Fight Scenes for the Inexperienced

And at that moment, causality decided to take its lunch break. The dead man rose from the bar, hot sand blowing through the hole in his head, and spoke to them. Well, to one of them. By the time the thin one had finished processing this shocking resurrection, zoot suit was already a steaming pile of pulled pork smeared across the wall.

Too occupied to mourn his partner, thin one picked up his gargantuan revolver and did the only thing a panicked human can do. He lashed out, and unloaded on the stiff.

“Would you quit that? You’re ruining the nice man’s bar stool.” The dead man tossed the bullet-riddled stool aside, and nonchalantly strolled towards the boy before him. Twig, desperate for one last chance, took aim with his last shot, and fired. His wrist, already tender from the beating he’d given it trying to kill the man once, simply could not stand for his abuse anymore. In defiance, it bent, and finally snapped beneath the force of the pistol’s recoil. The shot bounced wildly, hitting nothing, and the kid thinner than a tree branch fell to the floor, clutching the traitor with his one good hand.

“What did I tell you kid?” The dead man waltzed on over to the twig’s gun, taking particular care to stomp on his broken wrist. “Smith & Wesson Model .500, huh? I’m surprised you managed to even get a hold of one, much less find the ammunition.” He ground his foot into the brittle remains of the boy’s shattered wrist until the bones crunched beneath his boot. Twig’s screams were heard throughout the dingy little bar, but ignored.

“Quiet, you little shit.” The cold steel of a sawed-off shotgun pressed into the twiggy one’s face. “You know what this gun is?”

“I-It’s a sawed-off shotgun,” twig whimpered.

“Wrong answer.” The cold steel lifted, and for a moment, the thin one thought he was gonna be okay. Then he felt the icy touch of the gun barrel wrap around his one good hand. In a second, it was missing. Blasted into a fine mist. Twiggy didn’t even get to say goodbye. His pain roared, flying out of his jowls like the howling of a dying hound.

“It’s called a lupara. It’s Italian. Means “for the wolves”. So named for the way the buckshot chews through the flesh, leaving the corpse looking like it was gnawed on by a pack of wolves. But you could’ve already guessed that one, couldn’t you?”

“Please, don’t kill me. I’ve got a girl waiting for me! I got a future!”

“Do you think I care about any of that? Honestly, did they even tell you about La Sal? I met the last couple goons you sent after me there. Skinned them and stuck their heads out on pikes to dry. You might’ve seen them on the way here.”

By now, some part, some part buried deep down in skinny knew this was it. He’d bite the bullet, just like Vern did. Faced with that realization, all he could do was laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh. Laugh because he couldn’t cry. Laugh because he had nothing else. Laugh because maybe, just maybe, it would make it hurt a little less.

“By the way, I hate the name Thousand-Trigger. Tell your boys to stop using it.” A wet splash washed the floor in skinny’s brains, and the whole fiasco was brought to a close.

Poor discipline, charge as mob. Working for them, though, impossible to separate out a single target and put enough fire on it to kill it. Three, no, four, breaking off, coming this way.

Focus on those. Kill one with a long burst. Cut the legs out from under another before he gets to you. No more time. Drop the gun, knives out. On your feet. Meet them head-on.

Parry with one blade and stab with the other. Back up. Stab. Left backhand cut. Careful. Don't get blood on your faceplate, you don't have time to get it off. Stumble back. Armor still intact, you're not dead after all. Backhand cut with the left. Dodge right. Upward stab. Knife won't pull out. Let it go.

One down. Stagger back again. Armor breached, not serious. Still alive. Someone else shoots the last one down.