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No Rest for the Wicked; Private thread
Topic Started: Sep 11 2010, 12:44 PM (2,106 Views)
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((Augustus MacDougal continued from Dude, how come I feel like I'm not in Kansas anymore?))

The beach was beautiful. On one side, the clear blue water, the rising sun visible in the distance to the east. On the other, a long line of rocks of various shapes and sizes, shielding the beach from the chaos of the inner island. And on the sand of the beach itself, a fairly small figure was walking along, by far the least attractive thing on the beach. Augustus MacDougal, known semi-affectionately as Dougal to everyone but his family, was in a bad state. By no means was he a handsome rogue in everyday life who turned the heads of male and female alike, he was fairly middle-of-the-road in terms of appearance, but the island had made him look a mess. The normally clean, tidy boy was dishevelled and covered in patches of dirt, his hair was an unattractive mess and he had a small cut on his right elbow for when he tripped climbing over some rocks. The boy hadn't slept since recovering from the sleeping gas, and had spent most of his time wondering around the island aimlessly avoiding human contact.

Yawning, Dougal once again checked to make sure if the shotgun he was holding (previously property of Dougal's ever-optimistic friend Albert Lions, who had graciously lent it to Augustus and then proceeded to get separated from him) was fully loaded. He was tired as hell, too tired to think about the things he was going to miss out on in life or mentally debate any deep philosophical questions he had. Dougal had had all-nighters before, nights spent with his girlfriend or his mates, or nights spent playing a new video game or doing some last-minute cramming for an important exam. He had also spent long periods of time walking or running before, but he had never combined the two before like he just had, and he felt shite for it.

The biggest problem in Dougal's life, in his view, were the cameras spying on his every step, broadcasting every action he made to the viewers at home. He knew full well some of his family and friends were watching, and that was the main concern to him. If they lived in one of those countries where TV wasn't such an important part of everyday life or the game was just being made as private snuff porn for Danya, then he'd be able to try and play the game, knowing fully well his family and friends wouldn't judge him on it when he got him. Killing people wouldn't be easy, he knew that fully well, but the cameras made sure he behaved, funnily enough. Not only did they prevent him from rebelling against the system, they made sure he didn't exactly go along with the system either.

They also prevented him from taking a crap, despite the fact he really needed one. But he'd rather hold it in until he died before exposing his private region to the nation.

Pushing his glasses up his nose again and pulling his bags back up his shoulders, Dougal continued walking along the beach, kicking wet sand up as he went. He had what felt like tons of sand in his shoes and socks, but he didn't really see the point in getting rid of it. He didn't even know why he decided to go onto this beach, he'd had to climb over a few rocks to do so and he wouldn't have been surprised if he came face-to-face with a psycho with a volleyball and an eye on his shotgun.

Kicking a random piece of driftwood out of his way, he spotted what appeared to be a small cave just ahead of him. Well, it was more like a large gap between two big rocks, but it should give him a bit of privacy, some time to think and if he was lucky catch a few minutes of sleep. Unless the tide came up and drowned him....did tides work that way? He knew a lot about most areas of science, but next to nothing about tides except the moon caused them. Was it high tide? Low tide?

Before Dougal could continue this most interesting thought process about tides and whether or not they worked that way, he heard a mysterious clapping coming from somewhere. Quickly realising it was time for one of the infamous announcements, Dougal listened intently to the tragically long death list while he slowly edged towards the cave.
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((Maxwell Lombardi continued from The Right Thing for the Wrong Reasons))

Being forced to spend the night in a dark cave wasn't exactly the highlight of Maxwell Lombardi's life. Not that he really had much of a choice...


After leaving the chaos of the Gazebo far behind him, he'd spent the rest of the day wondering aimlessly through the woods looking for a place of refuge for the night. After all, if he was going to make it off this island alive then he'd need an opportunity to actually get his thoughts straight. Making things up as he went along would only get him killed in the end... It didn't do him any good back at the Gazebo, that's for sure.

According to the crude map they'd been given, there seemed to be a building marked as the "Ranger Station" somewhere in the middle of island. Whilst it wasn't exactly a luxurious mansion, it'd probably have to do given the circumstances. Besides, Maxwell was certain that it'd be nice and empty... No unwanted visitors popping up from out of nowhere like at that damn Gazebo.

