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Henry Gets Horrified
More commentary by a Fallen man
.

“Here we are, Mr. Oscard. Care for some coffee?”

“...Nah.”

“Ah. Alright. I’m not feeling up to anything, myself....”

So here we were. Durante’s room. Just finished up another damn job. He asked me if I wanted to come to his room for something to drink. I hoped he had something strong that he didn’t mind losing. Didn’t feel like remembering today. Still don’t. Thought that maybe after he gets the small talk he wants, I’d go find a bar somewhere....

I slung the big-ass pack holding the supplies down on the floor, and sat down. I’m trying not to feel sick. Ain’t ever watching him do another job again. He threw his jacket onto a chair. It’s the same one that kid was sitting in a few weeks ago. Don’t wanna go near that anymore.

I don’t know why I wanna mention this, but Durante’s got the choice of a room with a view, and a room without a view. The walls in his place can partition off in front of the windows. There were no windows when I went in that day. It was dim in there, felt lifeless and bleak. I coulda sworn I felt just a bit of hopelessness in there.

He dragged something out from where his bed was in the big room he considered ‘his abode’, what I wanted to consider ‘the crime scene’. “...What’re you doing?”

“Oh, just checking on some of my older works....”

“...Older?” Oh s---. Two words to sum up exactly what I was thinking right then. The trunks. Those goddamned tombs he brought to the Council. And he was opening them up again. I wished I had some Lysol or something, because I was pretty sure that the room was about to reek. Corpses in little boxes. Wonderful.

“Yes, I always have keep my first works around with me. Except for my very first, her parents didn’t seem to like me too much.”

F---, there he went again, staring at his trophies. Hunks of flesh and bone that couldn’t possibly be alive now. I oughta killed him right there. Almost did.

“They’ve always held a special meaning to me, sentimental value and all....”

I was trying real hard not to look over his shoulders, to see what was in that one case he was looking in. He didn’t even know that I was right behind him.

“They’re not as good as my present works, I’ll grant you...”

Didn’t even realize I was holding a gun to the back of his head. Total s---head.

“...but I still see every single one...”

I know I’m never gonna get away with it. You know I know I’m never gonna get away with it.

“...with a kind of beauty all their own.”

The Fallen woulda hung me by my own guts. But I gotta stop it sometime, goddammit....

“Isn’t that right, Mumsy?”

‘...what?’

Mumsy?

Crash.

There it was. The meltdown. The moment those poor bastards in the movies go through when they see a flash, turn around, and watch as a mushroom cloud rises up into the sky and a wave of destruction heads their way. That one sinking feeling that usually marks the second you’re body’s suddenly gonna stop living. All the alarms in my head, the ones that took three years with the Fallen to put up and perfect, the ones that were fine-f---in’-tuned to pick up s--- like this and scream at me to leave whatever it was the f--- alone, every single goddamned one went off like a newly-installed fire monitor in the middle of a burning barn filled with hay and kegs of lamp oil.

Everything around me came to a grinding, smashing, full-f---ing-blown halt. I stopped breathing. I’m even pretty damn certain the hands on my watch stopped moving. Everything I thought I knew was wrong, left is right, up is down, short is long, and a nauseating, blood-boiling, s---faced mindf--- was perfectly decent.

The s--- hit the fan.

The cows came home.

Pigs flew with wings on their backs and rockets up their asses.

You get the general f---in’ idea.

“Father was so happy when he saw how good I had made her look after all the years.”

No. No. He didn’t. Musta heard wrong. Oh dammit, even I knew that was bulls---. No, no no no....

“Died of happiness right on the spot. His heart was getting weak, after all.”

It had occurred to me earlier that Durante might’ve been missing a few teeth in the gears that constitute his brain. At that point, I was relating his brain with something akin to a clock. I still say his gears are missing a few teeth. But, now, I relate his brain with something like a loaf of French bread. Gears don’t belong in French bread, ladies and gentlemen, but he’s still short a few teeth.

