This is a Fanfic about random Nintendo

[Pilgrim John]

Um... Unfortunately, people, it would seem as if I have almost lost all interest in writing this story. My overdemanding job is starting to weigh on me to the point where I pass out every day I get off work. When I wake up, I'm groggy and have little interest in anything. In short, because of my evil job, my days are constantly wasted.
Fortunately, I'm going to quit soon since KFC has confirmed that it'll hire me. (Kiss my ass, you burger-flipping clown!) So if that turns out peachy, you'll likely see some updates, hopefully back to the "one chapter per week" state it was once in.
I'd like to thank everyone here for their patience. The good news is that in not writing the story, I was able to iron out a few more kinks in the story, so that'll help immensely.
The Dynamite Pirates will not die!

[ruben_gamer4life]

good luck and BURN DOWN THOSE 3VIL ON3S!

[Pilgrim John]

Finally, at long last, the next scene! Things are really starting to get wild. Also, newcomer Ashia makes her way into my story.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the movies, the first thing a depressed man would do is mope around in a bar. Usually, the pub in question is likely to be depicted as the smelliest, most rotten establishment conceived.
However, this would appear to not be the case. As a matter of fact, the Whiskey Corner was rather nicely kept and well-lit, with clean floors, shining glasses, calm music, and a variety of beverages that ranged from plain Budweiser to drinks far more exotic. Usually, it attracted lots of patrons for its service, variety, and pretty waitresses, but right now, its business was pretty much dead.
But whether or not the bar was seedy, the fact remains that art often imitates life, and the scene Norm Gamer found himself in was like in those old movies he loved to watch. Except now, the scenario before him was more than he could bear.
George Mason, well known around this neck of the woods, was sitting at a bar where he had been crying over the loss of his family. His skin had gone from a healthy, ruddy color to a saddening, pale one. He had not eaten since he had found poor Heather’s defiled body, so his physique had shriveled considerably. All that was left of him was a skeleton with five-o’clock shadow and deep bags under his eyes.
Norm approached George, not really sure of what he should say. Suddenly, a slender arm rested its elbow on the bar’s polished wooden countertop. He turned his head to meet the eyes of a beautiful young woman, the bartender.
Her name was Ashia, a friend of Norm’s from way back. She had bright green eyes behind a pair of thin-framed glasses, dark hair that was long and thick, and a fair complexion. She was also the rough and tumble kind of girl, always ready to cut loose and have adventures. But apparently, she wasn’t in that kind of mood right now.
Ashia’s green eyes were filled with sorrow at the pathetic sight of the man at the end of the bar. Her voice was a little shaky, but she tried her best to remain calm. “Don’t bother him right now,” she warned quietly, “I don’t think he’ll listen to you.”
Norm looked back at Ashia, sharing a small, solemn silence. “So what do I do?” he asked Ashia. He gulped before he continued. “I don’t have very many leads. The guys I arrested today all have alibis.”
Ashia folded her arms and frowned, looking back at George. “I don’t know what you should do,” she answered honestly. “This Knife Man killer has turned this town into a hell-hole. My usual customers don’t visit anymore because they’re afraid to leave their homes.” She sighed, and whispered, “And the ones who do come in have already lost their loved ones to him.”
Suddenly, Norm heard a shaky, weak voice come from the other end of the bar. “B-Bartender…”
Ashia turned to George, trying to smile for the sake of cheering him up. “Yes? Do you need anything?”
George had finally sat up in his chair, half-drunk from his afternoon drinks. Looking at him now, you wouldn’t think he had been successful in life just a few days before.
“I dunno,” he responded with little interest. He looked back into his empty shot glass, and licked his lips. “Maybe I need some more… booze, or something.”
Ashia nodded and refilled his glass. Norm watched George lift the glass to his lips, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Sick of watching this pathetic display, Norm reached forward and grabbed the glass from George’s hand.
At that moment, George suddenly became violent. He growled like a madman as he lunged at Norm. Norm, ever an experienced fighter, swatted George with the back of his right hand, knocking the sad drunk to the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Norm.
George slowly got up from the floor. “Y-You…” he stammered.
“Look at you!” Norm yelled, causing George to recoil, frightened. The detective placed the shot glass back on the counter. “This is pathetic, George! You can’t live the rest of your life like this!”
George scoffed and stood up. “What do you know?” he sneered. “My wife and son are dead. My life is over. They were my life.”
Norm sighed. Although he had every reason to feel robbed of happiness, this man was acting like a child. “I know what I’m about to ask you isn’t easy,” the detective said slowly, “but… I think you should try to live for them. Your wife and your kid, I mean.”
An ugly scowl combed George’s face. “Stop it!” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. “STOP IT!”
He raised a fist and tried to punch Norm, but the detective dodged the blow and countered by grabbing George’s fist and twisting his entire arm behind his back. As Norm stood behind George, holding his arm in place, Norm hissed, “I know that your wife and child are dead, there’s no changing that.”
Norm waited for George to calm down a little more before he continued. “But you can’t keep going like this. What would Heather think?”
George had calmed down almost entirely now, so Norm released his hold. George rubbed the sore spot on his arm as he turned face-to-face with Norm, who stood roughly four inches taller.
“Listen to me,” Norm continued, pointing his finger this time, “You’re not the only victim here. This killer has committed over twenty-plus murders within the past year; think about that.” George lowered his head, sadly.
“That’s twenty, thirty, forty or more people suffering the loss of their loved ones,” Norm grunted as he lowered his finger. “I’m not asking you to forget about them, I’m asking you to continue living for them. It’s the only thing the living can do for those who’ve passed on.”
Tears began to roll down George’s face. “I—I, I know,” he gulped, “It’s j-just that…” George sat down on his stool again before he continued. Ashia slid the shot glass further away from George to avoid tempting him.
“Every time I think of Heather…” he sobbed, “Every time I think of Jeremiah…” He looked back up at Norm with sorrowful eyes. “Who would do this kind of thing to people like them? To anyone?” George buried his face into his arms and began to cry. “Jeremiah was just a baby,” he wept.
Norm knew that the pain George was feeling was immense. He took the stool next to the hurting man and placed his elbows on the counter. He let George cry for a minute or two, before he decided to tell George his story.
“Did you know,” Norm said softly, “that tomorrow marks the anniversary of my little sister’s death?”
George suddenly stopped weeping and brought his head up slowly to meet Norm’s eyes.
“Fourteen years ago,” Norm continued, “My younger sister Katrina came home to our parents and confessed that she had slept with another man, and had become pregnant. About a week after, she was found dead.”
George’s eyes widened, as did Ashia’s. Even though the bartender had known Norm for years, she hadn’t heard him say any of this.
Norm lowered his head as he recollected the grisly details. “Katrina’s womb was ripped apart, her unborn baby stolen. Her room had been bathed in her blood. A few months went by before the authorities found out that her killer was the man she slept with.”
Norm turned to his captivated audience, ready to complete his story. “The man’s name was Arnold Tang. He often slept with young women to impregnate them, just so he could steal their children.” He closed his eyes, trying not to shudder at the final, chilling detail: “…And eat them.”
George frowned, shocked at this event. He tried to form a question, but the words couldn’t come out correctly. After a few seconds of trying, Norm answered his question—since he already knew what it was.
“Why would he do that?” Norm asked rhetorically. He leaned on the counter. “Beats me,” he answered, “but one thing’s for sure: the moment someone sinks to this level of insanity is the moment they lose their humanity.”
Ashia helped herself to one of the stiffer drinks behind her counter. She shivered, genuinely frightened at the mention of Norm’s story.
Norm turned back to meet George’s gaze. “People are hurt on a daily basis,” he explained. “But that doesn’t mean we can afford to waste what little time we have left on Earth. You’ll just have to try your hardest to recover from this immense loss.” Norm placed a reassuring hand on George’s shoulder. “To live the rest of your life for those who didn’t get the chance to… That’s what Heather would want for you, too.”
After a minute or two, George nodded, clicking his tongue. His throat was parched right now, but he certainly wouldn’t cure that with booze anymore. “Barkeep,” he asked.
Ashia looked up. “Yes?”
“Can I have some water?” For the first time in a long time, George grinned. It was a small, wry, meek grin, but it was all George really needed right now.
Norm heaved a sigh of relief, glad to see that George was feeling better. For now, though, he would have to focus a hundred percent on the case at hand. The killer who took George’s life’s treasures away from him was going to pay.
Suddenly, Norm felt a vibration in his pocket. He withdrew the source, his cellphone, and checked the caller ID. It seemed his partner Gumshoe needed to relay a message…
“Gamer here,” Norm answered.
Gumshoe’s characteristic tough-guy voice came through the receiver. “Look, can we speak off the record for a second, pal? It’s urgent.”
Norm scooted away from Ashia and George for privacy and lowered his voice. “Yeah, what is it?”
Gumshoe cleared his throat before continuing. From the sounds of it, Gumshoe was calling from the broom closet or something. It must have been pretty secret…
“You know Lorris, right?” asked Gumshoe.
“Yes,” answered Norm.
“He says he has an idea as to where the Knife Man is. He sounds like he’s pretty sure of it, too.”
Norm scratched his chin. He knew Lorris wasn’t the type to just make things up. Lorris was the type who thought every move out perfectly. “Did he tell you?” Norm asked.
“He told us to keep a lookout for a little guy, maybe five feet tall, thin… supposed to look like a little kid from a distance,” Gumshoe described.
Norm thought for a second. “Hang on,” he said sharply, “I’ve seen him already, this morning on my way to the inn.”
Gumshoe sounded like he knocked over a broom that landed on his head. After a few seconds of tussling, Gumshoe picked up his phone and responded. “R-Really?”
“Yes,” Norm confirmed, “he said he was on his way to the Art Convention that takes place today.”
“Then what’re we waitin’ for, pal? Christmas?!” Gumshoe yelled in excitement. Norm then heard him knock down the broom again. “Come on!” he continued.
Norm hung up his cell phone. He turned to Ashia and bowed. “So long. I’ll be back later.”
As he left, Ashia waved and said her farewells, thanking him for his patronage.
Norm brushed another person who had just walked through the door. He was an older man, kind of heavy-set with a sagging face. Not that he was important, but that it was imperative that a policeman be trained to remember everyone’s faces.
As Norm exited the bar, the newcomer made his way to the counter. As she polished a shot glass, Ashia greeted him. “What’ll it be today…” Her voice trailed off until she stopped and gasped.
The older man sneered. “Your life,” he spat, “traitor.”
He was concealing a firearm in his jacket, this man. Ashia was about to duck below the counter, but was too slow. Two shots fired, bullets digging into Ashia’s belly, spilling blood and stomach acid alike.
George gasped, looking for cover. No telling if this guy was a psycho killer. He was stopped short, however, as this older man blocked his way. “Wha…?” George yelped. For an old man, this guy was pretty fast. They couldn’t have been longer than twelve feet away from each other…
The old man raised his gun and shot George once in the mouth, killing him instantly. As George’s body slumped to the floor, the killer looked out the windows, checking if anyone saw or heard what happened.
He drew a cloth from his coat pocket and wiped his fingerprints off the gun. He then placed the gun in George’s hand, making sure that his fingers were wrapped around the trigger. That should look convincing enough.
Now that that order of business was taken care of, thought the old man, it was time to take out that annoying detective and find the Tanuki. Of course, he’d just let the friendly local police lead him to his target. At least the police are useful for something.
The aging man left the pub in a hurry, his handiwork behind him. This day would probably end hellishly, he knew, but with his age came much experience. There was no way he’d fail, even if things became hectic.
As he brushed against the detective before he left, he had placed a small tracer on his coat. The mercenary now checked his tracker watch as he hustled down the street.
A crooked smile swept across his face. That money was as good as his.

