The Battle (DO NOT POST)

[lyle]

Here it was, his last chance. Vincent hadn't turned around to see if the Sheriff would've died, he didn't even count the seconds to the grenades inevitable explosion. He just ran. His salvation- there was someone waiting on the other side, she was his only hope.

It'd all be different if he made it there, that's what she told him. He'd left the cities of the east because of her, now he was ready to go back.

Yet the sun faded on, and it seemed no one could pity the young gun-hand. His eyes flickered as the grenade bounced before him and then exploded, creating a massive explosion of fire and flying sand. But he wouldn't be stopped- so he hustled on, feeling the blood roll down his side as his body numbed. All that was left was his focused eyes that saw only the other side of the bridge, struggling in the dim light to find that long haired woman that had stolen him so long ago.

The Sheriff's gun piped hot lead into the boy's back and kicked him firmly down a few pegs. He kept on though, the bridge close. Another round fired, exploding a post of the bridge. The sound of the Sheriff moving behind him was gone, there was no more sound, there was only the hammer on his back and the old, rotted boards he clambered over.

Round after round, the Sheriff was firing like a pro, like he was some kind of one man firing squad. It was beautiful, seeing these two.. one that had appeared to be so cold and then one that was surely famous for his righteousness. The truth came out though, here in the fading sun, when all was supposed to be calm.

Another shot sent the boy down, hitting him like a master does to a stubborn dog. With his one good arm he pushed himself up and peddled forward, the boards beneath him preparing to give.

Behind him the Sheriff calmly followed him at a slow pace as he threw a few more shells into his guns chamber. The boy took one final step as he grasped the rope to the end of the bridge... he felt pain, his woman wasn't there. She'd surely moved on, to find someone else. He told himself that, a lot.

"Bitc-"

The boy took a few steps forward and landed on the desert sand. He'd made it, he was okay with that. A second later he woke back up, finding the Sheriff's silenced weapon a comforting sight. In a blood curdling cry, he yelled the woman's name, and then told the bastard to go ahead and finish it. The gun cocked and the Sheriff gazed down the sights, his eyes hardened with many years of sand storms, dry places and little water. He'd stopped countless outlaws, killed many too. What was one more? He thought on, only to realize as he came back to the situation at hand that the boy was already dead.

Vincent was gone... the desert cold slowly creeping in as the warmth of his body faded.

The hero, the righteous gun of the Desert- the Sheriff who'd killed one too many Outlaws turned back to cross the bridge only to realize that it too had passed on, and was completely gone.
Now... what?

The desert had won.

[lyle]

Left a hole in the cold September dawn
On- the- day- I- go.

They danced their fake dance- you know the kind. Long, winding and specifically distant. Finally, it seemed they'd found a situation where hating each other helped.

But... it wasn't your type of hate, it wasn't as plain as war, or competition or even love. For though they'd both done many a thing that would require that strong, strong emotion, it still was not of the typical. But perhaps- it was a testament to themselves, that though hate was the only thing after love; they fought it, and danced the dance.


Jasper dusted his cap, wondering where he was for the hundredth time. This place so different than the lovely dream he'd been caught in- the song that he and that girl were forever trapped.

A cackle came from the rear, again. He didn't look this time, knowing he was alone in this strange empty mountain side.

Next, a whistle.

Was that another? His eyes stumbled around the sloping mountain side, looking for the coo that sought his attention. Surely, it must- surely there is another that seeks another, here.

And yet after much searching and fighting the winding winds that scattered the sound- he found its source. An old radio. To it was attached a strange gun, of all things, still being held the boney hand that had owned it.

What does this mean?

Then, another cackle- it sounded real.

[Aimless]

"Hoo-ee boy. You are not in a good place right now. Do not move, I wouldn't want to hurt you now."

The receiver let loose a svelte, harmonic, bass filled voice that tickled to the touch. The receiver continued to bellow forth the near hypnotic tones of the man on the other end.

"Now, don't move. You can't see me, but I'm across the valley. No I won't tell you where. I suggest you drop whatever good stuff you got next to that there radio and get the hell outta dodge."

