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Guest
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Yes you are reading correctly. True Raven has written a fic NOT haveing anything to do with The Plan of a Master. This is a fic I have been working on for some time now. This is also not a kiddie fic whatsoever. I will be posting this to the Illuminati Message board as soon as it decides to let me access it. I think I still kept my promise for everyone who remembers it. A brand new fic for my Easter Gift to everyone at NMA. Enjoy and let me know what you think!
*****
The Enclave Assassin
By True Raven
Hiding in the darkness was never very difficult for Larson Max; he seemed to have the knack for the little things in his trade. Standing roughly 5’10 and weighing in at about 147lbs of silent flesh and bone, Max was by far one of the smallest men in the Enclave, but also one of the most deadly. The men who had the balls to challenge Max were few and far between. Of course, the men who knew of Max were few and far between as well.
“That’s the secret of keeping a secret,” Max murmured to himself, “the fewer assholes you tell just means that you have fewer assholes to kill to make sure they don’t open their mouths.” Max spit on the second story ledge he had made his current stalking place. “I talk to damn much, even if it’s only to myself. What I should do is keep to my fucking job.”
But Max new he wouldn’t just keep to his job. That was always too easy. The Enclave’s finest assassin needed some challenges to make work interesting. Without interesting work a man might resort to all sorts of things to make his life pleasurable. None of which Max thought his superiors would like very much, if at all.
“Like I really give a shit about them,” he murmured again. The Enclave had taken him in instead of killing him. The first time he had killed. The memory of that was burned into the back of his mind. The first life he had ever taken just had to be an Enclave undercover man didn’t it?
Sudden movement caught Max’s eye. He sat perched on the second story of an apparent Meeting Hall in a small shantytown about ten miles south of San Francisco. The inhabitants were all rebels from the city to the north. These men were supposed to be dangerous. Their leader was the one he was supposed to kill. But nobody told Larson Max exactly what he was supposed to do. The Enclave knew that and still tried to force their orders down his throat. Sometimes they backed off. They knew all too well that more than a few of his victims had once been Enclave Patrolmen or Officers. They knew he had no problems killing any member of any organization. If given proper pay that is.
Seeing the movement again from the corner of his eye Max turned slowly towards the direction from where it came. Sudden movements could be seen in the dark too, even for someone who could blend with the darkness as well as Max. His shoulder length, raven black hair swung slightly as he turned his head. He moved his hands from one spot on his body to another making sure all his toys were there. He could kill quite easily using only his bare hands, but if the toys were available why not play with them?
Like all assassins, Max had a variety of toys to work with while on the job, due to the supposed ease of his current job, he only brought about half his usual stock. “Less is more” he liked to say to the other assassins when they suggested he take a hummer fully loaded with dozens of different kinds of weaponry. The Enclave certainly would give him any type of technology he asked for and more than enough weapons for any job but Max always liked to keep as few objects as possible with him. A general rule of thumb for the assassin was “If I can’t fit it on my Harley and take my usual tools then I don’t want it.” Less really was more, and besides if he took less it made the job more difficult, and therefore more fun.
A small 9mm pistol sat in its holster on his hip. The holster was black leather, just like everything else Max wore. Leather offered protection against certain problems, such as falling, that may occur unexpectedly during a job and was also almost silent while moving. Black of course, was the best color to use during night missions, or missions that required hiding in shadows. On Max’s back was a small assault rifle with a sight, necessary when dealing with small crowds of people and also very useful when sniping in small areas, such as the one he was in. Last, but certainly not least, was the six-inch steel blade hanging on his left hip. Max took special care in that blade sharpening it so well that often it made a razor look dull. The metallic gleam that radiated from the deadly steel came from countless polishings after countless killings. Larson Max had few friends and this blade was one of them.