[ruben_gamer4life]

O.o

[Pilgrim John]

It had been probably an hour and a half, maybe more (actually, it was most likely two hours), that John had been waiting in this greasy restaurant. He wasn’t particularly fond of McDonald’s, especially after he had worked there for about five months (Hey, don’t laugh; he had to make ends meet and his art just wasn’t selling). This store, especially, had grease-covered walls, unappetizing meals, and some of the ugliest choices of decorations John never even knew existed.
At least the radio was playing one of his favorite songs.
A few hours ago, John had ordered a root beer and took his seat by the window, waiting for Pamela to drop by like she said she would later. But the root beer was getting watery from the ice (John swore these McDonald’s workers just put in as much ice as possible and only put the drink in to fill the cracks), and Pamela was pretty late.
John checked his watch. It was about one-fifty in the afternoon, and it was getting uncomfortably hot outside. He looked into his cup, wondering if the desk worker would be nice enough to give him another refill.
Suddenly, he remembered: Dan. John gasped, fearing that his lengthy absence would provoke Dan to go search for him. The Tanuki slapped his face, embarrassed by his ignorance. Dan would likely be in trouble if he were caught in public or even if he was just stopped by a local police officer.
John threw his cup into the trash as he hurried for the exit. After breaking through the door in a rush, he looked to the sky and was certainly puzzled.
Just a few minutes ago, it was hot and sunny. But looking at the sky now, John saw dark, ugly rain clouds forming above him. It didn’t change the temperature by very much, but this kind of thing usually spelled an ill omen.
Not that John was really into superstitions, but a nagging feeling in the back of his head told him that someone above was giving a warning.
John looked about, and was even more chilled—despite that it was almost ninety-one degrees. He noticed that there wasn’t anyone about, even though he was only a block away from the Art Convention. He gulped, and gripped his Tanuki Leaf that he kept in his pocket.
Although his leaf was small enough to keep in his pocket, he could change its size with nothing more than his will, an ability he found natural to Tanuki-kind. He prepared to strike on a moment’s notice, striking a kind of battojutsu stance. The cap he wore, however, covered his ears, and he couldn’t remove it, due to the possibility of someone discovering his real identity.
Suddenly, he heard something behind him; a sound that, while soft in volume, was threateningly loud.
He turned, ready to draw his Leaf, but saw no one. It turned out a piece of newspaper had been blown by the wind. John’s tension lowered a bit as he breathed a sigh of relief.
Suddenly, a pair of hands came from behind him, the left grabbing his arm and throat, the second placing a damp napkin over his mouth. John’s right hand came up to try to protect himself, accidentally dropping his pen a few feet away. He inhaled sharply, surprised by his attacker, and inhaled the chemical on the napkin.
Suddenly, he lost consciousness. As he did, the world around him faded into darkness… Would he wake again?