On the opposite hillside, buried in a shrub and a tree overlooking him, a single man looked through a scope. The sunlight didn't glint, a tinted glass cover that didn't give away his position. Inside he was torn; every time he was forced to steal his body reacted negatively. He wasn't like this before, but now he was forced into it.

The countryside had returned over the years, though the cohesiveness of man did not. Nomads of the plains instead of the desert that once held here. Lush forests took the place of great dunes, and the tranquility of nature resumed. Game returned to the land, which made living easier. Unfortunately man could not prosper again; they had their turn.

God had turned on them.

New predators stalked the countryside. Some were men, but animals had evolved and become dominant again. Thankfully humanity still had the tools from the past; though diminishing, the vast loss of life left most of humanity's footprint intact. Nothing was fresh, but beggars can't be choosers.

The finger hovered on the trigger. Anything would set him off, and consequently send the bullet within directly into the heart of the man. No questions, no problems.

It wouldn't be his first.

[lyle]

Was it the second then? He didn't seem to have the greatest of wit- hell he sounded a hair off of Ron Burgundy.

Jasper concluded though quickly that it wasn't good ol' Ron, nor was this the time of Ferrel, Falon or Frank. Perplexing, though his mind still felt foggy to the day. He'd been dreaming so long, though he only knew it as a few chances in the wind.

Where... am... damnit no, I'm tired asking myself that. Maybe the voice knows.

Rattling the radio around he found on its side a small microphone. Interesting- he was still alive to find it, despite his new voyeur.

"So... what time are we in? Just don't tell me Bush is still king," he spoke clearly into the receiver. This was something out of a movie, that's what. But what was the next scene? A blow to the head?

Maybe he should grab the gun?

Taking a gander down range, he quickly found his eyes hovering over a large bush in the middle of the plain, clear hillside.

Perplexing.

A small sliver of something, like a snake in heat, stuck from it.

"You know, I don't have anything," continued Jasper, as he notably shook with his free hand the only thing he had; pants. "But if you maybe want to talk or come out of that bush.. well I'd be fine with that."

Just then a most loud cackle rang, but only the bushman could see the encroaching sabertooth hybrid slipping past the shirtless figure.

What
to
DO?-

[Aimless]

Well this was strange indeed. Who was this man who didn't know the outside world and traveled without any supplies? This was a strange indeed.

He spoke into the mic a soft lullaby of a voice, almost hushed though it was natural for him to talk in such a way. He didn't speak for the sake of speaking, he spoke with purpose. His dulcet tone washed over the earpiece that he wore. There was no fear behind his voice, only fascinated curiosity. An innocence.

"You need only know that this bush is in charge. I'd suggest you keep standing still though."

The eerie slinking. The striped on spotted pattern of the returned sabertooth tiger stalking it's prey under shadow. The pearlescent white of their teeth. Delicious with a light garlic sauce.

His scope automatically retrained itself on this new enemy. A miniature computer read the range, and recalculated the scope to compensate. He trained it on the slinking figure, and pulled the trigger.

The firing pin pistoned forward, striking the firing cap, which lit the gunpowder which exploded in a chain connection that rocketted forward with enough force to propel the .50 caliber sized bullet forward at 3,044 feet per second. The bullet hit the animal before the sound reached it, it's body already propelled two feet sideways before it's prey realized a shot had been fired.

"You're welcome. The sights are back on you though. Now, tell me your story."

[lyle]

(you reminded me of Bob Lee Swagger when you read off the feet persecond. good stuff)

What had been a relatively curious journey through an empty land now had become something of an adventure. With a little intrigue Jasper'd found himself upon a radio, that was more of a trap than anything else. But a trap for humans?

And finally the beast of burden- its claws and teeth all too sharp, made its move. But so did the voice. The tiger was twisted back mid leap before Jasper had even enough pause to scurry about. From its back came the bullet which had traveled at nearly 3000 feet per second. A crippling blow for the beast, which now lay in a discombobulated hunk on the ground.

Jasper thought; neat and this is definitely a movie. In fact, he even knew his part.

Just as the voice reloaded his weapon the shirtless lad hopped to, hurtling over the large beast that would've had him for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And dessert, Jasper thought, thinking he was sweet enough for at least four courses.

"My story eh..." Jasper mused, his eyes twinkling up to the sky, but then fell back aloof. "I... I don't think I remember it. Well that's funny!"