On his belt hung various items he may have found handy during the course of a mission. A flashlight and smoke pellets were two of the least used, but always carried, items in his possession. A small roll of brahmin hide rope was coiled tightly into a pouch on the belt which also held a few extra rounds for his guns. A final important piece was the lock picks he had used on more missions than he cared remember. The movement brought him out of daydreaming once again and he looked towards what was causing it.
A group of about seven individuals had gathered around a fire-barrel close to a hundred feet from where he was. Max moved himself into a crouch position and tugged at his black leather gloves and headband before drawing the six-inch blade from its sheath. Someone was going to die soon. Very soon indeed.
The man he was looking for was named Flander Fanders. “I think I’d kill him anyway just for that stupid name,” Max breathed. He had to be a Jet baby. “I bet his mom was flying when she conceived him, and when she gave him that annoying name.”
Max was looking for a man who was red haired and with a scar that ran from the bridge of his nose to the top of his head. Fanders also had two tattoos on either temple, one of a bull’s head, the other a bare chested woman.
“This motherfucker won’t be difficult to miss, now will he?”
Feeling the adrenaline begin to flow into his primed body, Max dropped silently into the shadows beneath him. Silently thanking the people of this wretched excuse of a shantytown for building their buildings so close together, Max stalked from one shadow to the next. An alert watchdog wouldn’t have been able to see him. A small smile touched his lips, hidden under the shadow of the night. These pathetic townsfolk looked more like drooling pig rats than alert dogs to Max. They had no idea what was about to happen. That made his job even better.
The Enclave higher-ups always tried to do things in secret more often than not. Why storm a town and kill everyone when a silent bullet can preserve the anonymity of the organization? That was the difference between Max and the other Enclave assassins, he understood that and took it as a challenge. They, on the other hand, wanted to go in with automatic weapons blasting, leaving nothing behind but bodies and bones. The Enclave had survived this long because they didn’t come out into the open often, and then only for a short time before anyone could start to suspect anything about them. Perhaps the world would learn of the Enclave someday and perhaps not. Not that any of this mattered to Larson Max. He was getting paid well for this job and he would not ruin it by becoming arrogant or careless.
Turning to his left he saw a young woman walk by who looked to be in her middle 30’s. She had tanned skin with short brown hair and a knowing look in her eyes. She walked with a stride that spoke of purpose and intelligence. Max’s smile deepened. She was perfect.
With a flash of his arm he caught the girl and dragged her close to him putting the tip of his knife between the second and third vertebrae on her neck. She had no time to even grunt at suddenly being taken hostage. “You scream, you die,” Max whispered into her ear applying slight pressure on the knife. She stiffened and tried to nod, most likely finding it difficult with a six inch blade pressed to the back of her neck, nothing that worried Max any.
“You will tell me where Flander Fanders is or you will not live to see your next sunrise.” He turned the blade slightly clockwise and a trickle of blood ran down her neck. Again she stiffened, this time for the pain. Max carefully eased the pressure from his hand on her mouth and nose.
“F-F-Fanders is in his house. H-H-He is going to tell the men where they are going to r-raid tomorrow.” Tears started to drip from her eyes onto the sleeve of his black leather jacket. She was trying not to sob and her breathing was sporadic, almost to the point of hyperventilation.
“Good girl,” Max said soothingly, putting less pressure on the knife, “See what happens to good girls who do what they’re told?” She nodded slightly, plainly still fearing the blade just touching her skin. “Now where is his house?”
“H-He lives just north of here. The house just smaller than the M-Meeting H-Hall over there,” she breathed as carefully as possible. The girl was doing her best not to bawl. She had much more self-control than had been expected. Max nodded slightly, maybe he would have been impressed if not for the circumstances. Maybe.
“I’m very proud of you, girl. I’ll see you-” with a quick flash of movement, Max recovered the girl’s mouth and nose as tightly as possible while silently driving the blade in and out in one fluid motion. Instantly she crumpled with her spinal cord severed. Her gaping mouth gasped for air as her windpipe was cut beyond mending. “In Hell,” the assassin finished.