* * * * * *

The prison cell didn’t offer a very good view of the outside world, but it was apparent that dark clouds had befallen New Jackson. Dan looked at the clouds, worried, wondering if John was safe. He knew it was silly to think that black clouds bore ill omens, but at present, he didn’t know what might happen next.
Lorris perched himself on his cot, looking more like a vulture than his usual monkey-like appearance. He picked at his ear, plotting the next part of his plan. He looked at the end of his finger to get a good look at his earwax as Dan looked his way. Dan raised an eyebrow when he watched Lorris sniff the earwax as if to get a noseful of its odor.
Unsurely, Dan cleared his throat as he turned to Lorris. “So let me get this straight,” he said as he paced toward the younger man. His hands sort of moved about as he spoke. “You say that a bartender tipped you off that a ruthless mercenary was in town to capture John?”
Lorris nodded. “That’s what she told me.”
Dan put his hands on his hips. “Despite what you said earlier, you seem pretty trusting to me,” he said, smiling wryly. “How do you know if she was even telling you the truth?”
Lorris withdrew a piece of chalk from his pocket and dismounted his cot. He began to draw on the prison floor, licking his upper lip in artistic concentration. Dan peered over Lorris’ shoulder, trying to get a good glimpse at what Lorris was doing.
“She gave me the guy’s photograph and police information she pulled off the Net,” he said as he stopped to once again scratch his nose. “I wasn’t able to bring them into this cell with me for obvious reasons.”
As Dan tried to look over Lorris’ shoulder, the shaky youth looked at Dan angrily, as if to say No peeking! Dan rolled his eyes and looked away until called for. “This takes concentration, I’m sorry,” Lorris quietly stated.
Dan put his hands behind his back and straightened himself up. He heard Lorris suddenly sneeze, then continue to draw as he spoke. “The bartender was the daughter of one of my dad’s friends. So far as I know, she’s one of the few people who treat me like I’m human.”
Dan blinked and looked away, trying not to get caught up in this guy’s personal life. Sure, he was weird, and Dan guessed it was to be expected that people would look down on him for his odd differences, but he really didn’t feel like getting too chummy. Maybe it was that Dan was getting paranoid from this whole situation, but really, what was he to do? He couldn’t trust anyone, could he?
“She gave me this information,” continued Lorris, “because she wanted someone to be on the lookout for him.”
“Why?” asked Dan.
Lorris stopped his drawing for a second and scratched his side as he answered. “She’s against the Tanuki Registration Act, as am I.” He turned to Dan, his large eyes catching Dan’s gaze. “And as are you, apparently.”
Dan nodded. “So,” he said in a volume barely above a whisper, “There are other people who are actually against this thing?”
Lorris broke his stare and went back to his drawing. “Yes,” he nodded, “there are. People are people, regardless of what they look like, and should be treated as such.” He looked at his unusual body. “I for one know and feel that philosophy firsthand.” Lorris returned his attention to his chalkwork.
It really seemed to Dan that this Lorris guy really was sincere about the situation. Still, Dan thought, it would prudent to be cautious anyway, so he tried to trip Lorris up with yet another question.
“But didn’t they say that the Registration Act was for the safety of—”
“Bullshit,” Lorris said flatly, not taking his attention off his drawing. “I don’t buy that. If that was the cause, why didn’t they just increase police protection of the Tanuki instead of demanding they all be turned in?”
Dan pursed his lips at Lorris’ answer. After hearing Lorris actually curse, Dan felt uneasy; as if Lorris’ cursing was something that should never happen.
As Lorris finished his rough sketch, he dropped the chalk to one side, sat back, and stretched his unusually long arms. Dan finally saw the drawing, and looking at it now, it seemed that Lorris was as good an artist as John was.
The picture was of an older man, probably in his late 40s, rugged with stubble and dark skin, his hair sort of spiky in the back. He was definitely no pencil-neck, and had a mean look on his face.
“That’s the guy?” Dan asked.
Lorris nodded. “His name is Dogan MacGyver. He’s after John. He has tons of experience in the field of bounty hunting and assassination, and has a history of schizophrenia.” He rested his arms on the ends of his feet as he rocked gently on the floor. “You know the ‘mysterious death’ of the Vice President last year?”
Dan’s eyes widened. “You mean…?”
Lorris swallowed, and began to draw circles on the ground. It dawned on Dan that Lorris would only begin to draw circles on the ground when he was nervous or scared. “Yes, some officials believe that he was responsible for it. There wasn’t much left of the veep’s body because his house had burned down, but their investigators had found small cuts on his neck.” Lorris straightened himself out and leaned against his cot. “Plus, they had found a red stapler being held in the body’s right hand.”
Dan raised his eyebrow. “Is that… some kind of calling card?” he asked, purely befuddled.
Lorris shook his head. “No, but when it was opened, they didn’t find staples cocked into it: inside was a small device that sprayed small amounts of poisonous gas.”
Dan blinked in surprise. This was just getting weirder and weirder…
“The amount of gas sprayed wasn’t enough to kill a man,” continued Lorris, “but certainly enough to put him into a comatose state…” His eyes widened, as if he were trying to emote while telling a ghost story. “Long enough for someone to come along, break into the house, slit the veep’s throat, and set fire to his home.”
Dan shook his head. “Okay, so what does the Vice President’s death have to do with what’s happening now?”
Lorris stopped drawing circles on the ground and looked up at Dan. “Nothing, I suppose,” he shrugged, “I just wanted you to know what kind of man we’re dealing with, here. MacGyver’s dangerous, he’s in town, and he’s after your friend.”
Dan sighed. “Great,” he groaned, “So we have to worry about two different killers going after John?”
Lorris began to bite his index finger thoughtfully. “Now who said that?”
After sitting down on his cot, Dan looked back at Lorris, whose wide eyes never so much as quivered. The big man felt almost like he would be driven insane if he stared at those eyes for too long, so he broke out of the stare-down and cleared his throat. “Well, I know that this Knife Man character probably has no rhyme or reason as to what he’s doing,” said Dan, “but you did say he collects body parts.”
Lorris nodded. “True.”
“So I’m thinking,” Dan said as he got up off his cot, “There’s probably a reason for that.” He raised his hands as if directing his own thoughts like a choir. “Some of the killers I’ve read about, you know, they collected the body parts of victims who were physically attractive.” He looked at Lorris to see if he had caught Dan’s point.
