Post by Prisonner Of Today on Nov 6, 2007 21:22:09 GMT -5
Priz manages to get into the back alley behind the bar. The shot, while hurting like hell, seemed to have only grazed his head, giving him arguably the worst headache ever, and the uncomfortable feeling of having blood stick in his fairly long hair. Walking towards the back door, he reaches out forcefully, and, finding it locked, closes his eyes for a moment before grasping the handle firmly and ripping the opening edge of the door out of it's frame.
"Cheap piece of shit.." he mutters quietly. The sounds of the gun battle inside explode out into the street the instant the door comes off. Not terribly concerned about stealth, Priz walks purposefully into the bar, and standing in the shadows of the kitchen, surveys the situation.
Directly in front of him, hiding behind the bar, is the person he assumes to be the cause of the trouble. The man looks like typical murderous slime, and is trying to multi-task between firing his pistol over the counter top and stopping a torrent of blood which is flowing from his nose. Near him lies a worn and blood-flecked baseball bat, and a small, growing pile of spent shells.
Across the room, it looks like the DJ guy has hidden himself behind a thick table, as evidenced by the inability of the killer's 9mm rounds to blow through it.
Near the front of the bar, he can see his own blood trail leading towards the door and smashed bunch of metal lying on the floor. He thinks he can almost hear faint movement behind some chairs in a dark corner of the room, but he can't be sure. Diverting his attention back to his assailant, a slightly disturbing smirk crosses his face, and he draws a revolver from inside his jacket. Shutting one eye, and taking a deep breath, Priz carefully sets his sights directly on the back of his target's knee, and pulls the trigger.
The Smith & Wesson Model 500 is the world's largest handgun, firing the massive S & W .500 Magnum cartridge, which hurls a 325-grain, half-inch wide piece of lead at 2300 feet per second, for 5.1 kilojoules of muzzle energy. In field tests, it has been proven to be able to mortally injure an African Elephant at a ranger of 100 yards, and most other large game at ranges up to 200 yards.
The effect on the killer's leg is, admittedly, much more severe than Priz had intended. Shot does not begin to cover it, damaged is an understatement. Severed, is most likely the best way to describe it. Not pausing to admire the work, Priz quickly raises the huge double-action revolver and fires another shot into the assassin's other leg, watching as the huge chunk of metal does it's work. The man screams and falls to his back, one hand holding him up, the other feebly caressing his ruined legs.
Stopping only to push the gun back into the recesses of his jacket, Priz bounds over to the wounded man, and kicking the small, more reasonable 9mm Automatic away from his foe, who is too busy to care, he pulls a small knife from his belt and stabs it through the man's hand, pinning it to the floor.
With a final kick to the face, which snaps the man's head back with a loud noise, and makes him scream again as the knife shifts in his hand, Priz takes a few steps back, and draws a much smaller looking automatic from his deceptively tight looking coat.
"Hello, friend. You fucked with the wrong fellow this time, it seems. I REALLY fucking hate it when pricks like you try and fuck with me while I'm sleeping. On the plus side, I got to use my Big Gun, and I suppose that's always a good thing". There is an odd look in Priz' eye, and he continues. "Boy, that sure looks like it hurt! How are you feeling, friend? You'd better not die on me, oh no, because I need to hand load those rounds. Do you know how long it takes to do that, only to have to waste them on a little shit like you?"
The man is not looking good. Obviously, he's not used to being on this side of things, and his cool demeanor has disappeared into pure terror at the sight what he perceives to be an obviously insane individual in front of him. He may have even soiled himself, but with all the blood on his pants, it's really too hard to tell.
"It's a shame those weren't bullet proof pants, you know? The 500 is a big gun, but I've been told it's a tad less effective at shooting through enough Kevlar and plastic plates than you'd expect. Still, you defiantly would still have a pair of nicely broken legs, right? I suppose I could have used this thing (he gestures with his pistol), since it was designed just for the purpose of blowing holes through the body armor of criminals, but really, this is all just theory and I'm wasting time. It looked to me like you were really in a hurry, and I feel bad holding you up."
Walking into the light and jumping up onto the bar, he stands directly above the dying man. "You know, I can tell a lot of things about people like you. You look positively SCARED right now, friend, but I know that deep down, you aren't so worried. After all, even if you die, we have needles for that. If I finish blowing your legs off, it's no big deal. We have needles for that. "We can rebuild him, we have the technology" sort of shit, right?" Priz pauses to slide out of his jacket. Looking at it, you have no idea where his guns came from.
"But I've got some news for you, friend. Technology is flawed." He spits out the last three words as he removes his T-shirt, revealing a huge, puckered scar running down his whole left side, both front and back. "If you fuck someone up bad enough, if you do it right, not everything does grow back. Oh, don't worry about it too much. You'll keep those legs, that's a given. But you won't forget about this day either, because I'm gonna take great care to leave them attached. The serum can fix a lot of shit, but when something is bad enough, it tends to do a shoddy job. Now I promise you, you will walk again. I wouldn't take that away from anyone. But I can also promise you, you won't be running anywhere, ever. Also.." without warning, Priz snaps up the pistol and fires a quick two shot burst into the man's groin. The Five-seveN is designed to penetrate body armor, and instead of expanding or fragmenting, it tumbles end over end, making a rip over 12 mm high in whatever it hits.
