Asiago was walking down the windy streets of Manhattan when suddenly he heard strange noise coming from a nearby alleyway. The alley was a mess when he got there, trash scattered on the ground, the gray cement walls splattered with crimson on them, and strangely the dumpster looked like it had a dent on the side of it. He lifted the lid off the dumpster and from it a ghastly scent vented to his nostrils. A dead body was inside, a dead, dismembered, disembowled body. He started wondering what kind of a sick person does this and quickly turned around and walked away. Sheesh, as if he didn't have enough problems on his mind. It was a funny day for him.
All day he had been receiving calls in his office, strange calls that made him more nervous as the phone continuously rang. Some calls he heard a rasping sound like rubbing the sharp ends of knives together, and some other calls he heard naught. Somebody sent him a letter, the contents of which were intelligible by his standards. The words were written with red ink and had a faint scent of ammonia. Before he left he thought he heard the vague sound of footsteps as he reached for the exit, and for the briefest of moments, he swore he saw a pair of eyes gleam in the dark.
He reached his apartment building and it appeared that the power was out; the elevator didn't wasn't answering, and all the lights were off. So now he had to walk up three stories worth of stairs in the glooming dark with the vague instinctual hunch that something was following him.
A cardio session later, he put his apartment keys in the lock and gave himself a short respite before he had to put up with his wife. She was a wonderful woman, and he had loved her sometimes, but now she's just another person in his life with whom he must share his burdens. He turned the key counter-clockwise and called out to his wife. No response, called out again, and only silence made its unwanted reply. No candles were lit. Nothing was on. She was probably off on another gathering with her socialite friends that he had less of a pleasure meeting.
His demeanor tonight would've been lackadaisical if he hadn't the image of a dead body burned to his vision. "Called the cops, that's what I should've done." But he didn't because some human impulse told him not to, but instead to look the other way. Was he feeling guilt? Of course not, he didn't know the dead body and it didn't look like he had much to do about it. He turned on a large lantern that he kept for these emergencies so that he could see at least. When he did he lied down on his couch and let his body relax from exhaustion.
He woke up in the middle of the night, his wife was yet to come home and it was well after midnight. The power was back on so he served himself some leftover Chinese and turned on the telly. All the channels were out which was to be expected; his luck was famous for being fruitful. After washing the dishes he walked to his room and found it in a feathery mess.
The mattress was torn into shreds, the pillows were blown up into an explosion of cushions and feathers, the books were ripped and chopped into pieces all around. "What the hell!?" he exclaimed. There was writing on the wall, the same writing he saw in the letter with the same stench.
He ran down to the landlord's door and found it kicked in. Inside there was a mess not unlike in his room. His landlord was a hoarder, but his hoard was caught by a tornado and left in a cluttered mess. The lights went out again and he felt the door slam shut behind him. He tried to move but fear shook him in his dimensions, the clutter stopped him in his tracks.
Shadows were moving all around him, he felt. And when the power went back on, he saw them. They were black clad in threads, he could only see their beady eyes. "Asiago Pi, we cast down judgment upon you," one of the ninjas said.
"For betraying the clan," his deep voice echoed in the room.
"Where's my wife?"
"In the dumpster."
He let out a yell that was cut off by the swipe of a sword that the ninja let out from his sleeve. He took out his hood and revealed to be George Takei, and then he spat on his victim.