Max pulled her body deeper into the shadows and wiped his blade clean on the rags of her shirt. She wouldn’t warn anyone or say anything about Larson Max. Slipping into the shadows of the next building, Max didn’t look back. All in a day’s work for the Enclave’s finest assassin. “And now for Fanders,” he whispered to the shadows. Maybe the shadows were his only friends.
Moving like black lightning from one shadow to the next, Max darted toward his ultimate goal. He was only getting paid for this one kill, but two wouldn’t bring any repercussions from his superiors. They wanted Fanders dead. That was all that mattered. No, he was getting paid for killing Fanders. That was all that mattered. Thoughts flew through Max’s mind as he flowed from shadow to shadow. The Enclave could send anyone to do their dirty work but for this particular job they choose him. Usually they kept him for only the most special jobs. Maybe they felt he was getting rusty. Maybe they thought he would lose his edge if he didn’t keep his skills honed.
“Maybe I should keep my damn fool mouth shut and stop asking questions.” The Enclave always worked in secret, “Too many secrets is more like it.” But they had never doubted Max. Never. Whenever there was a job nobody else had the balls to do, they called Max. Seven years after that first kill and still nobody was better. The Enclave had even asked him to take on students. He declined, of course. Nobody would ever kill like Larson Max. He told them that and they laughed. “They were lucky I left my blade in my other coat,” Max hissed. The Enclave would never learn.
A large building with tin walls only slightly rusted came into sight past a dilapidated wooden shack. The tin building stood two stories high and was very close to the size of the Meeting Hall. Large windows were closed with curtains only slightly worn- almost the exact opposite of the ragged sheets that hung from the windows of the rest of the town. The door was iron and completely free of rust, sturdy hinges and a large lock kept intruders and unwelcome townsfolk from entering the building uninvited. This house must have been like a palace to these people. Absorbing the image of the house brought only one thought to Max’s mind, sudden and brief but as hot as the noonday Wasteland sun. One word etched itself in his head, with a sneer Max spat out, “Fanders,” and crept towards the door.
The door’s large lock must have been meant only for show to people such as himself. The assassin didn’t even bother to take out his lockpick set. A simple twist with his blade brought a clink from the lock as it snapped. Easing the door open slightly, Max peered inside.
Fanders seemed to live a luxury compared to the poverty of his subordinates. His furniture was as clean as any middle class citizen of San Francisco, and the walls were dressed with artwork and maps showing the possible sites for raids and the locations of many major cities and villages in the desert. Entering the house with all the necessary stealth of an assassin, Max closed the door behind him. The man was most likely asleep, but too many chances would lead to a dead Larson Max. Death was not something Max was looking forward to anytime in the near future.
A large dog was on the floor, apparently sleeping on its side. Damn animals had more than once woken up at the wrong times and spoiled flawless killings in the past. Max knew that certain things should not be toyed with, and leaving a watchdog alive to alert his master, or worse, attack the intruder, was one of them. Drawing the blade, he moved to the dog and drove the gleaming steel through the dog’s temple until it hit the floor on the other side. Dark blood spilled from the mortal wound inflicted on the innocent animal and pooled on the ground. It seemed that Max had acted at exactly the right time, as the dog’s eyes opened just as the blade entered his brain. This animal would no longer be an issue.
“Now, if there are no other intrusions, I can move along to my main concern.”
Just then a light shape moved along the outside of the building behind the curtains. Too large to be a man, Max shook his head. “I’m too tired for this shit. Maybe if I stopped letting my damn eyes play tricks on me I could kill this bastard and get it all over with.”
Moving in the shadows to another room that looked at first glance to be a sitting room of some sort, Max saw the shadow through the window again.
“Fuck this,” Max shouted, “Enough fuckin’ games!”
