A "ShadowSlicer4596" StoryMany of you know about World War II, Hitler, and the Axis of Evil, but not many know about what went on behind the scenes.
The flashbacks were pounding out of his of his memory harder and even harder still no matter how fiercely he tried to keep them down. He had to get away from Philly and get in touch with nature.
The drive from Philadelphia to Oregon was murder. Mitchell had purchased a 1944 Chevrolet last summer with his war money, but it had stayed in storage. Mitch didn’t like the noise. In fact, he didn’t like any noise at all, the beeping of horns, the rush of people, and the shouting of vendors. He preferred to live quietly and work silently.
The only reason Mitch lived in Philadelphia was his dad lived there. Mitch’s dad was a World War I Private at the age of twenty. Joseph advanced through the ranks until he became the commissioned rank of Major in the Marine Corp after ten years of service. In that very same year, he retired to Philly where he met Catharine. They got “hitched” and Catharine became pregnant. Joseph and his wife lived happily in their suburban home. Just a month before Mitchell had his eighteenth birthday, Catharine had caught Diphtheria. It slowly weakened her immune system and she passed on. Joseph sent Mitch to enlist in the army, as he knew he would eventually.
Mitch was halfway to the house he had been given by a close relative in Oregon.
Mitch was sent to the army in 1928 near San Francisco when he was eighteen. He had exceeded all expectations of a city boy born and raised in Philly. He was faster, stronger, had more stamina, and most importantly was stealthier. The drill sergeant immediately saw Mitch’s potential. He was asked to train as a Black Op for the rest of his career as a military officer. Mitch embraced this with a smile. He knew he was special. It was in his genes. His fathers’ genes.
Mitch let a car pass him on the road. He was going to turn anyway. There was a small outpost on the side of the road. The shadows of the mountains overtook the sun and the desert sand was tinted blue. Mitch did not like to drive at night. It reminded him of the time…..
No! No more memories! shrieked Mitch from the depths of his mind. He felt like he was going to retch as he rapidly clambered out of his fire red Chevy. He popped open the trunk and dragged out the three suitcases he brought for his journey. He had brought four plaid shirts, a set of church clothes, four pairs of pants, socks, a pair of old boots, and a hat from his clothes in Ohio. This did not count the plaid shirt, suspenders, denim pants and hat he was wearing. Mitch also had various items: photographs, fishing gear, blankets, and tools.
When Mitch got inside, he was greeted warmly by a clerk who helped him sort out his affairs. Before he knew it, he was in a warm bed dead asleep.
He dreamed of his twelve years of intense training, the same dream he had every night. Mitch was taught not to feel pain. Yet when his father passed away in 1945 a part of him died inside. He was trained to leave no trace or witnesses. He was sent to a small North African village in 1942 when the Axis of Evil’s empire was at its peak. Mitch was sent with eight other Black Ops to complete a major reconnaissance mission. The Central Intelligence Agency had information that North Africa was receiving large shipments of weaponry and supplying other Axis countries on the southern coast of Europe. Their main base of operation was supposedly located in a small village on the North African coast. The plane dropped then dropped them nearby, and they were on their own.
They quickly established their bearings and set up a temporary encampment. They set up on a terrace of a cliff and planned their next move. It was a perfect place because it was impossible to be shot at from above and not even the keenest eyes could spot them from below. They started to lay out maps with red lines so narrow you would need to magnify them to see. Suddenly, three arrows from a nearby hill cut through the air and hit their targets with a sickening noise. The remaining men jumped off the edge and landed in water below. Mitch would have had to jump if he wasn’t busy being knocked out by a large rock.
At that exact moment, Mitch woke up from his dream with a start. He could almost practically taste the blood.
Mitch left the motel and loaded his car. He slammed the door and set out against the blissful sunrise. As he drove the last thirty miles of his trip, he painfully remembered the last part of his dream.
Mitch woke up from his head injury hung from a bar like a piece of meat inside of a barn. It was dark now, so he must have been out for several hours. A dark man in the corner observed him smiling. He was wearing all tan as he stood up and went over to a table with many implements of torture. Mitch had to apply his technique of resisting pain before it actually happened.
Mitch arrived in Oregon in the early morning. Brilliantly colored leaves fell from dark trees as he pulled into his driveway. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Mitch immediately put down his bags and got out his fishing gear. He needed to get his mind off war or he would kill himself. He walked to the pond located near his house. His dad taught him how to fish when he was small, and Mitch needed breakfast.
There were many people fishing nearby, but Mitch avoided them. He baited his hook and dropped it in the water.
The dark man took a pair of scissor and cut open Mitch’s flesh in several places. He didn’t feel a thing, but he was loosing blood fast. He had to act quickly. The dark man pulled out a pair of jumper cables. Mitch would be fried. He quickly put both feet on the man’s head and twisted hard. The man’s neck snapped. He was dead. Mitch grabbed a knife out of his sack and freed himself. This town was entirely made of sticks. He knew what he must do. He constructed a fire bomb with whiskey and threw it at a group of houses. It exploded as the flaming residents evacuated, only to be killed by the flames. Six died.
Mitchell Bradshaw stared into the depths of the pond. The brisk morning air invaded by fog, smelled of autumn and it was a perfect Sunday for fishing. He stared into the murky waters. This is now my home thought Mitch. This is the only place he could even attempt to relax. The soothing mist, the sound of wildlife vibrating everywhere, the smell of hay, and most importantly Mitch’s reflection. It reminded him he wasn’t some twisted, gory, appalling monster. At least not on the outside…