Lorris stopped chewing his nail for a moment. His eyes once again focused on Dan’s, who tried to break eye contact for the safety of his sanity. “So,” Lorris said with a weird grin, “you think he’d be after John because he’d think John was beautiful?”
Dan put one hand on his hip and combed his bangs back with his other. He had the feeling he knew where this conversation was headed, so he figured he’d have to word his next sentence carefully in order to avoid complications. “Well, in one way or another, that’s probably what he would think. Remember, killers are often insane.”
Lorris smiled, his grin literally going from one ear to the other. Now that he saw Lorris’ smile, Dan promised himself he’d never crack a joke around this guy.
“So you WERE paying attention!” Lorris laughed. “That’s good to see. You’re a smart one.”
Lorris’ creepy grin finally subsided as the two of them heard a door opening from far off. “Ah,” Lorris said as he stood up, “Here comes the cavalry.”
Dan looked out the cell to see the detective from before, along with another detective, most likely his partner. The jailer was also with them, carrying his keys.
“You’re letting us go?” Dan asked. He was sure they would have questioned him about the train incident, but right now was no time to be pressing his luck.
Detective Gamer nodded. “Yes, but Lorris will have to come with us. He knows more about this scumbag than we do.”
Lorris smiled again, but this time, his smile was more humanlike, much to Dan’s relief. Dan raised his eyebrows. “So, uh, what about me? It’s likely that his next target is—”
“Your friend, yeah,” said the other detective. The jailer took his keys and opened the jail door. Lorris’ movements never ceased to make Dan feel genuinely disturbed. He still wasn’t sure whether or not to trust this guy, but right now, he didn’t have much of a choice.
Dan continued his inquiry. “Should I go too?”
After a moment of two of thinking, Gamer responded, “Normally, no, we wouldn’t. But we’ll take you along, just this once.” Before Dan stepped out of the cell, Gamer put his hand in front of the big man. “But remember,” warned the detective, “Any funny business, and you’ll be back in here under very serious charges. Are we clear?”
Dan nodded.
“We’ll have t’get goin’, pal,” the scruffy second detective said hurriedly, “We don’t know if he’s already gotten away or not.”
Lorris gave a thumbs-up. “All right,” he said, “let’s go. MacGyver should still be in town by now; we’ll need to catch him by surprise.” As the group hurried down the hall with the jail behind them, Lorris continued. “From what Ashia told me, his hideout is likely one of the abandoned warehouses near the ocean.”
“We’ve already checked several,” Gamer reported, “We even checked the Art Convention and the nearby McDonald’s, where his next victim was supposed to be.”
“What did you find?” asked Lorris.
Gumshoe shook his head. “Not much. We DID find a pen with the name ‘John’ written on it.”
Dan cursed under his breath.
Lorris grimaced. “So it seems that John, his next victim, has already been abducted.”
Dan tried not to panic. “So what are you doing now?”
Gamer headed the pack now, going for the next hall over. “We’ve got choppers scooping out all the other warehouses in town, several police units investigating other warehouses; there’s nowhere that the Knife Man will be able to hide.”
Dan tried to keep up with the situation, but his brain was starting to get lost. “Wait,” he interrupted, “So you’re saying that MacGyver and the Knife Man are the same guy?”
“That’s definitely a strong theory,” Gamer said as they entered another hallway. “How?” Dan asked. Gumshoe straightened up his jacket as the group increased their already-hurried pace. “MacGyver’s got split-personalities, pal,” he growled, “It’s very likely that one of them is the Knife Man.”
Dan nodded. “Right,” he said.
Suddenly, a voice came over Gamer’s and Gumshoe’s transceivers. “We found his hideout,” it said, and proceeded to give directions.
As they exited the police station, Dan spotted five or six squad cars were at the ready to go off. Gamer and Gumshoe entered one car with Lorris, and Dan was motioned into one of the squad cars.
Dan was in the back seat behind the grating that separated the drivers from the passengers, so he couldn’t really see the cops who were taxiing him to MacGyver’s hideout. Not that he really cared that much, just so long as John would be rescued safely.
However, what DID worry Dan was that if the police rescued John, they’d quickly discover he was a Tanuki and turn him in to the government. As the squad cars roared down the streets of New Jackson, Dan tried to devise a way to help John escape the law.
And even though Dan did not trust him, Lorris was likely plotting the same idea.

[fatherlorris]

actually my character is very much like me. yet another great chapter by john.

[Pilgrim John]

Next part. Strap yourselves in, people, everything is about to slam facefirst into hell.

In a parking lot not far away from the police station, MacGyver was biding his time, placing bullets into a magazine, then connecting it to his favorite weapon: the Beretta handgun. Not that Berettas were anything special (Many cops and criminals owned these guns), but that this was the very first gun he had ever used.
He reclined in the driver’s seat as he reminisced his first assignment, back when he was barely an adult. It was a cloudy day, much like today was, except it wasn’t humid outside. He remembered the thrill he had, cornering his frightened target in an alley. He chuckled as he recalled shoving this Beretta into his victim’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
Good times, those.
Suddenly interrupting his thoughts was the police radio interceptor he had installed in this vehicle long ago. “We found his hideout,” it crackled. He suddenly heard a voice that he recognized as Detective Gamer: “We read you loud and clear. Coordinates?”
“Between Cluclu Lane and Samus Alley, just under the overpass. Building 1985.”
“Roger.”
MacGyver smiled. Everything was going according to plan. He hadn’t trusted that wretch, Ashia, ever since he first met her. He knew her type: the treacherous, adventurous type of girl who was nothing but trouble. Good thing he tipped her off with the incorrect address of “his hideout.”
Still, he decided that, even though she had been useful in unwittingly giving false information, Ashia had to go. After all, troublesome women were often the end of many men. Besides, he had wanted to kill her—nay, NEEDED to kill her. It had been a good three years since he had last had a female target.
MacGyver put his Beretta into its holster, which he hid on his ankle under his pant leg. Turning the key to start his car, he let his vehicle roar back to life, grateful for its reawakening.
All was going according to plan. MacGyver couldn’t believe his incredible luck: now the police were his puppets, leading him straight to his capture target. Of course the information he gave Ashia wasn’t entirely false: the Knife Man really was sanctioned there. MacGyver celebrated his clever use of his deceitful tongue and storied schizophrenia.
And away he went, tailing the police via his tracking device. His trap in place, it was time to rock.

