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Gun-runner

Klingon Hamlet · 2010-01-07 18:13:57

The thing of shadow approached me, cloak rippling in the evening breeze. It was shaped like a man but its feet made terrible sounds clawing the earth. Its sword glinted in the evening light, swinging low and slow like a pendulum. For my own part, I imitated a sheriff well, with my star and hat and handgun. The townsfolk…

07-01-2010 6:13pm

#1

Klingon Hamlet

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Join Date: September 2008

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The thing of shadow approached me, cloak rippling in the evening breeze. It was shaped like a man but its feet made terrible sounds clawing the earth. Its sword glinted in the evening light, swinging low and slow like a pendulum.

For my own part, I imitated a sheriff well, with my star and hat and handgun. The townsfolk looked to me with a glimmer of hope, but when they turned to the man-shaped-horror, now a mere fifty feet away, their faces paled, their gazes fell, and my heart soon joined them in defeat.

It came to a stop close enough to see strange scars orbiting its lips. “You are Wren.”

“Yes.” My voice was far steadier than my gun-hand. “And you are-?”

Mirth twisted its lips and eyes. “You know what I am.”

“Death.”

“Damnation. Fate. Kill-monger. Many names have haunted my wake. Many souls have I taken. You, Gabriel, are special, and so I offer you a very special opportunity.”

Stories told of this thing that sucked lives from Earth’s face. It wore darkness like a suit and ate souls like meat. There were never “special opportunites.”

A normal person would seem to be choking, had they worn its particular expression: teeth bared in horrifying amusement, eyes widened. “You hesitate. Allow me to explain.”

It reached for its sword. I grabbed my gun but it slipped between my fingers and clattered to the ground. The corpse-man laughed like a thousand-year smoker and kicked the gun so that it landed between my feet. “You need no gun. Bullets?” It tilted its head, inspecting me. “Do you think you need bullets?” That laugh came again, coming from far away. Then it lay its sword down upon the ground between us, waved its hands and hissed, “Voila, Sheriff.” The second word spat out, the chuckle once more. “Sheriff, if that’s what you call yourself. If that’s what you tell them.”

It swung a claw towards people now cowering and peering through hands or from behind closed doors. Taking three steps back, it bowed and said, “I give you the chance to slay me. This sword can pierce even undead souls. Do your best, or worst, or mediocre, of which I most anticipate. Do it, and die, less cowardly then destiny would predict.”

It bowed, one hand held out to the horizon. Its scalp was exposed, the white bone a bulls-eye.

"Special opportunity”? Damn straight. I ran like hell.

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