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The first page or so of one of the later chapters of The River Ain't Deep. I've had this buzzing in my head for the last few days and finally decided to get it down on paper, though I really doubt you'll be able to get much out of it without the first eight or nine chapter. Which, uh, are still being worked on.
Anyways, the rest'll come shortly, but for now, chapter 10(?) of TRAD, hesitantly titled Bullets Hurt (Even the Dead).
A slick trail of blood slid down his throat. The blade had missed it’s mark by only a hair, any closer and the demon himself would be the one dead.
Regardless of his luck, Cerno still towered over him, the shattered sword cast aside for his pistol. The barrel was pressed hard against Alrada’s forehead, it’s shine distorted by his black blood. The world around them was shattering, without Alrada’s forced influence naught but the two of them and Michael’s damaged form could stand to exist. Without his might, all was subdued by the loneliness of form.
And so, as a hundred thousand specks of snow drifted off into space, a single man held the God of Damnation at his mercy. Little mercy was left in his tenacious trigger finger, though.
Eyes still vacuous and grin as adroit as always, the demon sat awaiting his absolution with no hesitation. “No hard feelings, right? Trust me, it’s fine, Cerno. I ****ed with you, it’s only fair you **** me up a bit too.” He tapped his temple with a long, taloned digit and smiled. “Right here, I prefer. People tell me that’s the best spot. Maybe in the mouth, I suppose.”
“I’m not gonna let you tell me how to shoot you.” Cerno muttered, licking the blood from his lips. His hemophilia would prevent the blood from clotting for another few hours. Coupled with the blood lost, it wouldn’t be long before he lost consciousness. Not even the risk his own death would stop him from gloating over Alrada’s, though. The euphoria alone would be worth an eternity in hell. “So, you ready for this?”
Cocking his head, the demon’s severed stump of a tail swayed back and forth as he asked, “Ready as any of the poor bastards I killed. Think they’ll feel this down in the pit?”
“If there’s any God out there, somewhere, they’ll be able to piss on your corpse.”
Alrada chuckled and shifted his legs around. “You always were a funny one. Except when you cried. I have to admit, even I didn’t take much pleasure from that. Seeing a grown man like you cry over a little girl, that was just stupid of you.”
“Out of character?”
“I’ve watched you since you were a kid, and that was the only time you ever shed a tear. Seems kinda odd to me, doesn’t it?”
Cerno shook his head slowly and shot Alrada twice in the head. The bullets pierced the skin and bone of the forehead and struck the hippocampus, which regenerated almost immediately. Again and again he fired, his gun blazing with his fury and his blood mixing with the sweat running down his forehead. “You should know I’m not that predictable by now.”
Pain surged through his body. This wasn’t expected. Before, a constant stream of morphine in his blood had kept him lucid and composed in the face of maddening agony. Now, something had changed. As the bullets were forced out of his body by supernatural means, Alrada wailed in anguish. “What the hell did you do to me?” He screamed, the scattered blood about him beginning to boil.
“Silver bullets.” Cerno replied, sliding a fresh clip into his gun. “Michael killed Omega with a silver stake to the forehead. I guess the modification left you freaks with an allergy, huh?” Another bullet exploded from the chamber and into Alrada’s bare head. Again, the nerves of the brain stiched themselves together again and the shell clattered to the ground. “I bet it hurts. I hope it hurts.”
And it did hurt. Alrada, for the first time in centuries, was faced with a sudden surge of encumbering mortality. To roll on the ground in his own blood as his world, sewn from his warped imagination was torn apart was the most humbling thing to happen since his birth at the hands of a man less than him. His eyes bulged as the reality of his own death fell upon him.
Anyways, the rest'll come shortly, but for now, chapter 10(?) of TRAD, hesitantly titled Bullets Hurt (Even the Dead).
A slick trail of blood slid down his throat. The blade had missed it’s mark by only a hair, any closer and the demon himself would be the one dead.
Regardless of his luck, Cerno still towered over him, the shattered sword cast aside for his pistol. The barrel was pressed hard against Alrada’s forehead, it’s shine distorted by his black blood. The world around them was shattering, without Alrada’s forced influence naught but the two of them and Michael’s damaged form could stand to exist. Without his might, all was subdued by the loneliness of form.
And so, as a hundred thousand specks of snow drifted off into space, a single man held the God of Damnation at his mercy. Little mercy was left in his tenacious trigger finger, though.
Eyes still vacuous and grin as adroit as always, the demon sat awaiting his absolution with no hesitation. “No hard feelings, right? Trust me, it’s fine, Cerno. I ****ed with you, it’s only fair you **** me up a bit too.” He tapped his temple with a long, taloned digit and smiled. “Right here, I prefer. People tell me that’s the best spot. Maybe in the mouth, I suppose.”
“I’m not gonna let you tell me how to shoot you.” Cerno muttered, licking the blood from his lips. His hemophilia would prevent the blood from clotting for another few hours. Coupled with the blood lost, it wouldn’t be long before he lost consciousness. Not even the risk his own death would stop him from gloating over Alrada’s, though. The euphoria alone would be worth an eternity in hell. “So, you ready for this?”
Cocking his head, the demon’s severed stump of a tail swayed back and forth as he asked, “Ready as any of the poor bastards I killed. Think they’ll feel this down in the pit?”
“If there’s any God out there, somewhere, they’ll be able to piss on your corpse.”
Alrada chuckled and shifted his legs around. “You always were a funny one. Except when you cried. I have to admit, even I didn’t take much pleasure from that. Seeing a grown man like you cry over a little girl, that was just stupid of you.”
“Out of character?”
“I’ve watched you since you were a kid, and that was the only time you ever shed a tear. Seems kinda odd to me, doesn’t it?”
Cerno shook his head slowly and shot Alrada twice in the head. The bullets pierced the skin and bone of the forehead and struck the hippocampus, which regenerated almost immediately. Again and again he fired, his gun blazing with his fury and his blood mixing with the sweat running down his forehead. “You should know I’m not that predictable by now.”
Pain surged through his body. This wasn’t expected. Before, a constant stream of morphine in his blood had kept him lucid and composed in the face of maddening agony. Now, something had changed. As the bullets were forced out of his body by supernatural means, Alrada wailed in anguish. “What the hell did you do to me?” He screamed, the scattered blood about him beginning to boil.
“Silver bullets.” Cerno replied, sliding a fresh clip into his gun. “Michael killed Omega with a silver stake to the forehead. I guess the modification left you freaks with an allergy, huh?” Another bullet exploded from the chamber and into Alrada’s bare head. Again, the nerves of the brain stiched themselves together again and the shell clattered to the ground. “I bet it hurts. I hope it hurts.”
And it did hurt. Alrada, for the first time in centuries, was faced with a sudden surge of encumbering mortality. To roll on the ground in his own blood as his world, sewn from his warped imagination was torn apart was the most humbling thing to happen since his birth at the hands of a man less than him. His eyes bulged as the reality of his own death fell upon him.