* * * * * *

The thin air was colder than death, one would assume. As a matter of fact, now that his senses were coming back to him one by one, John smelled something rotting, like a corpse. His vision finally came back to him, slowly but surely, until his eyes perceived…
Darkness.
He snapped awake, giving a high-pitched yelp as he returned to a conscious state. “Ah! You’re awake!” giggled a voice from the darkness.
John struggled, but found that his hands and feet had been tied to a chair he was sitting upon.
Wait a second.
This chair was… slimy. As a matter of fact, the horrible stench that ruined the air was emanated most prominently from his perch. He moved his fingers to get a good feel of the arms of his chair, only to be horrified as his fingers touched upon a cold, dead, distinguishably human hand.
Again, John yelped. “Am I,” he whimpered into the darkness, “Am I in Hell?”
“In a sense, yes,” the voice responded.
John suddenly realized to whom he was talking. After a moment, he gathered his courage and spoke to the void once more. “Pamela?” he asked in a thin, weak voice.
He began to hear footsteps across a hard floor. Pock, pock, pock, the sounds of small feet walking in one direction to the right, far from him.
Suddenly, red light filled the room, and John tried his hardest not to panic or scream.
He WAS in Hell!
The room was filled with hanging bodies, some with swords sticking through them, others with cages encasing their shattered faces, and all had been disemboweled, their lifeless eyes fixating an unholy gaze into John’s frightened eyes. While some were hanged by way of rope, others were hanging from giant hooks that had impaled them through the head. Their rotting flesh had been what John smelled.
Upon further inspection, entrails hung from the rafters like tapestry, skeletons and bones placed in a most decorative fashion. Before John lay a trail of undoubtedly human blood five feet across, almost as if it were a royal red carpet.
John looked down upon his own perch only to be even more horrified than before. His chair, or throne to be mroe precise, was indeed made of multiple bones and human body parts. He finally let out a horrified scream, during which, he had thrown up over his shirt from the immensity of the situation combined with the fetid odors.
“I know! It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Pamela asked as she returned.
She was adorned in far more provocative attire than she had earlier, in an “Evil Empress” sort of way. Her blouse revealed the tops of her large bosoms, split into a neat oval upon her soft belly, and was adorned with sickeningly red lace. Her skirt had a flap design, which showed off her right leg all the way up to her thigh.
She had also apparently painted strange black symbols all over herself: all along her right leg, all across her arms, and a familiar symbol of death upon her forehead. She had also shadowed her eyes to the point where, when she blinked or closed them, it seemed as if her beautiful eyes had been suctioned out of her head altogether.
She was also carrying a rusted sword that was roughly three feet in length
John gulped, tasting his vomit much to his distaste. “Pamela! Wh-What is this?!” he managed to squeak.
Pamela stretched in such a sexually inviting way that John became even more frightened, adding a soft moan as her arms folded behind her head. “Doesn’t this place just excite you?” she cooed.
John gnashed his teeth in total disgust of this woman. “Answer me!” he demanded. “What the hell is this place?!”
Pamela giggled, still playing with the mind of her fellow artist. She stepped forward, bit-by-bit, her thighs swishing gently as she drew closer to John. “Hell, indeed,” she answered. “This is my masterpiece!” Pamela waved her sword-free left hand across the air, as if to present her “Hell” as a gift.
“Your… masterpiece?” John asked, genuinely chilled by this psycho.
“It has taken me many years,” Pamela explained, “to gather enough bodily parts to create this paradise of madness you see before you.”
John was about to throw up again, but thankfully, because his entire breakfast had gone up in the last event, nothing happened. He was still sorely sickened by what he saw, however. He still couldn’t believe Pamela was such a horrible woman…
No. She wasn’t a woman at all. Pamela was an animal. A sick, disgusting animal.
And she enjoyed it.

* * * * * *

MacGyver knew tailing the police cars directly would only lead to disaster, so he decided to trail them indirectly: after all, he knew where the warehouse was located. Oh, the surprise they’d be in when they’d get there. All of those annoying policemen… dead by the end of the day.
MacGyver was most pleased with himself, chuckling as he drove. He’d waited for this day: payback for everyone he hated while at the same time getting his latest target. The prize money alone would supply him for a full three years of living. And they were all being led, like lambs to the slaughter.
MacGyver chuckles again as he picked up his speed, eager for the sight of his enemies’ deaths.

[KoE_Hades]

Oh crap. I realised I haven't been reading the story since like chapter 9...
*goes back however many pages and begins reading*

[Pilgrim John]

Last scenes of Chapter 13. Now things actually start to get kind of scary.


MacGyver knew tailing the police cars directly would only lead to disaster, so he decided to trail them indirectly: after all, he knew where the warehouse was located. Oh, the surprise they’d be in when they’d get there. All of those annoying policemen… dead by the end of the day.
MacGyver was most pleased with himself, chuckling as he drove. He’d waited for this day: payback for everyone he hated while at the same time getting his latest target. The prize money alone would supply him for a full three years of living. And they were all being led, like lambs to the slaughter. It was like dying and going to Heaven.
MacGyver chuckles again as he picked up his speed, eager for the sight of his enemies’ deaths.

