Saturday, May 12, 2012

Not my usual kind of dance.

So Konaa sorta left off on a cliffhanger, eh?  Leaving you all to wonder what had happened to the dashing knife nut in the suitcoat and hat.  What happened to the serial killer with the penchant for humming Irish ditties?

Well, I didn't stop to shoot some pool with 'im, lemme tell you.   He'd already gotten his mitts on those two blanks I had on loan from Reddie dearest, (he's so gonna bitch about it later, ugghhh) and he was looking to make it three with Shift.

Thing is, Shift is occasionally useful to me.  Good with computers, and that phasing move is a little unusual!  So as much as it seems out of character, I stepped forward into the fog to help the little bitch.

I heard im screaming, more sizzling, like this murderer had lit firecrackers in his pants or something.  Threw a knife, there was a clank, and Shift dropped to the ground, crawling out of the fog, his arm sporting one sick burn.

Here, I sort of lost my temper.

"LISTEN UP, SHITHEAD!  The only person who gets to torture and abuse that weedy pathetic keymonkey is YOURS TRULY!"

There was a muffled "Yeah, thanks a bunch, Boss." from the ground.

I strode forward, twirling two more knives in my hands, signaling my team to fall back.  Now, this fog certainly was unnatural - fog doesn't build up this quickly, and it certainly doesn't obscure this much with only a moderate downpour.  It was doing its job well, though - outlines were the only visible thing.

Maybe for someone as shortsighted as June, anyway.  One in my line of work has a penchant for seeing through fogs, though.  Just usually more metaphorically.

The singing killer, the "Siren," is around six feet tall, Caucasian, male, dressed in dark blue clothing, torn jeans, a frighteningly ragged mass purporting to be a coat, and a hood.  His hair is dark and wild.  More notably, he wears a strange gauntlet on his left hand, almost like a metal shell that encases the hand and about two feet up his arm.  In that hand, he is holding an iron, heated despite the lack of a plug.

"Come now, step forward.  Let's get a good look at you.  ...Ah, but now it all makes sense.  If my dress code was like yours, I'd probably be a maniacal killer too.  ...Oh WAIT!"  I laughed, just a little joke to lighten the mood.

No answer.

"Did you hear me?  I!"  I used hand signals to make sure we were communicating, although perhaps the middle finger is communicating the wrong message.  Oh well, what do I look like, a translator?

Still no response!  How infuriating.   It was time for a more hands on test.  Another knife flew his way, he raised the gauntlet and with another clank, it fell to the ground.  Lurching towards me slowly, he raised the iron.  And then with surprising speed, he suddenly lunged, trapping my arm against the wall and holding the iron towards my face.

NO manners here, no siree.  And nothing pisses me off more than a rude asshole with a heater.  I gave him my most winning smile and then cackled at his little toy.  "You wanna light ME up?"

And suddenly!  Gasp!  His hand is free!  Always keep a tight grip if you want to hold onto a snake, folks.  They're more slippery than they first appear~

I brought out a hook and chain, swung it upwards, cracked the asshole in the face.  But it didn't seem to do nothin!  He just kept coming forward, blood seeping down his cheeks.  Well it's a pain in the fucking ass, but I had to admit I had no clue what the hell this idiot's deal was.

So I gave the chain a spirited heft and threw it, wrapping it around his legs.  THAT made him stumble a little, and gave me just the opening - a flashbang grenade, already primed and ready.  Wrapping an arm around his shoulder, I pushed his head forward and smashed it into his face.  "Temperature today!  Rainy, with intermediate bursts of sunlight!"  Bang.

And god damn if he didn't make the weirdest fuckin noise I ever heard.  Some sort of groggly moan.  If that wasn't the oddest thing about it, he showed me he's pretty slippery himself - one second I had him, and the next he was gone.  Footsteps receding, and then silence, leaving only Shift's burnt arm as a parting gift.

Take it for a freebie, folks.  This fellow doesn't seem to care WHO he's got his hands on so long as they're squishy and burn nice.  Show him the light, sit him down, talk about your parents.

It's funny cause most of your parents are DEAD!  Hahaha, ah man, never gets old.  Later.