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Episode 094
Errol was bleeding badly from the face. The single injuries had
been torn and retorn so many times that his face simply looked like one
big cut. His mouth had been sliced back to the jaw bone, while his left
eye lid was gone. His ears were bleeding as badly as his nose, while his
mouth was barely able to stay closed.
Phillip could only
smile.
"My men do
good work, don't they, Errol?" He asked rhetorically in the
low-ceilinged room that the second in the Investigator's Clan was being
held in. "They really did a number on you." Errol rolled his
head up, to try and speak, but no words came. Only blood.
"Oh, don't
worry." Phillip smiled, looking into Errol's drugged eyes.
"You're not going anywhere. You're going to be alive for some time to
come. As long as Aaron's still alive, you're going to stay on
living." The look in Errol's eyes was either fear, saddness, or pity.
Phillip couldn't tell which.
"Oh, in the
end, it doesn't matter." The head of the Miracle Worker's Clan
continued in delighted sadmism as he stepped back from the seated and
chained Errol. "In the end, the Brotherhood shall endure. In the end,
we'll be here when no one else is." He leaned forward, looking Errol
in the eyes. "No thanks to you."
Errol suddenly
lunged forward, his blood-covered teeth bared. He snapped at Phillip's
face, the sudden movement startling Phillip so bad he stumbled back,
collapsing on the ground. The startled head looked up at Errol, seeing new
life in the aid's eyes. Suddenly, Errol had gone from a dazed victim to a
predator.
"Bastard."
Phillip cursed. He swung from his right, slamming his hard shin right into
the side of Errol's head. Blood splattered across Errol's pants and the
opposing wall as Errol's chair was nearly knocked over. The aid's head
hung limply from the motionless body as he sat there.
Phillip stepped
back from Errol, straightening his jacket with a thrust of his arms.
"Bastard." He breathed loudly, straightening the lapels of his
jacket. He wiped his jacket down smooth, then pushed back his hair. He
looked around nervously, then turned to the door and stormed out.
Silence.
Darkness.
"Heh heh heh."
Errol's head
lifted up, his teeth bared as his eyes glowed with delight. "Get
bent, dickhead." Errol spat, coughing up more of his blood.
"I'll see you soon enough."
The highway flowed like a water fall, it's four paths of travel
filled with glowing lights and the constant drone of traffic. The cars
moved along, progressing the night as they shot by the darkness, moving
from one place to the next.
"I just can't
believe that Ev wants to wait." Roland said, as he and Ledger sat in
the seats of his truck, both of them waiting behind a semi as a slower car
passed by them. "I mean, they blew up my car. My car."
"Oh, like it
was such a nice car." Ledger countered to Roland, rolling his eyes at
the white boy's complaining.
"It got me
laid more than a couple of times." Roland answered back.
"I doubt
you've gotten laid more than a couple of times." Ledger countered.
"But anyway, I hate to say it, but I kind of agree with Ev." He
grumbled in mild embarrassment. "If there's a chance that we can use
these attacks to figure out what they're after, then maybe we can stop
them all together."
"You make it
sound like there's some big plan." Roland said, his attention only
half-focused on the nighttime highway traffic. "Maybe they're just
killing people and that's it."
"I hope
not." Ledger mumbled off aimlessly to himself.
The rumbling of the giant machines filled the laundromat with an
empty, sound-absorbing buzz that drowned out even the darkness-dwelling
insects that sang into the long single room of machines from both sides.
The rear door that
led out into the back of the mini-mall was propped open, while the front
door suffered the same fate. And between the two, Morgan stood at a
folding bay, mechanically flding his clothes.
The wardrobe
before him, both that which was complete and what still needed attending,
where monochromatic in nature. Solid colors mixed with black made up the
fashion. But of all the colors present, only one remained absent: Red.
The former knight
looked up from the clothes, glancing around in the sterile light of the
laundromat. In the stark passivity of the single giant room's decoration
and design, the ominousness of the noise from the machines was powerful.