* * * * * *

Even through closed eyes, John could see the horrors that were around him, Pamela being the major threat. He tried to think his way out of this one, since he already knew the reason why Pamela was carrying that sword.
The princess of insanity stood in front of John now, not even two feet away. “It’s very cold in here for you, isn’t it?” she said.
John’s brain was trying to handle both panicking and thinking simultaneously, so it was hard for him to say very much. It was true that it was cold, likely to preserve the dead bodies in the room. As a matter of fact, it felt like he was in a morgue of some kind.
Like in some hellish erotic fan fiction, Pamela sat in John’s lap in a suggestive way, wrapping her arms around his neck, the sword dangling loosely from her hand.
Now is NOT the time to be thinking dirty thoughts, John thought, that is just what she wants you to do! Now THINK, dammit!
“See?” she cooed into John’s ear (Much to his chagrin), “I’m still alive, and you are too. This is our kingdom now.” She leaned her face into John’s, whose eyes looked away from hers.
“Kingdom?!” he spat, finally regaining some conscious thoughts. “You haven’t even answered my question! What is this place?!”
Pamela, whose right hand still held to the sword, grabbed John’s face with a strength that couldn’t possibly belong to a normal woman. “This is my personal Hell,” she told John in a voice that was more demonic than seducing. “I worked for years just to create this masterpiece.”
Then her voice went back to normal as she moved around seductively, trying to arouse John. Just what kind of sick monster is this?! John thought. What scared him most, however, was how much he was enjoying this…
“We all have our own evil sides,” she whispered into his raccoonlike ears as she played with them, rubbing her two fingers gently across the tip. “I wanted to build an artistic kingdom dedicated to mine. A kingdom, to which I am queen.”
“This isn’t art,” John growled as he struggled to think his next course of action, “It’s murder. These people hanging from these walls are people you killed!”
Pamela leaned in closer to John’s face, until their noses touched. “Murder?” she giggled. “These people had just the right physique to be my servants, my tapestry. So I made them into that which they deserved.”
John felt like trying to throw her off him, but then again, she was still holding that sword. There had to be some way to get out of here, but he was in between a sick, psycho “queen” and a hard place that was made out of dead people.
Pamela was getting WAY too “comfy” with her position. “But you…” she whispered, “you’re PERFECT. You’d make a fine King for my Hell.”
John scowled at the thought. This Don Quixote Extreme was seriously asking for an ass-beating, and he finally came up with an idea that could help.
“What if I say no?” he asked, finally looking into Pamela’s eyes. He sharpened his hawklike gaze to ensure that he looked scary/courageous. “What if I don’t want to be your King?”
Pamela’s loving gaze had turned into a twisted scowl, producing instant fright into John’s soul. “Then you’ll become another of my servants,” she threatened. She leaned back and punched John’s face with her left hand.
John’s sight was going fuzzy, since he didn’t expect her to punch him so quickly… or hard. He felt another blow land on his right cheek, slamming his head against the backboard of his “throne.”
“You’d rather follow than lead?!” he heard Pamela scream. His sight was a mess of hazy purple and red, and his breathing had become labored. It looked like his plan to break her sword by turning to stone didn’t quite work…
He then heard Pamela scream some more, except this time, her vocabulary was slurred and throaty, like she had transformed into some kind of monster. He could make out a few ugly words, along with things regarding male genitals, peacocks, and screwdrivers, which wasn’t a very good combination of things.
Suddenly, he felt more blows, punches that seared into his face, arms, shoulders, torso, and legs. Then, he felt a sharp heel sink into his crotch with a sickening crunch.
John, not able to take this torture anymore, screamed in pain, wishing that he had stayed home. Suddenly, he heard Pamela gasp and drop her sword. John felt her rush and hug him gently, like a mother would her own son. “I-I’m sorry,” she said, now in a completely different voice. “Mama didn’t mean it! Mama’s sorry!” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears.
John was now scared beyond his own comprehensions. Just what was going on, and who was this Pamela? He prayed silently, inwardly, hoping that Dan, the police, or maybe even an angel would swoop by suddenly and save him…
But he wouldn’t keep his hopes up.

[Pilgrim John]

Pray excuse the dooble-poosting, but it's time for Episode 13 of this fiction! I'm nearing the end of the first book in the series, which is likely to undergo a different name than "Another." I think, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to stretch this story to over four books. Yee!

But enough inner fanboygasms. It's time forrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... !

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Although the problem seemed gigantic, there wasn’t anything better than utter simplicity to solve it, surprisingly. Since they were in a wagon, after all, the solution to their problem lies in brute force.
A good amount of crashing into the side of their wagon prison caused the brake to bend, allowing some leverage for movement. Kylie smiled at Shiva as they heard the “crunch” of the cheap, wooden brake’s destruction.
The Blocker that sat only a few feet away from them was an outdated model, Shiva had told Kylie, and whose “anti-magic” field could only extend about twenty or so feet. Thusly, the way they could use their powers to break out of their prison was to simply move the prison itself out of its field.
They laughed like children as they raced from one end of the wagon and slamming their small bodies into the other side with great force. It was kind of painful, but it was definitely better than rotting away in this rank prison in the hands of angry clowns.
After a few minutes of thrashing, Shiva looked outside the bars of their circus wagon to see that they had moved a good distance away from the Blocker. Unfortunately, it was rather dark—the only way she could actually spot the Blocker was to look for the green light that rested on its head.
“Okay,” she gasped, trying to retain the air in her lungs, “I think that’ll do it.”
Kylie nodded, and went to the other side of the wagon. Shiva concentrated on her magic, trying to locate it within her soul, and thereby manipulate it.
After a few minutes of trying, a small sputter of ice spat from Shiva’s hands, barely freezing the bars at all. Shiva cursed under her breath. Kylie put her small hand on Shiva’s shoulder, trying to think of any words of comfort.
“Let’s just keep pushing for now,” Kylie finally said.
Shiva groaned, quite literally disgusted with the thought of more physical activity. It was obvious that her thin, small figure wasn’t built for an action geared more for macho, muscle-bound body builders.
Still, the two resilient women kept pushing the wagon with all the might their small bodies could muster. Suddenly, they heard something violent outside, like some kind of small battle. Shouts and yells were heard, along with crashes and clangs of metal objects.
Something told Kylie that it wasn’t the crew rehearsing an act…

