"Shit," he hissed fumbling around his apartment for his shoes. "Where the fuck are they?" he growled in frustration. He was on a tight schedule and had something he needed to do. Outside.

Shoes were useful for that.

He scrambled around for another five minutes looking for the stupid things.

"Aw, fuck it," he muttered. He'd go without. It'd be fine.

Must have left his shoes at Mrs. Johnson's house.

He had been with the 71 year old for most of the morning taking care of... things. And now he was so fucking late.

He grabbed all of his cans of spray paint and threw them in his bag and was out the door and down the street before the door even had time to shut.

He just didn't have time to wait.

He was already way behind schedule. It was supposed to be done by tomorrow.

Running down the sidewalk as fast as he could had him breathless... and it made it hurt al loot more when he ran into another person. His bag fell off his shoulder and the spray paint cans scattered, "Shit!" He scrambled to pick up the cans.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," the man he had run into apologized.

Yeah, you'd better be, he thought but decided to keep quiet.

The man handed him the rest of his paint cans and he took them from him with a glare, and hurried on his way.

"Have a nice night," the man said smugly, as if he knew something exciting was going to happen to him that night. He could just make out the cheerful whistling of some classical song before the man was out of earshot. Weirdo...

Finally made it to his destination. A beautiful brick wall that was all his for the painting. He sighed, content, and threw his bag down. Time to start the project.

He had it all planned out.

It was going to be a fantastic celestial scene with planets made up of swirling colors. Maybe a comet and some trippy spirals. It would be perfect for the amount of space he had. He started painting his base coat of black.

Polished off three cans just doing that.

Then he started on a planet. He sprayed a large layer of blue. Just a plain circle, and then sprayed a darker blue over top.

He pulled out his cloth and used it to create a swirling pattern on the two colors. He stepped back to look at the planet. It needed some shading to give it depth, but it didn't look too bad...

He heard sirens off in the distance and smirked. Some poor fuck was getting theirs because they were too dumb to cover their own ass. He always made sure nothing ever was able to be traced back to him.

He moved to where he was going to paint his second planet and started the process over. A blue circle, smaller than the first one he made. A different color on top. Swirl it with the cloth.

Jesus, the sirens were getting loud.

A bright light flashed over him and then he was plunged into the near darkness again.

Then the lights were back and a car was coming down the street he was painting in.

A cop car.

With its sirens screaming.

Followed by another car.

And another...

His eardrums felt like they might burst.

Were they having some kind of chase?

Had the person passed by, or something?

Did he miss something?

The cars had stopped, maybe they were gonna continue chasing the person on foot?

Whatever, it didn't matter. He kept on painting.

The cars surrounding suddenly went eerily quiet. All of a sudden all three drivers' side doors opened on the cars and armed police got out.

Their guns focused on him.

He stopped his painting. Eyes growing large as they focused on the three weapons aimed at him. They couldn't seriously be here for him, could they?

A booming authoritative voice shouted, "Drop the weapon!"

He looked at the only thing in his hand, the can of spray paint, with a slightly bemused expression on his face. A weapon? Hardly. More like an extension of his arm.

But still, if they thought it was a weapon, he'd play along, they had guns, after all. He let the spray paint fall to the ground.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," the same voice commanded.

He held up his hands so they could see he was unarmed and posed absolutely no threat.

The man who had been barking commands came walking toward him while his two buddies continued to point guns at him.

"Put your hands behind your back," the man growled.

And he complied. He didn't want to make the situation worse than it already wa. After all, this was just a big misunderstanding. It was an approved graffiti, mural, for a friend.

The man started roughly clasping his hands into a pair of cuffs.

"Patric Riot, you're under arrest," his heart hammered in his chest, nervous despite himself, "for the murder of Marjorie Johnson and four others."

"Well, fuck," he whined as they led him away.