His hands rolled over the radio and down its attached weapon to the bony fingers left on its butt. After toying with the device he decided of it no great importance- dislodged it and threw the whole set out of the shelter of his new, toothy home. As the item and hand crashed on the grassy knoll they both crumbled to dust, their parts finally returning back to nature.

Who needs a gun when you have a radio?

"My name's Jasper though, hah," he laughed quietly, "is that you Burgundy? Still staying classy?"

[Aimless]

The squirrelly man dove over the carcass of the beast, carrying with him the radio that he had spoken through. As he watched, he grimaced a little. He should not have helped the man, should've shot the beast after he had given him a little what-for.

Shoulda coulda woulda.

He fingered the trigger, knowing fully well that a bullet put through the hulk of that sabretooth would probably propel itself out the other side and into whatever was there. Unless it hit bone, then it might slow down enough. Not worth it to risk it, plus his ammo reserves were very low.

He still kept the scope trained on the man, flipping through zooms as he spoke with him. He didn't ever let the stranger out of his sight, watching with a hawks intensity as blood seeped from the massive crater in the sabretooth into the ground that the squirrelly one called his own.

"My apartment smells of rich mahogany. Now tell me what you're doing here. This is my valley, I've stalked it for years. Haven't seen too many folks around, especially not ones that call back to that nincompoop Bush.

So what's your angle, boy? You've got me perplexed."

He absently scratched at his head, his fingers pushing his cowboy hat up off his head slightly as they worked into his skin. He needed a shower, and he needed food. He had both, but not while this man was allowed to roam free in his valley. Nuh uh no way no how.

[lyle]

Yawn!

Frown.

Town.

How now, brown cow? What? Oh yeah crap, bushmaster is saying something. But ah-

Like a jumbled mass of ratty mice and spontaneous spaghetti his mind withered amongst all the many things one thinks about in a day. But ah-

There was something important to be had here, he couldn't quite put his nose on it though- 'this tiger carcass smelled like ratty mice and spontaneous spaghetti,' after all.

"Hey you know this tiger smells like..." Jasper paused, then after a most deafening silence continued, "if this isn't the time of Bush, then what time is it?"

It couldn't have been half past noon, no- the sun hadn't even sunk past its highest perch. The sun. The moon. Whales. But ah-

that was it!

Last he remembered he was in a black alley, and then he woke up in a craft of some sort in space. Tied down feverishly, his only visage was that of a large glob of light in the distance. But as time passed and... whatever you would call a day in space.. became.. whatever you call-a-night-in-space it became apparent he was heading for a star!

Miraculously, he made it to its core, and then in the radiance of its ye old golden smile found himself in a dance, a dream of a dance.

That reminded him.

"When is night going to appear? I want to get back to my dream, maybe I'll take a cat nap like my friend here after noon?"

[Aimless]

The trigger finger relaxed, slackened under the notion that this man was but a lost soul in this wasteland. He pulled away from the scope, drinking from a cantina.

"Boy, it's a long time past the bush years. I was but a little boy then. Shit, I'm not even sure I was alive then."

He continued staring at the carcass and the man huddle behind it. He didn't intend to ever shoot him, but he wasn't about to let the man have any sort of upper hand over him. He moved his shoulders and resettled himself.

"The night won't be here for another 3 hours, boy. You're mine until then.

What happened to you? Why are you such an anachronism."

[lyle]

"Three hours huh," Jasper chewed on the little gristle of information, where it flew down far into his breech and left only the small wake of its struggle to pertain.

A second later though it rose with a vengeance, clawing, striving, and relating to anything left in the questioning mind of the boy. "That's it!" exclaimed Jasper, now standing high with a vigor he felt he should've had.

But then- just as before, the twinkle began to fade as though the way he was was not the way he should be. Destined not for forward yet set back backwards to something he was not entirely sure of.

His mind wandered on as his stupefied form became a statue. Now out of it more than before, he failed to notice the sweeping wind crashing around him and screaming quietly, "Fight it."

Yet to fight, one must fight- so the wind carried on and flashed before his face, striking him here, striking him there until it found a crevice upon the side of his head. Following the hole through, it found a mushy mass and moled its way towards its ionic core.