It may have been against everything he knew but Max stepped from the shadows and ran through the house trying to find Fanders. As he searched the rooms he sheathed his knife and pulled the 9mm from its holster. Finally he found the man- sitting upright in his bed, soaked in sweat. Smelling the room quickly would have alerted any who entered that Fanders probably didn’t have the strongest of bladders. A rancid shit stench hung over the room like a fog. Max wanted to wretch.
“Did you see it?” the wide-eyed man whispered hoarsely. “That thing outside the window. I don’t want it to kill me-”
“I don’t think you have to worry about it harming you at all,” Max rushed through the words.
“Really? I don’t have to worry about dying?”
“As far as you’re concerned I am death incarnate.”
Apparently the man hadn’t seen the small pistol in Max’s hand, even as it was pointed at him and the trigger pulled. Using a bullet was always the last resort of a true assassin, in Max’s view. But then again, desperate times called for desperate measures and a bullet through the heart would kill anyone quickly. Hopefully it would be quickly enough for Max to get away before having to kill a whole town and whatever the hell was out there as well.
Sudden screaming filled the warm summer night air. No more chances and no more fancywork. Leaving the now dead Fanders- who before dying had taken another dump in his bed for good measure- Max sprinted through the house and almost tripped over the dog, whose coarse brown fur was now stained with blood. It was always amazing to see exactly how much blood could be kept inside a body, even one as small as a dog.
The door came into sight and Max could see exactly why everyone was screaming. The seven people who were chatting around the fire-barrel were now seven decapitated bodies. He continued to run towards the door. What could rip apart seven bodies in the span of thirty seconds and walk away unscathed? A sudden sense of fear rose over him and he skidded to a halt mere feet from the door.
What could rip apart seven people in the span of thirty seconds could most certainly rip him apart just as quickly and could be waiting next to the door or coming this way after hearing a gunshot in this house! “Me and my damn fool nerves.” Easing the blade from its sheath, Max bounced it against the palm of his hand.
“Nope ol’ friend. You ain’t gonna do it this time.” Re-sheathing the knife he pulled the assault rife from his back. “No son of a bitch is gonna take out Larson Max today or any other day.”
*****
There you are! My personal Easter Gift to you.
::hops away in a pink bunny suit with floppy ears::
Let me know what you think ::hop hop::
True Raven
*****
The Enclave Assassin
By True Raven
Hiding in the darkness was never very difficult for Larson Max; he seemed to have the knack for the little things in his trade. Standing roughly 5’10 and weighing in at about 147lbs of silent flesh and bone, Max was by far one of the smallest men in the Enclave, but also one of the most deadly. The men who had the balls to challenge Max were few and far between. Of course, the men who knew of Max were few and far between as well.
“That’s the secret of keeping a secret,” Max murmured to himself, “the fewer assholes you tell just means that you have fewer assholes to kill to make sure they don’t open their mouths.” Max spit on the second story ledge he had made his current stalking place. “I talk to damn much, even if it’s only to myself. What I should do is keep to my fucking job.”
But Max new he wouldn’t just keep to his job. That was always too easy. The Enclave’s finest assassin needed some challenges to make work interesting. Without interesting work a man might resort to all sorts of things to make his life pleasurable. None of which Max thought his superiors would like very much, if at all.
“Like I really give a shit about them,” he murmured again. The Enclave had taken him in instead of killing him. The first time he had killed. The memory of that was burned into the back of his mind. The first life he had ever taken just had to be an Enclave undercover man didn’t it?
Sudden movement caught Max’s eye. He sat perched on the second story of an apparent Meeting Hall in a small shantytown about ten miles south of San Francisco. The inhabitants were all rebels from the city to the north. These men were supposed to be dangerous. Their leader was the one he was supposed to kill. But nobody told Larson Max exactly what he was supposed to do. The Enclave knew that and still tried to force their orders down his throat. Sometimes they backed off. They knew all too well that more than a few of his victims had once been Enclave Patrolmen or Officers. They knew he had no problems killing any member of any organization. If given proper pay that is.