"...that might not grow back either." Turning around, he holsters the gun, and seeing the look of shock on the DJ's face, raises an eyebrow, as if he'd forgotten other people were there.
"What's with you?"
"Cheap piece of shit.." he mutters quietly. The sounds of the gun battle inside explode out into the street the instant the door comes off. Not terribly concerned about stealth, Priz walks purposefully into the bar, and standing in the shadows of the kitchen, surveys the situation.
Directly in front of him, hiding behind the bar, is the person he assumes to be the cause of the trouble. The man looks like typical murderous slime, and is trying to multi-task between firing his pistol over the counter top and stopping a torrent of blood which is flowing from his nose. Near him lies a worn and blood-flecked baseball bat, and a small, growing pile of spent shells.
Across the room, it looks like the DJ guy has hidden himself behind a thick table, as evidenced by the inability of the killer's 9mm rounds to blow through it.
Near the front of the bar, he can see his own blood trail leading towards the door and smashed bunch of metal lying on the floor. He thinks he can almost hear faint movement behind some chairs in a dark corner of the room, but he can't be sure. Diverting his attention back to his assailant, a slightly disturbing smirk crosses his face, and he draws a revolver from inside his jacket. Shutting one eye, and taking a deep breath, Priz carefully sets his sights directly on the back of his target's knee, and pulls the trigger.
The Smith & Wesson Model 500 is the world's largest handgun, firing the massive S & W .500 Magnum cartridge, which hurls a 325-grain, half-inch wide piece of lead at 2300 feet per second, for 5.1 kilojoules of muzzle energy. In field tests, it has been proven to be able to mortally injure an African Elephant at a ranger of 100 yards, and most other large game at ranges up to 200 yards.
The effect on the killer's leg is, admittedly, much more severe than Priz had intended. Shot does not begin to cover it, damaged is an understatement. Severed, is most likely the best way to describe it. Not pausing to admire the work, Priz quickly raises the huge double-action revolver and fires another shot into the assassin's other leg, watching as the huge chunk of metal does it's work. The man screams and falls to his back, one hand holding him up, the other feebly caressing his ruined legs.
Stopping only to push the gun back into the recesses of his jacket, Priz bounds over to the wounded man, and kicking the small, more reasonable 9mm Automatic away from his foe, who is too busy to care, he pulls a small knife from his belt and stabs it through the man's hand, pinning it to the floor.
With a final kick to the face, which snaps the man's head back with a loud noise, and makes him scream again as the knife shifts in his hand, Priz takes a few steps back, and draws a much smaller looking automatic from his deceptively tight looking coat.
"Hello, friend. You fucked with the wrong fellow this time, it seems. I REALLY fucking hate it when pricks like you try and fuck with me while I'm sleeping. On the plus side, I got to use my Big Gun, and I suppose that's always a good thing". There is an odd look in Priz' eye, and he continues. "Boy, that sure looks like it hurt! How are you feeling, friend? You'd better not die on me, oh no, because I need to hand load those rounds. Do you know how long it takes to do that, only to have to waste them on a little shit like you?"
The man is not looking good. Obviously, he's not used to being on this side of things, and his cool demeanor has disappeared into pure terror at the sight what he perceives to be an obviously insane individual in front of him. He may have even soiled himself, but with all the blood on his pants, it's really too hard to tell.
"It's a shame those weren't bullet proof pants, you know? The 500 is a big gun, but I've been told it's a tad less effective at shooting through enough Kevlar and plastic plates than you'd expect. Still, you defiantly would still have a pair of nicely broken legs, right? I suppose I could have used this thing (he gestures with his pistol), since it was designed just for the purpose of blowing holes through the body armor of criminals, but really, this is all just theory and I'm wasting time. It looked to me like you were really in a hurry, and I feel bad holding you up."
Walking into the light and jumping up onto the bar, he stands directly above the dying man. "You know, I can tell a lot of things about people like you. You look positively SCARED right now, friend, but I know that deep down, you aren't so worried. After all, even if you die, we have needles for that. If I finish blowing your legs off, it's no big deal. We have needles for that. "We can rebuild him, we have the technology" sort of shit, right?" Priz pauses to slide out of his jacket. Looking at it, you have no idea where his guns came from.
"But I've got some news for you, friend. Technology is flawed." He spits out the last three words as he removes his T-shirt, revealing a huge, puckered scar running down his whole left side, both front and back. "If you fuck someone up bad enough, if you do it right, not everything does grow back. Oh, don't worry about it too much. You'll keep those legs, that's a given. But you won't forget about this day either, because I'm gonna take great care to leave them attached. The serum can fix a lot of shit, but when something is bad enough, it tends to do a shoddy job. Now I promise you, you will walk again. I wouldn't take that away from anyone. But I can also promise you, you won't be running anywhere, ever. Also.." without warning, Priz snaps up the pistol and fires a quick two shot burst into the man's groin. The Five-seveN is designed to penetrate body armor, and instead of expanding or fragmenting, it tumbles end over end, making a rip over 12 mm high in whatever it hits.
"...that might not grow back either." Turning around, he holsters the gun, and seeing the look of shock on the DJ's face, raises an eyebrow, as if he'd forgotten other people were there.
"What's with you?"