"Oh." What had been the struggle of the world around to find the truth was but a few seconds of recollection to Jasper, who them carried on into the receiver.

"Yeah! Wow- well from what I can remember I was in an alley way. And in that alley way was a man who'd was to sell me some smackers. Buttt, there were more men, and before I knew it I was in a ship made of gold, heading for a star... Oh and one of them had said three hours till the subject needs to be moved on... and then I dreamed, and then I'm here, and then I'm talking to you, and then... I'm.. rambling! Shit man, I want to go back to sleep."

[Aimless]

The man's ramblings made little sense. Perhaps it would be smarter to put this obviously mentally deficient individual out of his misery. Someone like this was not built for the wasteland.

He thumbed the safety of the rifle. His rough hand pushed the button on his radio to start his transmission to the other man.

"Well, you seem to be six different types of crazy, boy. I don't have time for that level of insanity, son. Have a good day, and you might want to think of eating some of that cat."

He flipped off his com. Rustling his bag together he crept out of the bush. He crested the top of the hill so that he wouldn't be silhouetted against the dying sun. He turned his com back on once he was over the top and out of sight. Scanning the bands, looking for any sort of communication.

It was the life that he lived.

[lyle]

Jasper wandered off. Now was the time for him to live.

After walking, fending off tigers and barely living he finally found another, yet again. This time he remembered more to tell;

Across the galaxy... there was a sprawling metropolis. I needn't paint the picture we all know, but if you are to know to anything of this place, it is filled with Romans, Romans who belong to Rome. Yet none are Italian or have ever heard of Caesar, not even as a dressing.

Yet you would call them as Romans.

Filled to the brim with hippster artists, business coats, begging junkies and dispassionate slaves- it is the city we all know. A place for the vain, for the sick, for the greedy, for the pure, for the downtrodden.

Yet also for one specific soul.

Where is he now? Let me see... ah, there, just beyond he deliberates on.

Such is the de-liberator who is to this as the Bat is to Gotham.

High up in the skyline within a window of an apartment he gazes down, his eye searching amongst the crowds- though hunting is a better word.

"Hmmm," escapes his iron like form as he finally notices what he'd rented this shit hole of an apartment for.

Down below, unknowingly to what is above, the chief of police wanders around. He is happy, tomorrow he will assume the office of the Mayor. The campaign went well, though kept him more busy than he preferred. Hopefully Jane would understand that things would slow down and he'd have more time for their kids now.

Yet a small bird picked at his neck, he was uneasy and couldn't answer the question that had nested on his shoulder. Where is it going?

[Aimless]

He continued his solemn, somber soliloquy in his head; "Thank you, thank you, I could not have done it without all of your support."

Fools.

He walked amongst the dirt and refuse, the streets littered with the shames of the past. He wasn't walking in one of the renovated areas, one of the cleaned up, made for living streets. It was a side street, surrounded by such extravagance as sweeped streets and working lamps. This street represented him in as much as the tower above him represented a return to normality.

This was his favorite street, a street that he'd walked down dozens of times. He was the police chief, a station reserved for the head lawbringer in this city. The people that had flocked here needed the protection, both from themselves and the outsiders.

The outsiders. How he reviled those lawless thugs. Don't they understand why order is created? Don't they get why justice is so important? It's not there to be tested, it's there to be subverted. It's there to be a standard that all the shady individuals can try to get around; without the law, there is no crime. And when there's no crime, there's no organization trying to exploit it.

Ahh yes. The police chief, of course he's paid off. He's paid off in millions. This tower? He owned, in name, only a small apartment. He owned, in company, ten floors. Why? Because he wasn't stupid. He knew how the game worked, especially in this secondary civilization that they founded here. He wasn't a born and bred individual like all these stupid sheep flocking to the next big thing; he grew up on the wastes, in a home, where his family was killed because of debts.

He understood. He wasn't scarred, he wasn't a changed man when that day happened. Well, he was. He was changed in that he then understood the concept of dog eat dog, and the idea of debt. He knew how to get ahead in this world and he wasn't going to let that knowledge languish inside him; he was going to exploit it.

