Wine and Gun

"He didn't kill them for justice - he killed them for his own twisted pleasure. So don't think that the pianist is safe for you as long as you don't have any previous convictions, and he will kill if he needs to. anyone."

Of course he couldn't be a vigilante - obviously, no vigilante would cut open a person's guts and smash his bones, no vigilante would cut a person into pieces and pile them up and put his head on it. Put it on the pile of corpses, and put a crown on the wet head of the corpse: the first time I heard of the Westland pianist, I saw the scene photo of the case, of course, the mosaic version, but That doesn't hide the shocking nature of things.

God, think about it, how can there be such a person in the world.

Obviously I'll never be able to take this with equanimity, but perhaps to the natives of Westland, it's all a bit of a commonplace, after all, Westland pianists have been killing their turf for almost ten years .

I really don't know how these citizens can stay in this city in this situation, in any case, I will give Langdon to Mr. Smith tomorrow, and then I can leave Westland.

October 17, 2016

Mr. Smith even seemed a little surprised when he heard that I had caught Langdon so quickly.

Still, he didn't say much more, but let me take Langdon to a tiny, uninhabited apartment on the edge of lower town, with little furniture, and told me that as long as I can lock him in the apartment and leave.

"Please put the key under the doormat," Mr. Smith said calmly over the phone. "I'll see him later, and I can't risk letting him leave the room again before the court session."

I'm used to meeting people face to face, so I'm always a little overwhelmed, I said, "But—"

"You've done a great job, Mr. Todd. That's it, I'll put the money into your account once Langdon's condition is determined." There is too much entanglement in this matter, "Without you, I absolutely cannot guarantee that he will appear on the court on time."

And Langdon, making a fuss, rǔ calling me the filthiest word he could think of; I've long wanted to get out of this trouble, no matter what, than I'd foolishly stay here and wait for Mr. Smith to come and see me. it is good. Listening to Smith's icy tone, a domineering image appeared in front of me. To be honest, I'm not sure I really want to fight him face to face.

So I did.

Anyway, that's all there is to it. I locked Langdon in that room, ignoring the sound of him smashing furniture inside, and put the key under the footrest.

Then, I quickly drove up the road, and the in-car music gave me a quick break, and I don't think I'll be coming back to the city or seeing Bob Langdon any time soon.

October 18, 2016

Shit, Mr. Smith is a Westland pianist.

- I stared at it for half an hour after writing this line, and thought I was crazy, or that Westland itself was carrying a contagious madness when I set foot on its soil It was inevitably infected by it and became one of those lunatics.

Well, well, I'll have to document it anyway... Here's the thing:

Today is a good day, as it should be. Once again my work is over and I can finally sit at the dinner table and bake myself with a good man, no one misses the gas station fast food; and even better, Mr. Smith gave me last night I paid my salary, 22,500 US dollars. According to the normal calculation, it will be credited tomorrow.

Maybe my mistake was that I shouldn't have turned on the TV, but no one would have thought - anyway, I turned it on.

The morning news was playing on the TV, and I didn't notice it when I started listening to it. It said that the Westland pianist had committed the crime again, and he sent the letter to WLPD last night, and then the police were guided by the letter to find a body. I drank my coffee with my head down, then spilled all of it on the front of my damn shirt when I looked up.

Even through the mosaic on the screen, I could recognize the dead man as Bob Langdon - I saw his picture so many times while I was chasing him, I can remember it with my eyes closed Face, I will never admit it wrong.

And Bob Langdon, apparently hanging from the wall by the piano strings, was gutted by a sharp knife, stabbed in the chest with a knife, and blood pooled in a river under his feet. It was on TV that he had his heart taken out by the pianist - taken out with his bare hands, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I suddenly felt a little nauseous at my toast.

Then I realized that if the deceased was Bob Langdon...

"You're doing things that I can't do and have no time to do."

The professional agent I had never seen and had no intention of coming to see me, Langdon died the night I put him in his hands - my mind was in a mess, I didn't know what to do, I should Call WLPD and I should tell Hunt about this, that old maniac living in Westland may have more experience with this kind of thing than I am, or I should drink a lot, a lot, and thoroughly Forget about it and never go to Westland again in this life.

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