02-21-2018, 01:16 PM
There was a brief, disbelieving moment where everyone paused to consider Resho's point. Then the skinhead chieftan holding SL Greg said, "Oh, well, I'm glad we cleared that up. You hear that boys? He's a hero, and he's twenty-nine. I guess we'll have to let this sorry sack of bird-shit go and head on up to Tier 1 to turn ourselves in."
He half-turned and pointed with his free hand, still grinding the hapless prinny into the bricks with the other. "WILL SOMEBODY KINDLY SHOOT THIS PRICK ALREADY?!"
Resho took a step forward and started to say something flippant, but he only got as far as "Y'know-" before a Corduroy punk with a fantastic handlebar mustache raised a Chambers pistol, its bent accelerator-coil sparking dangerously in the damp, and shot him in the chest.
The air crackled, and then rang like a bell. Lightning flashed across the space between them, raising a massive cloud of foul-smelling steam from the filthy puddles of toxic rainwater, and left a fading purple-black after-image hanging in the air. Gregory's would-be rescuer flew backwards out of the alley trailing oily smoke from his burning clothing, and rolled several times on the soggy tarmac before landing in a heap in the gutter on the far side of the avenue. The sad spectacle was appropriately lit by the flickering, failing neon of a nearby strip-joint.
The man who had shot the hero fell over as well, flash-fried to a crisp by the radioactive backwash from his own poorly-maintained weapon.
The rest of the Corduroy Mob looked down a their fallen comrade, across the street at his victim, then back at their boss. The burly skinheads were wheezing and squinting from the poisonous fog that now hung in the alley, increasingly damp, and collectively nonplussed.
"Awww, dOOd..." Gregory lamented. With his face still pressed against the bricks, he couldn't see exactly what had happened, but it wasn't hard to figure out.
The man in wellingtons shuffled his boots and leaned against SL Greg hard enough to make the prinny produce an involuntary squeak. "You shut your beaky face!" he hissed. Then he looked back at the mustachioed casualty, grimaced as though trying to hold down a headache, and added softly: "Goddamn it Karl, you dead idiot;I meant shoot him with bullets. You probably just gave us all cancer!"
"AAARRRGH.... FUCK! FUUUUUuuUUUUUuuck! SON of a BITCH that hurt!"
Every human eye turned towards the mouth of the alley where, across the avenue and against all expectations, Resho was standing up. The would-be hero stared at the charred and peeling skin on his hands, barely noticing the ruins of his outfit.
"Who sells jankstains like you a gun like that?!" he ranted, advancing unsteadily back towards the alley and waving his blistered arms, "What kind of a mom's-basement supervillain motherfucker even BUILDS a gun like that?! I was expecting a blaster, not a suicide death-ray!"
SL Greg turned his avian head just enough to make himself heard and called, "They're arms-dealers, dOOd! jankstains like these sell jankstains like these guns like that! As for who builds 'em - MMF!"
The leader of the Corduroys, without looking at Gregory, drew his prisoner back from the wall and then slammed him into the bricks again. "Shut up." He pointed at Resho, a throbbing vein standing out on his rain-slick bald head.
"CORDUROY MOB! KILL THIS BITCH!"
He half-turned and pointed with his free hand, still grinding the hapless prinny into the bricks with the other. "WILL SOMEBODY KINDLY SHOOT THIS PRICK ALREADY?!"
Resho took a step forward and started to say something flippant, but he only got as far as "Y'know-" before a Corduroy punk with a fantastic handlebar mustache raised a Chambers pistol, its bent accelerator-coil sparking dangerously in the damp, and shot him in the chest.
The air crackled, and then rang like a bell. Lightning flashed across the space between them, raising a massive cloud of foul-smelling steam from the filthy puddles of toxic rainwater, and left a fading purple-black after-image hanging in the air. Gregory's would-be rescuer flew backwards out of the alley trailing oily smoke from his burning clothing, and rolled several times on the soggy tarmac before landing in a heap in the gutter on the far side of the avenue. The sad spectacle was appropriately lit by the flickering, failing neon of a nearby strip-joint.
The man who had shot the hero fell over as well, flash-fried to a crisp by the radioactive backwash from his own poorly-maintained weapon.
The rest of the Corduroy Mob looked down a their fallen comrade, across the street at his victim, then back at their boss. The burly skinheads were wheezing and squinting from the poisonous fog that now hung in the alley, increasingly damp, and collectively nonplussed.
"Awww, dOOd..." Gregory lamented. With his face still pressed against the bricks, he couldn't see exactly what had happened, but it wasn't hard to figure out.
The man in wellingtons shuffled his boots and leaned against SL Greg hard enough to make the prinny produce an involuntary squeak. "You shut your beaky face!" he hissed. Then he looked back at the mustachioed casualty, grimaced as though trying to hold down a headache, and added softly: "Goddamn it Karl, you dead idiot;I meant shoot him with bullets. You probably just gave us all cancer!"
"AAARRRGH.... FUCK! FUUUUUuuUUUUUuuck! SON of a BITCH that hurt!"
Every human eye turned towards the mouth of the alley where, across the avenue and against all expectations, Resho was standing up. The would-be hero stared at the charred and peeling skin on his hands, barely noticing the ruins of his outfit.
"Who sells jankstains like you a gun like that?!" he ranted, advancing unsteadily back towards the alley and waving his blistered arms, "What kind of a mom's-basement supervillain motherfucker even BUILDS a gun like that?! I was expecting a blaster, not a suicide death-ray!"
SL Greg turned his avian head just enough to make himself heard and called, "They're arms-dealers, dOOd! jankstains like these sell jankstains like these guns like that! As for who builds 'em - MMF!"
The leader of the Corduroys, without looking at Gregory, drew his prisoner back from the wall and then slammed him into the bricks again. "Shut up." He pointed at Resho, a throbbing vein standing out on his rain-slick bald head.
"CORDUROY MOB! KILL THIS BITCH!"