. The perfect time to excite his revenge. As Thomas creaked the door open with a grimm hand, he drew the object of wrath with an even sinister hand. At the butt of his palm to his pruned fingertips was a device of death, a tool of evil and envy only held in such fashion by the utmost desperate. Thomas gripped the knife with an alarmingly strong stance and raised it far above his victim, The other man, waking from the metallic unsheathing of the deadly device. How ironic thought Thomas that the tool the man used to prepare hsi such luxurious meals would be his untimely doing. The man sat in his bed stunned. He questioned why Thomas Crook would do such a deed.

Peter Gray was a conventional business man. His attire consisted solely of ironed out gray pants and a casual business suit. He was fairly wealthy and was granted a small fortune by the passing of his grandfather. Becoming the head advisor of accountant research, it was his job to oversee the hiring and disposing of employees. It was a slow year at the office, and he was surely in a tough spot. October 10th, Peter’s back was against the wall. His livelihood rested in gambling a failing department, or cutting ties with accounting, moving down to a much safer position. Peter made the choice of himself, a selfish move of self preservation. Why wouldn’t he? Only a fool goes down with their ship.

Thomas stood above the man of sorrow, knife raised like a dagger of fate ready to exact Thomas’ revenge. The man had ruined Thomas’ reputation, his livelihood, his employment and passion. The company was everything to Thomas, and without it he was a shell of a man. No, not even a man, a creature of despair. With nothing left to lose there was nothing holding him back. As Thomas cloak graced to the side like a snap of lightning the knife raced to the man at the speed of light. A howl grasped at the moon in realization. Fear stricken was the sky, and crimson blood was the earth.

Thomas Crook was found dead in his apartment October 11, 1995. Autopsy reports showed no signs of dispute, as he had merely died a heart attack that night. Thomas’ former employer Peter Gray told officials he believed it to be due to stress. Apparently he stated Thomas was let go from the company the day before, of which since his whereabouts were unclear. Police suspect his death was caused due to shock, and rampant heart movement, presumably resulting due to his termination. Peter Gray stated in his interview that his only hope is that Thomas found peace and acceptance in his last moments. To this day Peter continues to hear the stomping of footsteps every night, and although he states it may be crazy, sees a familiar face in the reflection of his kitchen knife.