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  • Bad Night At Black Rock...

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        Wednesday, June 25, 2008

    Bad Night At Black Rock...

    He stood outside the bar, and the neon sign above him sputtered, and several letters had died. To him, it looked like the sign said 'Blac ock'. He smiled, pulled his .45 Colt Peacemaker, pulled the big hammer back to half-cock, and rolled the cylinder down his leather-clad arm, making sure each chamber was filled with either terrible injury, or violent death.

    He punched bullets out of his gunbelt with his left thumb, and dropped them into the left pocket of his duster, reholstered, and stepped into the bar...

    His first thought was 'den of iniquity'. He hadn't reconned...he liked surprises. Faces turned towards him, and some laughed outright. You couldn't frighten these people, and he liked that just fine. He'd already placed small C4 charges under the gas tanks of every third motorcycle backed up to the curb outside. He knew the kind of people he was dealing with...

    And deal with them he would. That was what he had been paid for. For over a thousand years, since before his people had accepted Jesus as their personal Saviour, and quit raiding the monasteries along the coast of Briton.

    The people inside the room saw a big man, in a black leather duster, that practically swept the floor, wearing a black leather hat...a big fan of Clint, he had had it custom made...a black cavalry shirt, and black jeans and boots. His face in shadow. Being dangerous individuals, all, they mocked him, and he sucked it up like sweet nectar.

    He needed no photo to spot his target, and it didn't matter, because nobody but him was going to make it out alive...

    He spotted the man. A child rapist. many times over, who had only ever made one mistake...he let the father of his latest victim live, after raping his 7 year old daughter in front of him. And that father had somehow managed to find The Killer. And make a bargain.

    And his target was right over there, sitting against the wall, surrounded by 'friends', in a semi-circular booth, and the man drew the Peacemaker and made his peace with the first two people sitting at the end of the booth, then fanned his pistol empty into his primary target, right in the face, as requested. The 'man' jerked and spasmed as the slugs tore his face and skull and brain away, and his spirit left him, and spiraled down into Hell.

    He holstered, and cross-drew twin .45 automatics from shoulder holsters, and began to do what he did best...kill. He could tuck a scalding hot pistol under the leather armpit of his duster as he dropped mags, and reloaded. A lot of folks took bullets in the back, as they were scrambling for exits. If they stood to fight, he cut them down as if with a scythe.

    His pistols run dry, he unsnapped his Benelli auto shotgun from under his right armpit, swung it up, and was reminded of old times, when daguerreotype photographers would light trays of their chemicals to capture a moment...he was capturing final moments. Their last on this earth.

    Then he unsnapped his Uzi from under the other arm, and went around the room putting three round bursts into anything that still twitched. As he finished his circuit of the bar, he heard a noise from behind the bar. He sniffed, and smelled piss. "Stand up..." he said.

    He heard scuttling, and in two strides he was at the end of the bar, and the bartender, on his hands and knees, was crawling around, as if he thought he could escape. The Killer drew his machete from behind his neck, the scabbard down his back, and the bartender cringed and put his face in his hands, and said "Dear God...please! Have mercy!"

    As he arranged the machete in his hand for the proper stroke, and picked which of the cervical vertebrae to cut between, the Killer said "God's busy right now...and you're fucked..." and then chopped downwards, with one clean slice.

    Before the pool of blood spread too quickly, and fucked up his boots, his gloved hand reached down and picked up the head by its ponytail, and set it up on the bar. For a brief moment of whimsy, he thought about erasing the white-board that advertised drink specials and writing, 'No Shoes, No Shirt, No Head...No Service...'
    Instead, he pulled a little box out of his right shirt pocket, flipped up a cover on the front, hit the toggle switch. and left out the back as the motorcycles in the front went off in a Daisy Chain of fire and steel.

    He went out and got into his van, and left.