Reaching for the primal with one hand on the keyboard…

The former superhero Gunsaint got up, a tiny stimulator had woken him as specified, 06:00 military time. Pulling on his graying jeans, black in their darkest spots, white where the threads were becoming bare, he picked up his mirror and his razor. An old razor, the kind that you see in mafia- and westernflicks. He started scraping the stubble off of his face. At the same time his other pair of hands were reaching back, opening his worn gray leather bag. A pair of H&K USP 2000 UAMC semi-automatic pistols rested in their holsters. Beside them a pair of bigger guns and a shotgun packed into styrofoam, modular parts, separated and ready for fast assembly. Two gunbelts were also in the bag with special details to hold a few clips each. He closed the bag.

His face now clean of the rough black stubble but with a constant look like it had been carved out of rock, the sculptor hadn’t been a fan of pretty things. His hair had grown shoulderlong and it was a dark brown with strokes of white making his age more and more visible to those that saw him without his hat. He put on his shirt and tipped his hat, a custom bulletproof thing, on with a familiar shift of his hand.

There was a sound outside of the door and he let go a grumbling reply.
“It’s open.” An order, a shout, somewhat muffled by the cigarette he’d planted in his mouth. A match was smoothly fired up to light the tip of his John Silver. The primitive way of making fire was anachronistic and wasteful but it fit his personality. That’s what the designer’s directing documents said anyway.

The three men burst into his room as he finished pulling on his coat. It’s gray leather covering a wide muscular shoulderstructure and making an even more imposing appearance of the already scary man. The first one leveled a revolver on him, a .50 magnum slug striking his back around the spine. The data on the hit registering on his Heads Up Display as harmless. Three more struck as he turned. He looked down at the man, his eyes hard and gray under angled brows.
“You got 4 shots at me, from behind. I reckon that makes it my turn now, boy.” The room was small and with one step forward the young man was within his reach. One shot hit Gunsaint again, this time in his forehead. A small wound bled a small trickle down his nose. The bloodnets were an idea from his old designers, if he bled it made him seem more human. Less robotic, and his enemies might very well underestimate him, the bullet hadn’t penetrated his reinforced skull. His two primary arms reached out and grabbed the hands holding the gun. Lifting and separating until the man was suspended and the gun clattered to the floor. The move took little more than a second. The two extra hands struck out. Two fists hitting hard in the abdominal region. When let go the man doubled over before he’d even landed on the floor, the HUD indicating a ruptured spleen. The other two men raised their weapons, submachine guns, cheap ones. One hand landed on each cheap gun, locking the safety on each with a steady grip. Pulling them towards himself with a sudden jerk, as they had seen fit to carry their guns using sturdy straps, Gunsaint smiled, the blood running down his lips, the panic in their voices as they yelled for God, for help, for whatever, made it obvious that there was nothing human about his look at that moment. Nothing human at all.

He cleaned of his forehead in the bathroom. The guns were secured at his hips and the shotgun was resting against the bed. There was a man who was supposed to die today and he would most likely run as soon as he figured out that his lackeys weren’t returning. The former hero picked up his shotgun, hid it under his coat as always and stepped over the corpses, leaving the room to stalk his Los Angeles prey. The gray clothes were the most noticeable difference from his hero days, the rest was subdermal. To Gunsaint, the work was the same.

Först ut, tuff konst. Skuggor äger.

Ledig torsdag, ledig fredag, helg. Vad tänker jag göra av det? Ingen större aning. Ta det rätt sabla lugnt överlag. Eventuellt försöka städa upp lite och få lite saker som ligger och väntar gjorda. Spela spel också. Det är bra, det vill jag göra.

More, later