So he took a job with a defense force for a small farming community about 20 miles out of town. They were a subsidiary of this town, but autonomous in governance; they paid a small tribute to the Senate, the ruling body. There he worked up the ranks, eventually taking a position as head of security there. It was then that the Mafia took interest in him, and they sent him the regular invitation; scratch our back, you'll live to see your grandkids.

He accepted, as everyone did. No one fucked with the mafia in this town. No one had the gall; they controlled 60% of all the industries within the city, including 90% of the exporting companies, with an understanding with the remaining 10%.

To put it simply, the Mafia owned the city, and the city understood that. No senator wasn't affiliated with the Mafia, no public official not in their pocket.

So, he started doing more for them. He got on their good side, never missed any payments, never spoke out of turn with them, never asked too much, never expected more than he should. He worked his way up in both organization, playing the perfect actor in both circles, carving out a name for himself without stepping on too many toes, and no toes that were bigger than his.

So, now that he was mayor, his policing days now past, he was on top of the world. And the Mafia had to be happy; one of their most loyal pawns had won the highest public office available to anyone.

He was on top of the world. So why was he stalking down this dark alley, stopped, lit cigar in mouth, pulling on the roughly grown tobacco plant?

Because he didn't know where to go from here. Every previous day had been full of anticipation for this day, and now that it had come, he had nothing to live for. Should he go through with this, and see where it took him? But nothing was certain. He had lived a life of known quantities, known qualities, and known expectations. Everything had been apparent to him as it happened specifically because he had planned everything about his life.

So what now?

[lyle]

(sounds like you)

What did the new mayor need? What would relinquish the starvation of a life planned oh too well, a mind oh too cunning? Why do I always ask questions in my writing?

To get yourself thinking, that's the answer. And the De-liberator, as he is known and feared, is the man who'll never fail to get your engine running.

Such are his ways, in which he, by cutting off the liberation in people's lives, shows to all whom are concerned (you and me) how their freedom has turned to nothing but corruption and greed. To how what they value at their root is now feigning and preparing them for the fall.

I suppose in a way, he is here only to help cushion that fall, for he has but a few bullets for a few salty souls.

One case in point, the man smoking a cigar.

"Steady," escaped his cold lips as he loaded a long shaped bullet capable of making his targets go byebye. But all of a sudden, a rumbling came from the other side of the plastic door.

'Shit,' he fired his shot, already thinking about the pistol in his pants and the spray gun at his side. Company, and more bullets.

[Aimless]

The whistling was heard within a split second of the boom, the bullet traveling with such speed and grace that he momentarilly doted on the means of his death before he registered that the bullet missed him and kicked up a chunk of pavement at his feet. He immediately went into motion, throwing himself behind a nearby dumpster, staying low and watching out.

His breaths were already ragged, his position not on that was often near the frontlines of any sort of battlefield or police action. He wasn't the man you went to when you needed a crime solved, only when you needed an approval certified. It was the trap that all powerful men fell into; laziness.

He grasped at his chest, his heart arrhythmically pounding against the built up fat in its tubes. He slammed at it with his fist and it fell back into step, agreeing to continue this man's life for but a few moments longer, as if it only wanted to be a spectator to a more fantastic death than heart attack in a dim alleyway.

He looked about, but no more loud pops rang out, and no more bullet holes appeared. He smoothed back his thinning hair, his breaths coming in shallower heaves as he composed himself. He kept crouched as he tuned his ear even more, hearing some shouting and smaller gunshots, nothing close to what was fired at him. He took this as a good sign and began creeping his way towards the end of the alley, moving in a hurried, hunched and hustled run.

He came out the end of the alley and threw himself into a more upright position. He groaned at the strain but grimaced it away; he would rather have a sore back than a busted skull.

He opened the door of the building he was next to, the one that the shot had probably come from. It had to have come from relatively high and above him, so he assumed. There was no one inside, and the door to the nearest stairs was thrown open. He moved his hand into his jacket and pulled out the service pistol he had, a pistol molded after the relic of yesteryear, the Beretta 9mm. He pulled back on the top of the gun, loading the first bullet into the chamber.

He began his dark ascent, the long winding walk up the stairs. His heart settled as he slowly made his way up. He reached the floor just as he heard the final scream and gunshot, the casing clinking to the ground quite audibly. He leveled his pistol towards the door, and waited for fate to run it's course.