Seeing the movement again from the corner of his eye Max turned slowly towards the direction from where it came. Sudden movements could be seen in the dark too, even for someone who could blend with the darkness as well as Max. His shoulder length, raven black hair swung slightly as he turned his head. He moved his hands from one spot on his body to another making sure all his toys were there. He could kill quite easily using only his bare hands, but if the toys were available why not play with them?
Like all assassins, Max had a variety of toys to work with while on the job, due to the supposed ease of his current job, he only brought about half his usual stock. “Less is more” he liked to say to the other assassins when they suggested he take a hummer fully loaded with dozens of different kinds of weaponry. The Enclave certainly would give him any type of technology he asked for and more than enough weapons for any job but Max always liked to keep as few objects as possible with him. A general rule of thumb for the assassin was “If I can’t fit it on my Harley and take my usual tools then I don’t want it.” Less really was more, and besides if he took less it made the job more difficult, and therefore more fun.
A small 9mm pistol sat in its holster on his hip. The holster was black leather, just like everything else Max wore. Leather offered protection against certain problems, such as falling, that may occur unexpectedly during a job and was also almost silent while moving. Black of course, was the best color to use during night missions, or missions that required hiding in shadows. On Max’s back was a small assault rifle with a sight, necessary when dealing with small crowds of people and also very useful when sniping in small areas, such as the one he was in. Last, but certainly not least, was the six-inch steel blade hanging on his left hip. Max took special care in that blade sharpening it so well that often it made a razor look dull. The metallic gleam that radiated from the deadly steel came from countless polishings after countless killings. Larson Max had few friends and this blade was one of them.
On his belt hung various items he may have found handy during the course of a mission. A flashlight and smoke pellets were two of the least used, but always carried, items in his possession. A small roll of brahmin hide rope was coiled tightly into a pouch on the belt which also held a few extra rounds for his guns. A final important piece was the lock picks he had used on more missions than he cared remember. The movement brought him out of daydreaming once again and he looked towards what was causing it.
A group of about seven individuals had gathered around a fire-barrel close to a hundred feet from where he was. Max moved himself into a crouch position and tugged at his black leather gloves and headband before drawing the six-inch blade from its sheath. Someone was going to die soon. Very soon indeed.
The man he was looking for was named Flander Fanders. “I think I’d kill him anyway just for that stupid name,” Max breathed. He had to be a Jet baby. “I bet his mom was flying when she conceived him, and when she gave him that annoying name.”
Max was looking for a man who was red haired and with a scar that ran from the bridge of his nose to the top of his head. Fanders also had two tattoos on either temple, one of a bull’s head, the other a bare chested woman.
“This motherfucker won’t be difficult to miss, now will he?”
Feeling the adrenaline begin to flow into his primed body, Max dropped silently into the shadows beneath him. Silently thanking the people of this wretched excuse of a shantytown for building their buildings so close together, Max stalked from one shadow to the next. An alert watchdog wouldn’t have been able to see him. A small smile touched his lips, hidden under the shadow of the night. These pathetic townsfolk looked more like drooling pig rats than alert dogs to Max. They had no idea what was about to happen. That made his job even better.
The Enclave higher-ups always tried to do things in secret more often than not. Why storm a town and kill everyone when a silent bullet can preserve the anonymity of the organization? That was the difference between Max and the other Enclave assassins, he understood that and took it as a challenge. They, on the other hand, wanted to go in with automatic weapons blasting, leaving nothing behind but bodies and bones. The Enclave had survived this long because they didn’t come out into the open often, and then only for a short time before anyone could start to suspect anything about them. Perhaps the world would learn of the Enclave someday and perhaps not. Not that any of this mattered to Larson Max. He was getting paid well for this job and he would not ruin it by becoming arrogant or careless.
Turning to his left he saw a young woman walk by who looked to be in her middle 30’s. She had tanned skin with short brown hair and a knowing look in her eyes. She walked with a stride that spoke of purpose and intelligence. Max’s smile deepened. She was perfect.
