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Aliright, to everybody who read the previous entry for "Angel of Darkness", you should know: It was released without my permission when I went out to dinner and left the computer unattended. It's part of a short fan-fiction I wrote out of boredom...

So, here is the actual Angel Of Darkness...


Snow flitted lightly down on the heads of the men as they shivered miserably on the old wharf. A great frieighter, rusted and archaic, rocked and bobbed with the unsympathetic waves as the massive vessel creaked and groaned loudly in protest. It's shadow covered the huddled group, who all seemed to be gazing at the ship with a mixture of fear and awe.
"You said zhat ze merchandise ist aboard zis ting?" asked an elderly man in a incredulous voice. He examined the broken, shattered glass of the portholes with disgust. "Vhy ze hell vould zhey send a broken-down, piece of s**t like zis vith merchandise zhat valuable?" His eyes lingered for a moment on the faded red letters that spelled out the name of the ship, the D'argento Paletto.
"Christoph, shut yer damned mouth. You ain't got a gosh-darned clue why, and niether do the rest of us. But all I know is that these folks have never stiffed us before, and I don't expect them to start now." Barked a southern man with blonde hair at the German, who quailed visibly. The ends of his great handle bar moustache twitched, and he smiled. "Not like they ever would." He said smugly.
"Still, Mr. Engelvogt was a point." Came a quiet, british voice from behind a viel of black hair. A thin trial of smoke spiral around his head from the glowing tip of a cigarette protruding from his mouth. The man flicked his hair back and stared up at the ship like he was doing nothing more than watching a mildly interesting television show. His ebony skin reflected nothing more than boredom.
The man called Christoph Engelvogt tossed a dirty glance at the second man before adressing the black man. "Sank you, Mr, Kalrthson." He pushed his already slicked-back silver hair back over his head, a few offending strands of platinum and grey flicking upwards off of his aged face.
"You are most welcome, Sir Engelvogt." responded the british man. He smiled, and bright white teeth gleamed out of the darkness at him. He returned his attention to the ship, and frowned. "Mr. Rober?"
The southerne man growled low in his throat. "Yeah?" he asked gruffly, his grey eyes narrowed.
"Am I the only one who saw that shadow flash across deck?"
Instantly, three pairs of eyes darted to the deserted deck of the ship, lingering warily on the spider-webbed glass of the navigation room's windows and on the orange rails, dented and beaten by mother nature's cruel arms. The ship would have scared lesser men out of thier wits; ghost ships of legend were comparab;e with this hulking mostrosity. It looked very out of place next to the modern ships at dipped and rose in the waves that slapped the concrete shores of the dock and the wooden pylons that kept the pier afloat.
Mr. Rober was quiet as he scanned the deck with a critical eye. After a brief, tense moment, he slowly reached inside of his coat and withdrew a long-barreled revolver. He spun the chamber and cocked the deadly instrument before giving his colleagues a grim look.

"Yes. I did." he answered quietly.