Boom, my head got blown off!
Nah just kidding.
To set the record straight, it wasn't me that got shot. Nah, it was my clone, a puppet I conjured up to play my part in this twisted game.
It did take a toll on my mind, but hey, better safe than sorry, right?
I had to play it smart and keep myself out of harm's way.
So there I was, watching from a safe place, observing how the show would unfold. Lucky Blaze, he walked right into my trap, flaunting his so-called "Django Unchained" ability.
Now, let me break it down for you, the way his ability works and how I found its secret.
My puppet took a hail of bullets from behind, but those shots weren't from Lucky Blaze's piece. No, someone else pulled the trigger. I tracked it down, and zeroed in on the spot where the shot originated.
The fourth story of a building, that's where it came from, that fourth window right there. I made my move, sneaked in, and found the sniper just sitting there, unfazed by the ruckus.
Strange, ain't it?
I reached into my pocket and flicked a coin at him, expecting the metallic ping of it hitting his flesh. But to my surprise, the coin passed right through the sniper as if he were nothing more than a hologram. Clad in black bandages and topped with a sinister black cowboy hat, this phantom gunman was none other than a manifestation of Lucky Blaze's power!
It was a scene straight out of a Wild West showdown, with two cowboys squaring off, but one of them playing dirty!
Lucky's ability to conjure untouchable snipers, controlled by his telekinetic grip or the mere wave of his hand, was a beautiful display of his malevolent essence. Like a macabre puppeteer pulling unseen strings, he orchestrated his deadly game with ease.
Though technically, I had achieved my objective, the urge to toy with Lucky remained. I wanted to watch him squirm, to feel the icy grip of fear tighten around his body and soul. For he needed to understand the depths of horror I was capable of unleashing upon him.
Back in the fray, with Lucky in its sights, my puppet took a bullet to the head. Now, any other contract holder would've been put down, plunged into that regenerative coma we all know too well. But this puppet? Nah, it ain't one of us. It's just a marionette, that does as I please.
Still standing, it turns those lifeless eyes to Lucky, with a plea on its wooden lips. "Spare me, brave cowboy," it croaks, "I reckon I done wrong by ya."
Lucky's voice rang out, rough and raw, like a stone underfoot. "Yeehaw! I am in an apple pie order today not gonna lie! You've just been served a dose of The Django Unchained, partner.
You should grow a pair of balls and die standin' up. Might be time to find some backbone and face the music. Mercy ain't on the menu, I'll keep firing till you're resting six feet deep in the Bone Orchard."
( In an apple pie order= In shape. Die standin' up = be brave. Bone Orchard = the graves/the cemetery. )
Lucky fired another round into the puppet's head, but its pleas for mercy persisted, sending a shiver down his spine.
In a panic, he ordered his snipers to unleash a barrage of gunfire, shredding the puppet's form into a grotesque mess. Yet, despite the damage, it continued its relentless advance, grabbing Lucky's leg with an iron grip.
In desperation, Lucky aimed for the puppet's hand, hoping to force it to release him. The gunshot tore through flesh and sinew, severing the limb from the puppet's body. To his horror, the detached arm slithered like a serpent up his leg, wrapping around his neck in a suffocating embrace.
Gasping for air, Lucky was paralyzed by fear as the puppet's pleas for mercy kept getting louder and louder. The lack of oxygen combined with the relentless grip sent him tumbling to the ground, his back hitting the earth.
As he lay there, helpless and vulnerable, the puppet crept closer, its form engulfing Lucky's body in a suffocating embrace.
Lucky's eyes shuttered closed, conceding to his defeat. The puppet's voice, a sinister whisper, slithered into Lucky's ears like a serpent's hiss:
"Fear sustains us, molds us, breaks us. Remember your place. Your survival hinges on it. Consider yourself fortunate, for you have caught the eye of the Church of Truth. But beware, this is merely a glimpse of my power. Now run boy, run, for I will seek you out to unveil your purpose."
With a sudden explosion, the puppet burst, leaving Lucky drenched in blood and organs, etching scars upon his mind that would haunt him for eternity, a PTSD express from yours truly.
Rising to his feet, Lucky bolted like a Broom-Tail, his screams echoing through the halls of the bank:
"Lord, have mercy, you are the very essence of damnation, The Deuce himself."
(Broom-Tail = badly behaved or unattractive horse. Deuce = an alternative expression of the devil. )
Before the puppet exploded atop Lucky's lifeless form, it slid a note into his pocket—a cordial summons to The Church of Truth, along with the secret spot of our initial gathering.
With the lad roughly schooled, it was time to go back home and recharge my spent energies; manipulating the marionette had taken its dues on my mind.
Compared to Psyche, my recent encounter with a fellow contract holder. A breeze, really, compared to the homeschooling I did with Lucky.
I couldn't help but wonder if she, too, had encountered such cute hostility.
Ah, well, tomorrow's dawn would reveal all.
Yet, an unsettling presence remained—a specter, perhaps, hiding in the shadows of that sniper's den. Its silent inspection now followed me through Manhattan's alleyways.
Well, let them think of themselves a the hunters, while I played the hunted.
In their arrogance lies their downfall, a fate they'll soon learn the hard way...