With a flash of his arm he caught the girl and dragged her close to him putting the tip of his knife between the second and third vertebrae on her neck. She had no time to even grunt at suddenly being taken hostage. “You scream, you die,” Max whispered into her ear applying slight pressure on the knife. She stiffened and tried to nod, most likely finding it difficult with a six inch blade pressed to the back of her neck, nothing that worried Max any.
“You will tell me where Flander Fanders is or you will not live to see your next sunrise.” He turned the blade slightly clockwise and a trickle of blood ran down her neck. Again she stiffened, this time for the pain. Max carefully eased the pressure from his hand on her mouth and nose.
“F-F-Fanders is in his house. H-H-He is going to tell the men where they are going to r-raid tomorrow.” Tears started to drip from her eyes onto the sleeve of his black leather jacket. She was trying not to sob and her breathing was sporadic, almost to the point of hyperventilation.
“Good girl,” Max said soothingly, putting less pressure on the knife, “See what happens to good girls who do what they’re told?” She nodded slightly, plainly still fearing the blade just touching her skin. “Now where is his house?”
“H-He lives just north of here. The house just smaller than the M-Meeting H-Hall over there,” she breathed as carefully as possible. The girl was doing her best not to bawl. She had much more self-control than had been expected. Max nodded slightly, maybe he would have been impressed if not for the circumstances. Maybe.
“I’m very proud of you, girl. I’ll see you-” with a quick flash of movement, Max recovered the girl’s mouth and nose as tightly as possible while silently driving the blade in and out in one fluid motion. Instantly she crumpled with her spinal cord severed. Her gaping mouth gasped for air as her windpipe was cut beyond mending. “In Hell,” the assassin finished.
Max pulled her body deeper into the shadows and wiped his blade clean on the rags of her shirt. She wouldn’t warn anyone or say anything about Larson Max. Slipping into the shadows of the next building, Max didn’t look back. All in a day’s work for the Enclave’s finest assassin. “And now for Fanders,” he whispered to the shadows. Maybe the shadows were his only friends.
Moving like black lightning from one shadow to the next, Max darted toward his ultimate goal. He was only getting paid for this one kill, but two wouldn’t bring any repercussions from his superiors. They wanted Fanders dead. That was all that mattered. No, he was getting paid for killing Fanders. That was all that mattered. Thoughts flew through Max’s mind as he flowed from shadow to shadow. The Enclave could send anyone to do their dirty work but for this particular job they choose him. Usually they kept him for only the most special jobs. Maybe they felt he was getting rusty. Maybe they thought he would lose his edge if he didn’t keep his skills honed.
“Maybe I should keep my damn fool mouth shut and stop asking questions.” The Enclave always worked in secret, “Too many secrets is more like it.” But they had never doubted Max. Never. Whenever there was a job nobody else had the balls to do, they called Max. Seven years after that first kill and still nobody was better. The Enclave had even asked him to take on students. He declined, of course. Nobody would ever kill like Larson Max. He told them that and they laughed. “They were lucky I left my blade in my other coat,” Max hissed. The Enclave would never learn.
A large building with tin walls only slightly rusted came into sight past a dilapidated wooden shack. The tin building stood two stories high and was very close to the size of the Meeting Hall. Large windows were closed with curtains only slightly worn- almost the exact opposite of the ragged sheets that hung from the windows of the rest of the town. The door was iron and completely free of rust, sturdy hinges and a large lock kept intruders and unwelcome townsfolk from entering the building uninvited. This house must have been like a palace to these people. Absorbing the image of the house brought only one thought to Max’s mind, sudden and brief but as hot as the noonday Wasteland sun. One word etched itself in his head, with a sneer Max spat out, “Fanders,” and crept towards the door.
The door’s large lock must have been meant only for show to people such as himself. The assassin didn’t even bother to take out his lockpick set. A simple twist with his blade brought a clink from the lock as it snapped. Easing the door open slightly, Max peered inside.