The short version? He’s f---ed up. Not f---ed up good, not f---ed up royally, just plain old unadulterated pure-and-simple f---ed up.

“Couldn’t handle the shock. Must’ve been quite a rush.”

Wonderful. Not only did he hand his mom a death sentence without realizing it, but he handed his dad a court order stating he was to have his ass baked in the electric chair at 1600 on the clock, read him his last rites, brought him to the chamber, strapped him down, and pulled the switch himself, and without realizing it too.

“I should’ve been more careful. Maybe if I had told him first....”

So, yeah. I felt sick. Why me? Why him? Why does he have to turn out to be more f---ed up than what should be humanly, hell, rationally possible?

“...Something wrong, Mr. Oscard?”

I decided I was going to leave.

“...I’m gonna step outside....”

“Suit yourself. Have a nice day.”

Aw, f--- you too, Durante.

I left. Shut the doors behind me. I thanked whatever god was out there that I couldn’t puke on an empty stomach. I then cursed the same god for the existence of dry heaves. After I was done tossing cookies I didn’t even know I had, I just kinda stood there for awhile, looking all haggard and sick.

I don’t remember how I got outside, but I did. I vaguely remember people asking if I was alright, and vaguely remember plodding through the hallways of the Fallen Tower, but that’s about it. The point is that I was suddenly outside, or at least in part of the Tower with no ceiling of note. And I stood there for awhile too, thinking about, contemplating, and musing about nothing in general.

That’s when I raised a Desert Eagle above my head, and began to fire off round after round. Not one, not two, not three or four or five, but all eight bullets in the clip. Waste of ammo. Well, it didn’t last too long, ‘cause I just ended up pulling the trigger a few times before realizing the damn thing was empty.

Note to self: not a wise f---ing idea to fire off any kind of gun when in the Fallen Tower. Got away with it there, might not be able to later.

I hear some honking overhead. Ducks. Damn ducks. I hate ducks. How the hell do ducks get past the defenses, anyway?

I lock and load another clip, and fire off three shots. Three ducks proceeded to fall down and hit the floor with one big wet splat.

Did I mention I’m a better shot when I’m pissed off and slightly sick? Guess not.

Shooting ducks brought my stomach some relief. I could feel the smirk returning to my face. I was feeling better. I holstered the gun, and turned to walk away.

Quack.

Goddamned ducks.

Whip around and quickdraw. Boom. Splat. One more duck for the pile. I reholstered the gun, and walked back inside.

I’m now at a shooting range. How’d I get here? I’ll just say a lot of s--- happened in between here and there, and leave it at that. I love target practice. Got moving targets everywhere. Shooting things eases my mind. It doesn’t have to be living, but it usually helps if it’s something I don’t like.

Like that custodian at the old apartment building I used to live in before falling in with the Fallen. (Ha. I made a crappy joke.) The guy with enough guns in his cleaning cart to level the entire damn building three times over, and still have enough left to obliterate the nearby shopping centers. And the local marina. (I shot that goof down after he got his first twenty shots off, if you’re curious.)

Like ducks. They make fine dinners and all, but that doesn’t stop them from annoying the hell outta me.

Like Durante. And I think you know why.

I’m friends with the guy who sets up the targets, you know. I had him put up pictures of Durante’s face. Big ones. Had ‘em specially taken and blown up for that purpose.

Heh. Had Durante’s face blown up. I like how that sounds.

I spent a whole lot of time at the shooting range that day. I feel a helluva lot better than I did before. Why shouldn’t I feel good? The sun’s shining, the birds are singing, Durante’s got a bunch of holes in his face....

Quack.

...Do they ever learn?



Written by Ren
Start - 06/16/2002
End - Five hours, tops.

Oscard’s awful fun to work with, even when he’s stressed. About as fun as Greyson is, and as fun as Stiles will be...
 

Back home with you...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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