Post by Leon Silverblood on May 14, 2007 0:21:48 GMT -5
(Bye guys! It's been no end of fun and I'll miss you all!)
Leon takes the Behemoth and admires the crazy don's workmanship, nodding his thanks. He looks around at everyone in the room with a tight-lipped smile and as his very tired looking eyes meet each of theirs in turn. He takes a deep breath and then looks around coldly, steel and solitude showing through half-covered irises with the matte black unresponsiveness of reserve.
"This is where I stop playing a petty game of life, death, re-life, and re-death. I'm getting out. Out of this building, out of Malton, or I'm going to undie trying. If anyone finds my body, dance for me. Sing for me. If you find my rotten ass staggering and groping after a meal of your friends' flesh or bones, headshot me. No more revives."
Leon begins blowing holes through the newly arriving ferals, aiming first for their stomachs where the buckshot or slugs can sever the spine low and end the zeds' walking days, and then for the neck; steel shot would act as a modern-day katana and raggedly remove skulls from their roosts.
Noticing that in one hand he still holds a fifth of Tovarisch NMC Vodka, he throws it underhanded up into the air and watches it spin for a moment before pulling the shotty up and squeezing it's trigger, the remaining two-thirds of the 750 milliliters of 70 proof poison showering some far-away pavement.
He glances back over his shoulder, into the tavern and says "That's a nice cage. Wouldn't be so bad to be a zombie dancer in a cage like that in a joint like this...", then puts his ear buds in. Between laying steel shot and slugs into the skulls of zombies who would apparently rather stop him from hearing real music, he selects one "Flute Concerto in G minor 'La Notte'" from Vivaldi and presses play on his Radio Shack-heisted off-brand iPod.
As far as he knew, no one truly living was within a quarter-mile of him inside the town as he neared the governments precious poor impression of the Great Wall of China and none saw what ensued. He surveyed the classic yellow tape that shouldn't even have been necessary; that was almost an insult to anyone inside Malton as they surely knew not to attempt passage. Leon, and only Leon, would ever know that as the guards in their towers showed themselves with all the airs of intimidation that they could muster, he heard words in his mind that had been etched into him since the moment Tommy Lee Jones spoke them in Natural Born Killers: "End of the line, Knox!" In respondse, he whispered to himself, paraphrasing Mickey's later line, "'Right out the front door!', Warden".
No one saw the attempt as far as he would ever know, but he was very pleased when his final target fell to the ground face first and Leon heard no more gunfire. He hadn't made it, but every bastard standing in the way had died with him, and he grinned a bloody grin. One ear bud still dangled by his bloody lobe and the sounds of flutes still reached him, fading with the beat of his heart.
Back at the tavern, all of his FAKs and syringes lay on the bar along with a half-pack of dried out, stale, brittle Marlboro's, Melody's name written across the box in Leon's own trademark chickenscratch.
Leon takes the Behemoth and admires the crazy don's workmanship, nodding his thanks. He looks around at everyone in the room with a tight-lipped smile and as his very tired looking eyes meet each of theirs in turn. He takes a deep breath and then looks around coldly, steel and solitude showing through half-covered irises with the matte black unresponsiveness of reserve.
"This is where I stop playing a petty game of life, death, re-life, and re-death. I'm getting out. Out of this building, out of Malton, or I'm going to undie trying. If anyone finds my body, dance for me. Sing for me. If you find my rotten ass staggering and groping after a meal of your friends' flesh or bones, headshot me. No more revives."
Leon begins blowing holes through the newly arriving ferals, aiming first for their stomachs where the buckshot or slugs can sever the spine low and end the zeds' walking days, and then for the neck; steel shot would act as a modern-day katana and raggedly remove skulls from their roosts.
Noticing that in one hand he still holds a fifth of Tovarisch NMC Vodka, he throws it underhanded up into the air and watches it spin for a moment before pulling the shotty up and squeezing it's trigger, the remaining two-thirds of the 750 milliliters of 70 proof poison showering some far-away pavement.
He glances back over his shoulder, into the tavern and says "That's a nice cage. Wouldn't be so bad to be a zombie dancer in a cage like that in a joint like this...", then puts his ear buds in. Between laying steel shot and slugs into the skulls of zombies who would apparently rather stop him from hearing real music, he selects one "Flute Concerto in G minor 'La Notte'" from Vivaldi and presses play on his Radio Shack-heisted off-brand iPod.
As far as he knew, no one truly living was within a quarter-mile of him inside the town as he neared the governments precious poor impression of the Great Wall of China and none saw what ensued. He surveyed the classic yellow tape that shouldn't even have been necessary; that was almost an insult to anyone inside Malton as they surely knew not to attempt passage. Leon, and only Leon, would ever know that as the guards in their towers showed themselves with all the airs of intimidation that they could muster, he heard words in his mind that had been etched into him since the moment Tommy Lee Jones spoke them in Natural Born Killers: "End of the line, Knox!" In respondse, he whispered to himself, paraphrasing Mickey's later line, "'Right out the front door!', Warden".
No one saw the attempt as far as he would ever know, but he was very pleased when his final target fell to the ground face first and Leon heard no more gunfire. He hadn't made it, but every bastard standing in the way had died with him, and he grinned a bloody grin. One ear bud still dangled by his bloody lobe and the sounds of flutes still reached him, fading with the beat of his heart.
Back at the tavern, all of his FAKs and syringes lay on the bar along with a half-pack of dried out, stale, brittle Marlboro's, Melody's name written across the box in Leon's own trademark chickenscratch.