Fanders seemed to live a luxury compared to the poverty of his subordinates. His furniture was as clean as any middle class citizen of San Francisco, and the walls were dressed with artwork and maps showing the possible sites for raids and the locations of many major cities and villages in the desert. Entering the house with all the necessary stealth of an assassin, Max closed the door behind him. The man was most likely asleep, but too many chances would lead to a dead Larson Max. Death was not something Max was looking forward to anytime in the near future.
A large dog was on the floor, apparently sleeping on its side. Damn animals had more than once woken up at the wrong times and spoiled flawless killings in the past. Max knew that certain things should not be toyed with, and leaving a watchdog alive to alert his master, or worse, attack the intruder, was one of them. Drawing the blade, he moved to the dog and drove the gleaming steel through the dog’s temple until it hit the floor on the other side. Dark blood spilled from the mortal wound inflicted on the innocent animal and pooled on the ground. It seemed that Max had acted at exactly the right time, as the dog’s eyes opened just as the blade entered his brain. This animal would no longer be an issue.
“Now, if there are no other intrusions, I can move along to my main concern.”
Just then a light shape moved along the outside of the building behind the curtains. Too large to be a man, Max shook his head. “I’m too tired for this shit. Maybe if I stopped letting my damn eyes play tricks on me I could kill this bastard and get it all over with.”
Moving in the shadows to another room that looked at first glance to be a sitting room of some sort, Max saw the shadow through the window again.
“Fuck this,” Max shouted, “Enough fuckin’ games!”
It may have been against everything he knew but Max stepped from the shadows and ran through the house trying to find Fanders. As he searched the rooms he sheathed his knife and pulled the 9mm from its holster. Finally he found the man- sitting upright in his bed, soaked in sweat. Smelling the room quickly would have alerted any who entered that Fanders probably didn’t have the strongest of bladders. A rancid shit stench hung over the room like a fog. Max wanted to wretch.
“Did you see it?” the wide-eyed man whispered hoarsely. “That thing outside the window. I don’t want it to kill me-”
“I don’t think you have to worry about it harming you at all,” Max rushed through the words.
“Really? I don’t have to worry about dying?”
“As far as you’re concerned I am death incarnate.”
Apparently the man hadn’t seen the small pistol in Max’s hand, even as it was pointed at him and the trigger pulled. Using a bullet was always the last resort of a true assassin, in Max’s view. But then again, desperate times called for desperate measures and a bullet through the heart would kill anyone quickly. Hopefully it would be quickly enough for Max to get away before having to kill a whole town and whatever the hell was out there as well.
Sudden screaming filled the warm summer night air. No more chances and no more fancywork. Leaving the now dead Fanders- who before dying had taken another dump in his bed for good measure- Max sprinted through the house and almost tripped over the dog, whose coarse brown fur was now stained with blood. It was always amazing to see exactly how much blood could be kept inside a body, even one as small as a dog.
The door came into sight and Max could see exactly why everyone was screaming. The seven people who were chatting around the fire-barrel were now seven decapitated bodies. He continued to run towards the door. What could rip apart seven bodies in the span of thirty seconds and walk away unscathed? A sudden sense of fear rose over him and he skidded to a halt mere feet from the door.
What could rip apart seven people in the span of thirty seconds could most certainly rip him apart just as quickly and could be waiting next to the door or coming this way after hearing a gunshot in this house! “Me and my damn fool nerves.” Easing the blade from its sheath, Max bounced it against the palm of his hand.
“Nope ol’ friend. You ain’t gonna do it this time.” Re-sheathing the knife he pulled the assault rife from his back. “No son of a bitch is gonna take out Larson Max today or any other day.”
*****
There you are! My personal Easter Gift to you.
::hops away in a pink bunny suit with floppy ears::
Let me know what you think ::hop hop::
True Raven