* * * * * *

CRASH! The clown had landed flat on his back on top of a crate, which gave way under the force of his landing. He could feel his spine shatter, as he breathed heavily and lost consciousness.
Conorsla stepped back, avoiding a lash from a whip held by one of the circus’ guardsmen. Linda jumped him from behind, squeezing his head between her thighs and flipping him over backward, resulting in a suplex that crushed the guard’s head.
Another guard had lunged at Linda from behind as she was getting up off her victim, but Leo shot from the side and landed a smart kick into his side, knocking him onto the ground.
This situation had quickly transformed from a rescue mission into a battle for survival. Conorsla, Leo, and Linda had all been surrounded by Griever’s goons and were now in the midst of a heated battle, with Griever standing off into the distance, visibly flustered with the turn of events. This battle was costing him way too much money in injuries.
Finally, Griever snorted and told one of his guards, “Fetch the Strongman, and call back all the other performers.” The guard captain did as he was told, waving his arms, directing his fellow guards and the performers away from the scene.
Conorsla landed a spin-kick to the back of another acrobat who had given Conorsla a good few blows. The force of his kick sent the acrobat straight into a tent, where he slid across the ground before coming to a stop.
Conorsla then looked up and around to see that, besides the unconscious guards and performers, none of their enemies remained on the field. Leo was helping Linda up to her feet as Conorsla walked over near them. Perhaps it was because he was tall, but Conorsla noticed that he was looking down at both Leo and Linda as if they were midgets.
“Where’d you guys learn to fight?” Leo asked as he wiped blood from his nose.
Linda brushed off her clothes as she explained. “We’re acrobats, naturally flexible. Fighting is one of the many things that being an acrobat comes in handy.”
Leo shrugged, satisfied with the answer. “Anyway, where’re the girls?”
Conorsla pointed toward a purple-and-red tent, and tried to form a word. “Thih,” he slurred.
Leo nodded, and started in that direction. Linda and Conorsla had just started to follow him, until they heard the sound of… applause?
The trio looked behind themselves to see Griever, that itchy little man, clapping in some kind of mock-applause. “You’ve done well,” he sneered in his sickening, high-pitched voice, “costing me thousands in injuries. Now, my circus will have to postpone its performances.”
Leo spat, disgusted with this pathetic creature. “That’s too bad,” said Leo dryly.
Griever chuckled, which was never a good sign. “It is, indeed,” he sighed, moving closer to his quarry. “The entertainment business is a tough market. With movie theatres, video games, skating rinks, rock concerts—the competition’s pretty tough.”
Griever stopped halfway and planted his walking stick firmly into the ground before him, as if to proclaim this world in the name of Planet Griever. “That’s the reason why I’ve grown quite fond of human trafficking.”
“Human… trafficking?” Linda asked, genuinely naïve regarding the subject. Leo explained, shocked at Griever’s words. “Human trafficking? You sell people?!”
The ugliest dwarf on Earth chuckled ominously. “It’s a fantastic source of revenue. I get enough money to run my circus by selling off performers I don’t need into slavery, and keep all the good performers for my shows.” He licked his long, putrid finger and ran it through his eyebrow, obviously meant to insult his enemy. “I only kept that worthless Conorsla, not because he was smart, but because he was a great performer. Many of our customers came back just to see him.”
Leo’s teeth gritted as he boiled with rage. Linda and Conorsla observed Leo’s growing anger, now finally understanding why Leo had regarded Griever with so much disdain.
The volume of Griever’s chuckling was enough to irritate people fifty miles away. “I…” he breathed as he made a grabbing motion with his right hand, “pluck wayward children from the streets and immediately begin their performance training. The ones who pass get to stay and live in the circus.”
He sneered in Leo’s direction, awaiting Leo’s outburst. “Those who fail,” said Griever as his rust-red eyes fell on Leo, “get shipped to Norzenia.” Leo suddenly gasped. Griever chuckled again, having finally found a weak spot within Leo. “Oh, so you’ve been keeping up-to-date in the news?” Griever laughed. “They’re in trouble with the UN right now for… What was it, ‘questionable economics’?”
“You….!”
Griever waved his grotesque, wispy finger in chaste. “Ah, ah, ahh,” he laughed, “It’s good money, and those kids aren’t worth anything anyway.”
Conorsla couldn’t believe this story… It solved why many of the performers he had seen one day weren’t present the next. He looked to Linda, who was greatly horrified by this news. Leo, on the other hand, had an expression that could tear apart an oncoming train.
Leo rushed at Griever, who had expected this outburst. He took the top off his cane, revealing the blade, and swung it at Leo’s midsection. As he did, Griever sidestepped to the right to dodge Leo’s tackle, and delivered a good gash to Leo’s side.
As Leo felt his blood escape his body, he yelled ugly curses at Griever, who was laughing like a maniac as he jumped onto a pile of crates.

* * * * * *

Shiva gasped, recognizing the scream she had just heard. Kylie turned to her pixie friend, wondering what her reaction was all about. But before Kylie could ask, Shiva had already answered. “Leo!” she gasped. “He’s in trouble!”
Kylie looked back at the blocker, which was now likely to be a good twenty or so feet away by now. She turned back to Shiva. “I think we’re in the clear now. Can you use your magic?”
Once again, Shiva attempted to freeze the bars on their prison. She felt her hands get cold from the materializing subzero vapor before her, signaling that her powers, if not fully restored, were getting stronger.
Finally, she managed to put ice on one of the bars, even though it wasn’t enough to weaken the metal. She cursed under her breath. “We’ll need to hurry!” she told Kylie, who quickly returned to shoving the wagon from the inside.

* * * * * *

Conorsla and Linda were ready to zero in on their former owner, that is, until they felt the ground begin to rumble. It was slight at first. Then, about a second after the first rumble had ended, another rumble began, this time with a bit more ferocity.
Leo could feel it too. The series of short rumbles sent shivers down his spine… Whatever was coming was advancing quickly, and it was definitely big.
Griever laughed as he jumped off his crate. “Well, it’s been fun holding you here,” he chuckled. He opened a pocket watch to check the time, perhaps just to annoy his enemies. “Wow, one o’clock in the afternoon already?” he said in mock surprise, “My, how time flies!”
The little man walked toward one of his tents, leaving his enemies to deal with the approaching terror of the Strongman.

* * * * * *

“Do you feel that?”
Kylie stopped and waited.
She could definitely feel it now; she hadn’t noticed it at first. Something was approaching their area, something huge. The rumbling continued, the violent shaking continuing with increasing furor.
Shiva gulped. “We have to help Leo now!” Before Kylie could argue, Shiva turned to the bars and tried to freeze them again. By now, they were likely thirty feet away from the Blocker—which was evidenced by Shiva’s powers working at near-full capacity.
The bars turned to ice, weakening the metal. Shiva then blew a fireball at the bars, shattering them all instantly. It was enough to knock the wagon backward, its prisoners being jostled around until their cage had crashed into something.
After the initial crash, Kylie staggered up to her feet. She looked about for Shiva, but it was too dark to see very much besides the small light thirty feet away.
“Shiva?” she called, trying not to be too loud. Suddenly, she heard a deep, throaty growl from behind her. She froze instantly, trying not to panic. The rumbling continued from outside, but it dawned on Kylie that something that was also dangerous was immediately behind her.
And apparently hungry.