Since the dawn of domesticated electricity, laundromats had looked
identical. And this realm was no different. Morgan smiled sadly in the
comforted familiarity of the place as he folded up the shirt in his hands
and placed it at the top of the blue pile. He rolled his shoulders and
sighed again.
Morgan turned
around from the stack of clothes, to the empty, late-night Laundromat.
“Alright.” He said clearly, with a slight sound of annoyance in his
voice. “I know you’re there, so get the hell up and let’s get this
over with.”
Three shapes rose
up from the front of the Laundromat, two shapes from behind Morgan.
“Alright.” The former knight said, breathing out. He reached back to
the washing machine he had been folding the first load of clothes on, and
picked up his Grosse Messer. He held it up, letting the three at the front
of the Laundromat get a good look at it.
The shapes stopped
moving, even the two behind Morgan. He smiled, then put the sword down,
instead drawing up a long towel. He casually rolled it up into a tight
strand and held it ready.
The nearest of the
three rushed at Morgan, a knife in his hand. He thrust it at the former
knight, but Morgan whipped the towel at him, hitting him right in the
groin. With the same motion, Morgan shot the towel out behind him,
slapping the first of the two behind him in the stomach. Using the impact
to fuel the swing, Morgan spun the towel over his shoulder, slamming
it’s end down on the crown of his first foe.
The rear-most of
the front three rushed forward, his own knife ready. "What is this,
guys?" Morgan asked as the man rushed at him, swinging at him with an
ice-pick grip. "Couldn't you guys at least be original?"
Morgan caught the
man's arm in the towel and bent it around his body. Releasing his hold on
the towel, Morgan suddely spun the towel around the man's throat and
flipped it over, sending the man crashing down to the groun. But the
steroid-junkie was up in a flash, the knife ready.
Now, Morgan faced
the five, his arms held out in acquiesence. "Okay, boys." He
said, looking at the pack of jackhals. "Fun's fun. Get the hell out
of here."
"After we've
handled you." Said the closest of the five.
"You just
don't learn, do you?" The former knight asked, the towel hanging
limply in his hand. The leader jumped at Morgan, swinging backwards to
drive the knife's point in at Morgan's throat, but he simple wasn't there.
Morgan snapped the
towel at the man's thigh, hitting just where the legs apexed. Even from
behind, the blow registered with the man, opening his eyes up wide.
"I guess steroids don't make that area as insensitive as I
thought." Morgan asked, swinging his towel around his shoulder to
catch it underneath, holding it like a nunchaku.
He spun around,
whipping it out at the first of the two who charged at him. The whip
smacked the man in the face, knocking him down to the ground. Morgan
looked at the other man. The guy looked at his knife, then at Morgan. He
stepped back from his fallen comrade, then glanced down at Morgan's
clothes.
"I
wouldn't." Morgan said cautioningly. "I hate folding clothes.
Mess them up and . . ."
The Hand agent
grabbed up Morgan’s Grosse Messer.
The man tore it
from the sheath and held it like a katana. “Okay.” Morgan said, his
voice suddenly getting painfully serious as his eyes razored at the man.
“That’s not funny. Put that thing down now or someone’s going to get
hurt.”
“Yeah.” The
man said. “You.”
“I doubt it.”
Morgan said earnestly.
“I’m the one
with the sword.” The man said. As he spoke, Morgan slapped him in the
groin with the towel. Before the towel had even rebounded completely,
Morgan slapped the man again in the face and then in the hand, loosening
his grip.
The sword went
flying into the air and Morgan spun around, lashing the man across the
face with the towel. He caught the sword in the air, then ducked down low
and brought the sword under his arm with an ice-pick grip and drove it up
and back, right into the stomach of his foe.
The blade of the
sword punctured the man’s back, blood spilling out over the Laundromat.
The others, still recovering, stepped back in horror. “Okay.” Morgan
said, yanking his sword out of the man. “At first, I was just having
fun. Now I’m mad. And now the fight’s turned lethal.” He pointed at
the front door. “Out.” He commanded.
In nearly an
instant, he was left alone in the Laundromat. |