As a Young Boy Chasing Dragons

   It was one of those nights. He and Charles looked out the large windows in a daze. Half finished drinks in their hands, they watched it, sipping quietly.

               The moon was out in force, the city’s lights glowed with their Technicolor fury. It was a kind of rebellion against the natural world. The people, the city, they all rejected it a few nights at a time. Cast away the sensible natural order, and raged on against the dark night.

               “That was a hell of a job you did.” Charles said finally.

               “It was only necessary.” He replied, “I didn’t enjoy it, but that’s business.”

               Charles laughed lightly, nodding and smirking, “That’s what I like about you, you’re a realist. You get that sometimes you have to make the bad choice to stay safe.”

               “Just be sure your guys dispose of everything correctly, the money will be in the usual spot, correct?”

               “Yea,” Charles replied, “Going so soon?”

               “I want to spend some time alone, that’s all.” He replied.

               He turned away from the window and headed towards the front of the house. He placed his drink on a table on his way.

               “Hey Anderson, you know, I’m real sorry about all this.”

               He turned around to see Charles pulling a large revolver from his waistband.

               Everything was silent for a beat, and then a single shot rang out. Blood gushed from his chest, and he leapt at Charles. They tumbled over the couch, another shot blasted into the ceiling. He struggled to wretch the gun from Charles’ grip.

               It began to pull free, when Charles let go suddenly. He fell backwards unexpectedly. Charles pulled a different gun out, and fired.

               He collapsed, the blood filling his lungs. He reached into his pocket in a panic. Charles kicked the revolver away from him, watching cough and writhe in pain.

               The gun ran out with a bang.

               Bang, bang, bang, bang.

               …

               It was a slow day at the airport, a weekday in winter, mostly business people. The tiles clicked loudly, echoing against the heels of his leather shoes. The planes rumbled in the background, their muffled roars crying out.

               He was impeccably dressed, black suit, purple tie, and a blank face. The ear buds rumbled loudly, that even people passing him could hear them. In his head the song roared. The guitars and drums working overtime,

“Running, scrambling, flying…

Rolling, turning, diving, going in again,

Run, live to fly, fly to live, do or die,

Run, live to fly, fly to live, Aces high….”

He carried a long rectangular package in his right arm. It was keenly balance on his shoulder. A large orange sticker was plastered on it.

“Sensitive Diplomatic Parcel”

He walked down the center of the terminal confidently, the crowd naturally parting from his gaze.

He reached the front of the airport where his driver was waiting for him with his luggage.

“Glad you haven’t lost your punctuality Marce.” He said,

Her narrow lips creased into a facsimile of a smile.

“You’re looking good Les, what brings you to town this time of year?”

They walked out to the black town car, Marce stowed his bags in the trunk.

“Business, you know me, even when I’m relaxing, I’m working.” Les replied.

“Certainly,” She put her hand out for the box, “Shall I store that as well?”

He looked at it for a moment, “No, no thanks, I’ll keep it in the back with me.”

               Everything was sorted and Marce got on the road. He pulled the ear buds out, silencing his music.

               “Finally going to talk are we?” Marce looked back briefly.

               “Actually I had a request.”

               She sighed, “Of course you do.”

               They sailed up the interstate weaving through the mid-day traffic.

               The music blared, “The Angel of Death hears your last breath…”

               When they reached his hotel, Marce helped him get situated, and he dismissed her for the time being. He wouldn’t be in town long, so he spared no expense. He showered, exercised, and went to the day spa. They worked him over there. It helped him get ready, like a ritual.

               …

The sun was beginning to set. It hit that steady point where it was beginning to disappear. The remaining half overcompensated by taking up the horizon with its haughty yellow radiance. Marce drove away slowly, leaving him to his own devices.

Les strolled up the neighborhood carrying the parcel, he looked out towards the city. An impeccable view really, it was a bit too bright though. He pulled out his sunglasses, covering his dead eyes.

He finally came to the correct house, he double checked his notes just to be sure. “4318 S. Gallipoli Dr.”

He looked at the the numbers welded onto the wrought iron gate. 4318, this had to be it. Les hit the buzzer on gate.

“What?” A gruff voice asked from the speaker.

“Delivery.” He replied simply.

“For who?”

“John Anderson.”

“Yea alright, stay there.”

Les’s music blared in his ears, “…When the Life Giver dies, all around is laid waste, and in my last hour…”

Two men dressed in expensive shirts walked up the path. They opened the gate, walking out.

No one was there, just an empty box.

“I’m a Slave to the Power of Death!”

A long shiny blade sliced through one’s face, running with blood, flopping apart. The other reached into his into his jacket, pulling his gun, and firing.

Les winced, and slashed upwards, cutting his arm off at the shoulder. The guitars squealed in frenzy.

The man screamed through the music. Les kicked him to the ground, wacking his other hand off with a flick of the blade.

Charles and the others poured into the yard, firing like mad. Bullets ricocheted everywhere. Les ran out and pressed his back against the stone wall encircling the estate.

“Go around the back!” Charles yelled.

Les caught them as they came around the side, slashing them open with bloody fury. He grabbed one of their pistols, and made his way to the side entrance. More ran out, and they exchanged fire, more rounds hit him. He kept focused, taking out the targets in return. They collapsed in a bloody mess.

Les pressed against his chest, his hand returned damp with blood. He breathed deep and climbed wall.

They opened up on him again, he sprinted along the top of the wall, narrowly avoiding the fire. The wall curved in towards the house, and Les jumped into the air.

He kicked off the side of the roof, flipping backwards in a large arc. He crashed, bringing the blade down, cleaving one clean through. He emptied the gun in the remaining body guard.

Charles stood baffled, he took aim and fired, but his gun clicked empty. He pulled out a new gun, Les slashed through his wrist before he could pull the trigger.

“Why?” He asked.

“Tell me why I had to be a Powerslave….”

“I don’t wanna die, I’m a God….”