A streetwise man walks with swagger down a bustling city street. The master of his own little play, where he gets to act the most important part: The King. The shepherd of his own little flock of witless idiots, all fighting for the slim chance of glory. That's just the way he liked it. All's well in this little utopia of sin and debauchery.
Well that is until...
"Bang!"
A gunshot cut the air, silencing a once audacious city. hitting the smug little man clean in the chest, taking the kick from his feet.
"Bang!" "Bang!"
Two more metal slugs followed. The man hadn't even the chance to react before they knocked him flat. His dapper white attire stained a bright crimson. Death, all but certain. Pooled blood beneath him already running cold.
"The...hell?" The Man could barely gasp out a word; each breath he took followed by a crippling pain in his chest. His eyes darting around, unfocused, searching for the source of the attack, finding only faces of an uncaring crowd.
He tried to grasp the situation, to try and understand who or why someone would do this. But the more he thought about it, the more the futility of the question became clear. It would have been easier to list all the people he hadn't wronged than those he did. He didn't get the chance to ponder further, as a sudden possession of deliberate footsteps cut into his thoughts. one in particular being heartbreakingly familiar.
"Poor Damien." It was her, a dame dressed up to the nines in a cold sickly green buttoned-up dress. A dead, gray arctic fox hung tight around her neck like a noose. Her thin lips curled into a chillingly sweet smile.
"Vivian?...Why?" Whispered Damien, his voice dry and ragged, lungs screaming at him to stop. His vision blurred, but he could still make out the glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she blew the smoke away from the tip of a .38cal revolver.
"Why?" she said with Mocking puzzlement "Because You were always one ugly son of a bitch Damien! I just had the good heart not to tell you." she spoke with a voice of triumph, one well warranted, as she had finally flattened out the last bump on the road to the top.
"I...swear...I'll-."his words died, silenced by hellishly hot revolver pressed Softly against his head. his eyes locked on the finger gripping the trigger. "The show's over love." Vivian spoke with theatrical Flair. She always had a love for theatrics.
"Bang!"
A fourth and final shot between the eyes, marking the end to a man out of luck, a man out of time. Damien's intricately crafted Play, has finally reached its rightful conclusion.
"Tough day?"
The next thing Damien knew, he was in an office, face to face with what could only be the devil himself. Large, ridged horns, black as obsidian, curled outward from its head. A fine red-black strapped suit, impeccably tailored, straining against its monstrous form, small tears revealing glimpses of scaled, pulsing flesh just beneath the suit containing it.