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Twins in Death: Chapter Three – Part Three

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Three: The End of Captain Scourge




April 5th, 2002

3:21 p.m.


            There is something that flies through the air when a storm is coming. It’s more than the scent, more than the warm winds that begin to whip around, more than the clouds. It’s not something that the human mind is meant to describe, and it would require a long talk about astrophysics and inverse reality to even get started, which is why people generally don’t. The point is that something is in the air when a storm is coming, and at the moment it was wearing a gray trench coat and fedora.


            You could say that he was flying on the arms of the wind or that angels were holding him up. It wouldn’t be absurd to suggest that he had been taught by Peter Pan to think of happy thoughts in order to fly, because this was true. The eternal boy had taught him how to use a happy thought to break the bonds of gravity. The Weirdo had discovered over the years that any strong emotion could make a person fly though, and he was sailing on the wings of pure righteous indignation.


            He had stopped himself from killing Captain Scourge, and this was the thanks he got? Rage, anger and insult drove him on, for his little meeting with the lightning-throwing villain. It was really a bad time for Captain Scourge to come back. The Weirdo was on an emotional roller coaster and couldn’t get off, and didn’t know if he wanted to. It would be fair to say that what happened in the next few minuets were not The Weirdo’s responsibility really, that he was temporarily insane. It didn’t matter that he would have acted the same way, more or less, if he had been perfectly calm. Right now he could legally be considered temporarily mad.


            When he landed he saw that Jack and Tommy were sitting in the car, holding themselves. They had each been given a nasty shock and while it didn’t kill them they wished it had. Being electrocuted tightens up the muscles in the body, one can loose control of their body for a moment and things go wrong. It’s a terrible feeling to have and it lingers in the muscles long after the fact.


            There were ambulances, police cars, and army vehicles. Many of the vehicles were on fire while others simply smoked. There were dead bodies, covered with coats, lying in a long line on the street. The Weirdo looked at the bodies and remembered the day a few years ago, on the day when New York fell down.


            Max was reloading the clips for his guns, determined to kill the good Captain since his men had smashed his face with the butt of a gun. He was pissed off and one eye was half closed from the swelling and the other had completely closed. His chest hurt from where a thin plate of titanium had stopped a bullet from entering his body a year ago. He pushed the last bullet into the clip and slammed it into the Beretta, and then the other in the Glock. He pulled back on the slider to prime a round in the chamber and the gun was pulled out of his hand. He tried to look up but one eye was swelled shut and the other wasn’t doing very well.


            “Stay here.” The voice could have made fog appear as easily as if the owner of it had been munching on dry ice. It did not issue a command just a solid fact. Max would stay there. “I will take care of this.”



April 5th, 2002

3:23 p.m.


            The Weirdo drew the Thompson sub machine gun out from under his coat, which had the effect of making Captain Scourge wonder how he kept a machine gun with a large drum magazine under his coat. The Weirdo threw back both doors and walked in, like a tiger walks into any place a tiger cares to enter.


One of Captain scourge’s men raised a weapon with the intent to shoot. The Weirdo must have moved quickly, but it was as if he were walking through some sort of John Woo slow motion effect. He seemed to be raising the gun slowly and with a glorious fluid motion, but he moved faster than the other man. The gun came up, held by The Weirdo’s right hand, like the weapon on a professional. The Weirdo squeezed the trigger and a bust of automatic fire split the air. Three forty-five slugs struck the man in the chest and face, and sent him to the ground dead. The Weirdo then lowered the weapon, holding it in just his right hand, as if he trusted it implicitly to do its job.


            The Weirdo approached, still holding the gun in his right hand, as if he were a knight of old and just carelessly holding a sword, surrounded by men with swords. He moved as if people would have to approach to do him harm and there would be plenty of time for him to raise his defenses.


            “Captain Scourge.” The Weirdo said.


            “The Weirdo.” Captain Scourge said.


            There was a moment there, after they had confirmed that they knew each other’s names, that they stood watching each other. One could almost hear the wind whipping outside, whistling through the trees. They could actually hear the bits of metal attached to a flag make its odd tolling sound as it whacked against the flag pole, and if one listened they might hear the whip snap the flag made. The wind wasn’t really blowing hard enough to whistle through the trees yet, but if this had been a simple novel, instead of a true and accurate account, you would have been able to hear it.


            He looked at Captain Scourge, his left hand raising and his index finger pointing. He wasn’t raging, but he was angry. He looked like his entire body was coiled like a viper. His arm pulled back and he pointed again.


            “I showed you a great deal of consideration.” The Weirdo said. “I did not kill you when last we met.”


            Another of Captain Scourge’s men tried to get a shot off on The Weirdo and was rewarded like the other one was with a face full of lead. He then, with great precision and care, gunned down the other three men that had rushed into the bank with Captain Scourge. He shot the one with the detonator first, so that he would not blow the bloody doors off the vault.


