Vyncent and Viola

He was somewhat of a pleasure to look at; tall, with a rather commanding figure. The broad shoulders and rippling muscles often attributed to male characters of stature, belonged to him also. His dark hair was short - as was the socially agreeable appearance of the times - and neatly combed away from his face. He answered to the name of Vyncent Sharp, and was at the moment indisposed with a dog-eared book and furrowed brow.

The year was 1920. It was summertime in the streets of Brooklyn. From within the city’s bosom came sudden gunfire, and with each blistering clap of discharged bullets was the quick emptying of neighborhood drugstores and delicatessens. Sharp rubbed his forehead, and in a jaded act of caution, strode towards the single window of his apartment. Smog caressed the lean, gaunt aperture rising above the weather-beaten metropolis.

“There will be a loud clamor as policemen and witnesses rush the scene, and an equally loud scuffle as the bystanders then rush to their homes.” He spoke as if the words were rehearsed, and his cavernous voice seemed to linger in every dark recess. “Every man who witnesses and flees, shall be left to wrestle his own conscience. For what civic or moral duty should demand the life of its benefactor?” He chuckled as his eyes melted, like pools of black ink, into a twisted rage.

And so it was. This being the general consensus of those claiming residence in the great and tumultuous city of Brooklyn, the deceased were quietly buried, and their assailants forgotten.

Twilight was fast approaching, and Vyncent drew near the iron stove. The flames within the smoldering appliance were like a pit of coiled snakes, popping their jaws before striking with fiery vengeance. Sharp glanced at the monstrous grandfather clock whose deep, melodious chimes had begun to echo in the otherwise barren room. Suddenly, without warning, the broad-shouldered gent was launched into the smog-laden skies. He found himself conscious for a brief moment - long enough to glimpse the ruins of his apartment. It seemed like hours before Sharp was thrown mercilessly against a solid green trash bin. Debris showered his limp frame, and he writhed involuntarily under the weight of broken boards and shattered glass.

“Oh geez, Buddy, you don’t look so good...” The victim’s dark lashes blinked furtively as he awoke to a female companion whose lips were reproachfully close to his own.

“You would be?”

“Viola. What happened to you?”

“I fell.”

“I think you did more than just fall down, you poor man,” she winced as her newfound patient struggled to stand.

“Off a building.”

“Oh,” the redhead said simply, her pupils widening.

Sharp put a blistered hand to the back of his head, where a sticky maroon substance veiled it rather uncomfortably. His grizzled appearance held quite an impressionable contrast to that of his female companion.

Viola - as she had now come to be known - was an incorrigible flirt, though she needn’t have relied on that beguiling craft to entice her admirers. Her banter and wit were infectious, and coupled with a crafty smile - irresistible to mere mortals. Her features were soft and feminine, with eyebrows that arched slightly upwards and dark red tresses that caressed her shoulders. A thread of silver with one solitary gemstone was clasped round her neck, sitting just above a delicately etched collarbone.

“Listen Vi...a word of advice? Keep your distance.” Sharp growled.

Viola outstretched her hand and ran her fingertips gingerly across the gentleman’s biceps. “I think not,” her mouth curved mischievously as the warning was ignored.

The deliciously dangerous banter was quickly forgotten, however, as another figure slipped into the smoggy distance. Footsteps echoed through the alley as the lanky shadow of a man drew near.

“McBride!” Vyncent’s black eyes darted furtively, quickly alighting upon the iron steps of a fire escape. He dashed towards the stair and began the unforgiving trek up the brick landscape. Once landing upon the roof, the dark-haired gent found himself ill at ease. Without warning, a head popped into view from the top of fire escape. Sharp groaned as he caught sight of the redheaded antagonist.

“You pretentious little fool!” Vyncent hissed as his female companion pulled herself to the roof.

Viola blinked. “You need me.”

Sharp took a moment to collect himself, then sauntered in a most unnerving manner towards his target. Their two shadows collided. Vyncent moved his lips to hers, then whispered in her ear, “go home.”

“No,” was the immediate response.

Vyncent thrust his charming sidekick to the ground. “That fellow...McBride? He’s a bounty hunter. He will kill you, just as he wants to kill me. I witnessed the Great Bank Robbery of 1919 - the very robbery at which his vandal brother spilled the blood of three unarmed tellers. McBride blames me for his brother’s untimely death in the prison yards.”

At that very moment the unmistakable, slim silhouette of Biff McBride appeared alongside the rooftop ridge. There was an inscrutable laugh, deeper than would seem appropriate for one of such gangly stature, as the so-called bounty hunter surveyed his prey.

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Vyncent,” he licked his lips in anticipation.

A shot rang out. McBride fell dead, his bony fingers still entwined round the trigger of his weapon. Vyncent blinked, his dark eyes shifting from the crumpled form to his female companion, whose slender figure was poised with a gun in her hand.

“See? You need me.” Viola brushed the dust off of her pant legs as she stood.

“Give me that!” Vyncent grabbed the pistol from the red-headed vixen.

Viola shrugged her shoulders. “Tsk tsk. You should learn the virtuosity of trust, Vyncent.”

“Why? Do you trust me?” Sharp leaned forward, studying the red-lipped marksman in a most unnerving manner.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Viola’s mouth, and she sauntered towards the broad-shouldered gent with confident stride. With no thought towards the ordinary customs of the time, she ran her fingers across his grizzled jaw and brought her lips to his. Their bodies entwined in an illicit embrace.

In a sudden twist of fate, Vyncent drew back and pulled the gun on Viola. “See? I don’t need you.”

“But...but why?” Viola shook in consternation.

“Congratulations, my Dear. You have rid the world of officer Biff McBride, and aided in the continued escape of one Vyncent Sharp, a convicted felon in the Robbery of 1919.”

Viola gasped. “No, Vyncent! No!

Sharp pulled the trigger.