There Was No Murder On Fifth Avenue

The towering blocks make the street seem like a canyon. He smirked as he was driven in the black monster vehicle up the street he knew so well, where he had shuffled property like cards. He owned this town, even if they did not respect him.

“Stop!” He exclaimed and the driver drew to a halt, along with the secret service entourage. He opened the car door and took the blade from his pocket, striding out onto the sidewalk.

He saw the guy in the cheap suit and thought, ‘he will do’.

He strode over in front of him and saw the confused look on his face as he stopped him in his tracks. Then he thrusted. Again, again, again.

The limp body tried to wipe its disgusting blood and spittle on him, so he stood back and admired his handywork, wiping the few splats of blood from his expensive attire.

The body lay groaning and bleeding on Fifth Avenue. He vaguely heard some screams, and his secret service entourage talking into their comms devices.

He leant down and wiped the knife on the suit jacket of his victim and smiled to himself. Job done.

Then he returned to his limo as the secret serviceman closed the door.

“OK, we can get to Bedminster now, I have a round to get in.”

He picked up his private phone and tweeted. “Fake news will accuse me of anything, including any death that happens on Fifth Avenue, including murders by the Deep State! FAKE NEWS!!! “

In Sunnyside, Queens, Emma Blake  arranged the flowers before picking up their baby and breast feeding him on the sofa with a wide smile on her face. Her husband would soon be home with a takeaway and they could open that Chablis they had been saving. Life was good.