            He then tossed the empty machine gun to the ground, where it clattered like a sub machine gun that’s used all its bullets. Nothing sounds quite like that so any metaphor one might try to make would be futile. This is the main problem with metaphors. They often don’t really do the required trick any better than the straight forward version. One could just as well say it clattered to the ground and leave it at that. However if we did just leave it like that, would the point get across the same? It’s an interesting question and one worth a lot of research. Of course the more literary of you might just ask is such a question strictly necessary, when of course it is. If we don’t get these sorts of questions worked out now, you’ll be left wondering forever.


            “Your friends were here.” Captain Scourge said.


            “Yes I know.” The Weirdo confirmed, talking the sort of way that a tiger might while yawning.


            “You shot Mike, and he had the detonator switch.”


            “Yes I did.” The Weirdo said, his voice languid and calm. “And I’m sure he had.”


            “But I could just zap the explosives and blow this whole place up.”


            “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.” The Weirdo said in a passable Michael Cane impression, but he said it far too calmly. “Besides you don’t have a Mini anywhere.”




            “It’s from the Italian Job.” He saw the look of total cluelessness on the young man’s face and lost patience.  “Oh forget it.”


            The Weirdo leapt through the air and was blasted by Captain Scourge’s lightning. The electricity jumping from the fingers and landing like stabbing fingers of energy on his chest. The problem here was that The Weirdo was now so epically annoyed that he totally failed to notice the electrify as it struck him. Captain Scourge however did not fail to notice the fist that struck him. Nor did he fail to notice the other fist when it also struck him.


            “I could have killed you before.” The Weirdo shouted as he smashed Captain Scourge’s head into the ground. The electromagnetic shield helped cushion the blow, but it still hurt.


            The two of them parted and Captain Scourge flew into the air, his cape billowing around him. He looked a little worried because this was not going like the plan said. The plan hadn’t exactly worked out the way he’d hoped. He was going to have try desperation, or something along those lines. It wasn’t easy when you played by ear.


            “You can’t kill me! I am Captain Scourge.” Captain Scourge said.


            He extended his hand to blast the explosives, sparks dancing around his fingertips.  The Weirdo’s hand went into his coat, but his hand didn’t go towards his chest like he usually did if he were drawing a pistol. When drawing a pistol he gave the impression that the gun was in a shoulder holster, even thought there was no gun or holster a moment ago. This time his hand went to his hip, as if he were Arthur drawing Excalibur from its sheath.  When it came up it was holding the black gun, which demanded attention. Everything suddenly stopped when the black gun came into view, with The Weirdo holding it in both hands as if he expected one hell of a kick.


            The black gun had a way of freezing a room like that though. It looked much like a colt 3.57 python, or rather what a 3.57 python wanted to be when it grew up. It was not painted or treated to be black, but was made of some black metal with ebony scales on the handle. The thing seemed to radiate some dark light of its own, or perhaps it sucked light away from the world. Things seemed to grow pale when he drew it out, as if the world were greatly made up of illusions but this gun was one of the heavy realities, an undeniable truth that made everything else look pale by comparison.


            The Weirdo thumbed back the hammer and looked at Captain Scourge.


            “Don’t fuck with me electric boy.” The Weirdo said.


            Captain Scourge raised his hand and The Weirdo fired.


            The gun seemed to take a while to fire. The hammer snapped down and time stopped, the gun sucked the universe in around it as it got ready to fire, and when it did it snapped the universe back out again and left everything with a wobbly feeling. It was like the gun had taken stock of all possibilities and discarded the ones it didn’t like, as if it had decided through quantum mechanics to observe the universe one way and was going to force it on everyone else. The truth was more complex, but much simpler and easier to deal with. I’m not going to describe that part because I’m not here to discuss hyper-ballistics with you.


            The gun fired its bullet and caused reality to be what the bullet wanted. The gun fired a single bullet that was made of pyrite. All the bullets this gun fired were jewels, it was just part of the gun’s weirdness. The pyrite bullet went right through Captain Scourge’s shield and tore his chest open, exploding part of his back.


            The young Captain Scourge fell to the ground, not merely dead but destroyed. In a word, ended. There was no romance or wonder to his fall, it was merely pathetic. The Weirdo slid the gun back under his coat in an attempt to try and limit the time anyone could spend looking at the weapon, in fear people might want to take it from him. He wasn’t entirely sure he trusted himself with it, so he wasn’t going to trust anyone else.


            He looked at the destroyed Captain Scourge, kicked him gently to make sure he was gone. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the tension roll out of him, shaking off the feeling of Death’s hand on his heart. His shoulders shook slightly as he exhaled but that’s life sometimes, a shudder now and then is uncontrollable.


            There would be questions, there are always questions, but he wouldn’t answer them. He didn’t want to, and he didn’t have to, so to hell with them. Let them ask questions, he would wave them all away and not say a thing. Who knew where Captain Scourge came from and who cared? He certainly didn’t, he was going home.


© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions


July 12, 2012 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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