* * * * * *

On his way back to his tent, Griever informed his guard captain to pick up the tents. “We’re leaving,” he said quickly. The guard captain was about to protest regarding the show that was to take place that night, but he knew better and immediately went to accomplish the deed.
Griever found Shykes the knife thrower nearby, as he was limping over to the performers’ carriage. “Shykes!” he demanded.
If it had been any other person, Shykes would have deliberately ignored him. However, Griever’s ugly, high-pitched voice was enough to scare even Shykes into submission.
Trying not to show signs of fear, Shykes responded as he turned, “Yes, boss?” His thick cockney accent was rather shaky, but at least his voice hadn’t cracked.
Griever walked up to Shykes, who was fighting the urge to turn and run. “I’ve sent the Strongman on our intruders. I want you to oversee it. After it kills the rodents, I want you to put it back into its cage.”
Shykes inhaled sharply. The Strongman?! he thought. He remembered the first time he had seen that unholy thing: its frame tall enough to dwarf a building, its skin as inky black as oil, and eyes that could pierce one’s soul. Shykes gulped, then responded. “Um, Sir, if I may…?”
But Griever had already turned to leave. “S-Sir!” Shykes repeated, his voice cracking. “The Strongman?! I-Isn’t that a little extreme?!”
Griever turned his head slowly, the fear in Shykes’ spine increasing. “These pests are more than just locusts, Shykes,” Griever growled at a low volume. “They were costing me too much in damages.”
Griever reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small whistle. After looking at it for about a second, he tossed in a lazy arc to Shykes, who caught it despite his shaken stature. “Use this to get the Strongman’s attention.”
The little man then left behind the knife thrower. “And try not to get stepped on,” he said over his shoulder.
For the first time in his life, Shykes was too scared to move for about two minutes. He just stood there, staring at the whistle, knowing what it would bring to him. Suddenly, he heard its movements: heavy footsteps, heavier than any elephant’s footsteps, increasing in volume and intensity with each step. He gritted his teeth, not ready to accept this responsibility… for the Strongman was coming.
“WHADDAYAWAITINGFOR?!” yelled Griever from twenty feet away. “GETGOING!!” He threw something else in Shykes’ direction, not to give to him, but to motivate him into action. Shykes quickly dodged the object (A lamp, to be exact), and proceeded to the direction of the dreaded footsteps.

* * * * * *

Kylie couldn’t see it since it was just behind her (And the place was dark, on top of that), but she could definitely hear it and feel its breath warming her shoulders.
She clenched her teeth, ready for anything. She kept her ears out for Shiva, wherever she was right now. Deep down, she began to pray… It really felt like this is where she was going to die.
Suddenly, the something behind her walked right by her—she could tell from its breathing. It seemed as if it was uninterested in Kylie the whole time, much to Kylie’s relief. As she heard it wander off to find the nearest exit, she listened more intently for Shiva—if she were still conscious or alive, that is.
“Hey,” a voice whispered to her from the side. Kylie yelped and jumped nearly eight feet in the air, landing squarely on her behind. Kylie looked to her right and saw a faint pink glimmer—Shiva’s wings.
“S—Sorry,” Kylie apologized. Shiva waved her hand, clicking her tongue. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I should be sorry about getting carried away.”
Suddenly, the rumbling became louder and more violent, shaking the ground, and knocking over various equipment in the tent. “I think we ought to leave before the whole place comes down,” Shiva advised.
“Can you see in the dark?” Kylie challenged.
A small spark of fire appeared in Shiva’s hand, frightening the dark into hiding farther away from them. At last, they could see the nearby exit, of which they promptly took.
As they left, the darkness gratefully reclaimed the tent, perhaps as an ill omen of what misfortune they would find outside.

* * * * * *

They could see him now, this Strongman.
The trees fell, one by one, by the sheer power of his footsteps; like subjects bowing before their merciless king. All nearby wildlife fled for their lives, afraid of the oncoming monster from the forest. Conorsla, Linda, and Leo dreaded what they saw.
Its head was swaddled in cloth, disguising the horrible monstrosity beneath it. Its lone eye that peeked from behind the cloth was the color of an evil moon, and bore the same kind of omen. One of its shoulders was bulbous and covered with pimples the size of your head, the connecting arm long and thick as a young killer whale. Its other arm, useless and stringy in comparison, had a long rope tied to it, suspending a large boulder that it used as a weapon. Its body was simply massive: a height that could dwarf a building, a frame that was sturdier than a fire truck. Its skin! The color of purest evil!
This was the Strongman!
As it lumbered toward the group, Leo tried to collect his mind, attempting to figure a way out of this. “Why don’t we try to hide in one of the tents?” he suggested.
Linda gulped, unsure of whether or not that would work. Before she could voice her opinion, however, Leo and Conorsla had fled to the nearest tent. Not quite favoring the idea of facing the giant alone, Linda quickly followed suit.
On their way to the tent, Leo quickly explained the other half of his idea. “If he follows us, we can ambush him from the inside. We’ll take the rafters, and jump for his head.”
“What if one of us misses?” Linda asked.
Leo hadn’t thought of that. “Do we have any other choice right now?” he argued.
Conorsla nodded. Since he was the acrobat of the group, he could definitely manage to jump to the monster’s head. “OK, the bigger question is, ‘What can we use to jab into that eye of his?’” asked Leo as they entered the tent.
As Conorsla climbed the ladder as quickly as he could (Which was hard to do, since the earth was still quaking with the Strongman’s approach), Linda began to worry. “What if this doesn’t work?”
Leo shook his finger. “You and I can distract him from below, Miss…” Suddenly, it dawned on Leo that he hadn’t even asked her for her name.
“Linda,” she answered.
“Linda,” Leo echoed. “We can use that cannon over there to get his attention on us.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the cannon used for the Human Cannonball stunt.
Linda groaned, remembering the last escapade she had with that blasted thing. It ended terribly, with her landing in the audience, and injuring a few people. She was lucky Griever punished the real guy who was responsible for that…
As they all set up their trap for the Strongman, he was already on his way to the tent where he saw them run to. He gnashed his teeth, mangling them further, hungry for inflicting pain on his prey. His mind raced with the thought of crushing those diminutive pests.
Suddenly, he noticed two other creatures approaching the open ground: two females, neither one human. He didn’t know what races they were, nor did he especially care. The Strongman smiled cruelly, more than happy to assist these two fools in their suicide.

[Pilgrim John]

Wow, triple-posting... Really need to stop doing that.

i110.photobucket.com/albums/n109/PilgrimJohn_2006/strongman.jpg

This is the Strongman from chapter 13. The picture's too big to put here, so click on the link.

[ruben_gamer4life]

It kinda reminds me of El hegante from RE4

[Pilgrim John]

rubengamer4life said:

It kinda reminds me of El hegante from RE4

Except that it's head is now a stump.

[ruben_gamer4life]

zer0 said:

rubengamer4life said:

It kinda reminds me of El hegante from RE4

Except that it's head is now a stump.

Its an awsome drawing though

[fatherlorris]

when is the next one due. or have you got block again?