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Twins in Death: Chapter Seven – Part Four

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Seven: Face to Face



October 24th, 2002

4:21 p.m.


            The Weirdo hadn’t actually stuck around to talk to the police as he had been in no mood for their antics. They would likely make a whole bunch of not funny jokes and would all express faux concern for him because he hadn’t killed everyone. Then he would shoot one of them in the leg or break one of their noses and they would all get offended because he couldn’t take a joke. Nevermind the fact that if they had been there, they would have just been another set of corpses in the wake of that red leather encased lunatic. They were to him a fairly useless lot and since he didn’t have to talk to them he rarely did.


            Besides, he was going to hear enough of that if he actually bothered to turn the television on later. The cable news pundits would be all over this one, decrying what a blood bath it was and how dangerous the city was because of him and his kind. They would conveniently forget the fact that the drive-by shootings had gone from daily occurrences to having nearly vanished in the two and a half years he had been around. They would forget that the mob was no longer in this town. They would forget everything in fact. It was going to be all his fault.


            He thought of going to a few of the news stations and just shooting a few of the cable news pundits, so that they would have a legitimate axe to grind against him. It was the daily reminder that they had begun to revise his actions over the last few years. They had really revised their thoughts since he had been hiding away They had all decided that it would be a lot better if he hadn’t shown up. They would all have preferred the mob rule of the city, as it had been when the mayor had been shot openly on the steps of city hall two months before The Weirdo returned. How that shooting had never actually been investigated, they had simply arrested two blacks from Harlem and they had been conveniently hung on a lamppost the same night.


            That sort of thing apparently didn’t bother them, but being able to walk the streets did. The cable news guys would prefer all the costumed superheroes, The Weirdo in particular, would just go away now that the city was becoming safer. He stood outside a McDonalds with a large order of French fries in his hand and thought about how they were going to attack him on this one.


            He also thought about what Loki had said about the street gangs though. They had just been looking for someone to lead them. They had just needed a god they could believe in, that’s what he had said. He thought that if he wanted to gain an army he would go to the street gangs and teach them about strategy, form them into a loosely collected fighting force. Let them each do their own thing, but all taking orders from him. He had the perfect disenfranchised angry groups to fight for him. All they needed was the promise of a place where they could be men on their own terms. They had just taken the old tribal system and he had adapted it. He thought about how his old friend Sun would have done this and thought there would be a few changes, but it was such a perfect collection of lads. They weren’t afraid to die, only to live without honor. They had just wanted respect and he was giving it to them.


            He bit into a French fry and thought about the problem, and couldn’t see an easy solution. The only useable solution was to shoot all of them and he had been trying to avoid that as it was. They had already been in a situation where they’d killed so many in one room they had stood in blood up to their knees, he had no desire to do that again. It had all worked out in the end, but he didn’t want to pull it off a second time.


            He just stood for a moment, on the busy sidewalk and ate his fries, watching the traffic go by and glancing at the girls as they strode by in their high leather boots and other autumn clothes. He liked the autumn weather clothes better than any other. They had a way of revealing in a covered way. You could watch the movement of legs encased in jeans, and note the buttocks as they shifted. You could try and guess how the movement of the sweater disguised the bosom beneath, and how well it enhanced the look. The young ladies hadn’t yet gotten out the heavy coats that would obscure all there was to view, they had just brought out enough to keep warm. He very much liked autumn, and he liked watching girls.


            What he didn’t like was failure, and that brought him back to the events of an hour ago and nearly six months ago. The way the child had been thinking about the movie about the clown fish, and then her head had been splattered across her mother’s coat. How Shannon had been laying in a pool of slowly congealing blood. How after the initial quick run, blood became thick and sticky. How the woman had screamed, holding her daughter’s body. How the blood had sprayed across her face when she squeezed the little girl to her.


            Ah, such were the things late night bouts of insomnia were made of. It wouldn’t matter how tired he thought he was, he could always have a few more hours of looking at the card catalogue of dead faces of those he had failed to save. When that was done of course he would have to go through the long drawn out painfest that was reliving every nanosecond of Shannon’s death as if it were an hour. He put another fry into his mouth and munched it down like a child, slowly moving the stick into his mouth as his jaws munched it to tiny bits.


            Not having Tommy and Jack there had been a problem, but he couldn’t see what they would have done had they been there. Besides, he had a feeling this was going to have to be a personal thing. No one else was going to be able to take care of this unless it was him. There was some sort of pact that had begun with the two of them. Loki was going to kill him (No he’s not, but you must jump) or he was going to kill Loki.


            There wasn’t going to be any sort of middle ground, it was going to be a struggle between the two of them, trying to kill each other. He thought about the black gun for a moment and reached into his coat. He felt the cold handle immediately and while he wanted to draw it out, this wasn’t the place. It hadn’t been there when he wanted it, why not? There was no reason for the gun to have been hidden, and yet it hadn’t been there when he wanted it. He wondered if the gun had run from the prospect of having to kill him, even if it was a copy. He felt that there was a certain amount of truth to the idea, but it was an uncomfortable truth. What if the gun began to make other executive decisions about when and where it was going to show up?


            That worried him.



May 2nd, 1643

2:21 p.m.



            The old man was a mess, but he was always a mess. He rarely bathed, and took no particular care of his appearance. The Weirdo was quite the dandy compared to the old teacher, dressed in a clean kimono and having shaved only two days ago. The old man was as nearly beloved by The Weirdo as any teacher could be though. The aged samurai had none of the formality of many of his other teachers. Particularly the sword masters seemed to have an idea about formality. This one had no such leanings though, nor did he have a sword. He had dropped the blade of steel long ago and only used the wooden boken.


            “You have improved.” The old man said.


            “Have I?” The Weirdo asked.


            “You have.” The old man said. “There is only one thing that will improve your fencing now. That is to go out there and fight.”


            “I’ve been doing that.” The Weirdo said.


            “Yes I know.” The old man said. “And you have told me that the sword may not serve you in your journey.”


            “That’s not completely true.” The Weirdo said. “There is more to fencing than the sword.”


            “So I keep saying.” The old man said. “Still you have learned all you are going to learn from me.”


            “I know.” The Weirdo said.


            “And you will return to your own place and begin the process of this thing they want you to do.”


            “I don’t know what they want me to do.”


            “But you know that there is a task to perform.”


            “Yeah.” He said.


            “Duty is not compulsory.” The old man said.


            “I’m not sure they’ll let me escape it.” He said. “If I sit around, I think it’ll come for me.”


            “You could run.”


            “I think I’d run right into it.” The Weirdo said. “I might be trapped.”


            “Hmm.” The old man said. “Then try to figure out what this mighty task they want you for is, then come at it from an angle they don’t want you to.”


            “That might just work.” The Weirdo said.



© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

April 10, 2013 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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