But, as time wore on and the forest began to dissipate and disappear, it quickly became evident to Maxwell that he'd strayed far from his original course. This was later confirmed when he found himself standing in the middle of a beach, staring across the endless ocean that stood before him with a mixture of awe and irritation. Damnit! I really ought to learn how to read a bloody map one of these days...

He considered heading back to look for the ranger station again, but the fact that the sun had gone down put him off the idea of heading back into the woods again. After his little encounter, he had very little trust for the rest of the residents on this island. Chances are, the woods were probably full of people setting up ambushes for any unwary traveller who just so happened to be passing by... Besides, he was way too exhausted from his little trek anyway. It'd much easier to just look for shelter somewhere along the beach, like a wooden shack or something...

So, despite his exhaustion and desperate longing to just collapse and fall asleep right there and then, he forced himself to continued along the beach until he finally came across somewhere he could temporarily call "home". He continued on for what felt like hours on end, the night sky fulled to the brim with bright stars illuminating his long and seemingly endless journey. Eventually, he found it in the form of a rather bleak and uninviting cave in the side of an rocky cliff...

Really... I mean, really? A CAVE of all places? Whats next, a lioncloth and a pointed stick?

*Sigh* Oh well, I suppose it IS slightly better then freezing to death...


With this in mind, he'd quickly made his way into the dark cave and set about finding the most comfortable spot to sleep for the night, using his jacket as a temporary blanket and his duffle bag as a temporary pillow. The cave itself was fairly small, barely a few metres wide and barely tall enough for Maxwell to stand upright without his head banging against the ceiling. After he'd found a spot which was comfy enough for him to lie down on without immediately complaining, it didn't take long for him to fall into a deep slumber...


That was several hours ago... Now, as the sun shone brightly outside to signal the start of a new day, Maxwell found himself regretting his decision almost immediately. After all, sleeping on a slab of rock was an... uncomfortable experience, to say the least. The fact that Maxwell was more used to sleeping under far more exquisite conditions made being reduced to using a cave as a place of refuge all the more embarrassing for the spoiled boy. Well, may as well help myself to something to eat...

He quickly got himself up, dusting off his black shirt before retrieving a loaf from his duffle bag to serve as a quick breakfast. He took a bite out of it, flinching as the dull tasting bread slid down his throat. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with the loaf, its just that having been brought up by a wealthy family meant that Maxwell had wealthy tastes. So to be forced to eat some of the most tasteless bread he'd ever had in order to survive was something that infuriated Maxwell to no end.

Good god, I can't believe what I've been reduced to... It was only a few days ago that I was dining in La Belle Vie, eating one of the most sumptuous meals I've ever had in one of the most stunning restaurants I've ever been to... And now look where I am, huddled in a cave like some crazed nomad eating a rather unimaginative loaf of bread... The sooner I get out of this damned hellhole, the better...

At that point, a distinctive sound resonated across the island. A metallic screeching sound like the kind made by megaphone... It didn't take long for Maxwell to realise what was happening when he heard Danya's voice begining to list those who'd died over the past 24 hours.

Oh yes, now I remember... They have these announcements every morning don't they? Typical... Wow, 19 deaths in one day? Ouch....

He listened intensely to the names of those listed, especially after it turned out that they told the names of the killers alongside those of the victims. Not that he thought he'd recognize any... Apart from Reiko and Vera (And MAYBE Reiko's Chinese girlfriend... Whatever her name was anyway) he didn't really know the names of any of his fellow classmates. Still, at least this way he'd have a better idea who to look out for then he would normally...

Wait, what? Did he just say... No, that was Reik-A Ishida, not Reik-O Ishida... Huh, didn't realise she had a twin sister...

Wait... Did he just say Reiko then actually managed to KILL someone? TWO people at that! Good lord, really? Huh, didn't think she'd have it in her... Sure, she was an insufferable cow and everything, but who'd of thought behind that harsh exterior lay the heart of a true psycho-bitch...


Admittedly, he couldn't help but find himself chuckling along with some of Danya's little jokes about the other students. As much as he hated the man for forcing them to fight each other to the death and everything, you couldn't deny the fact that the guy had a decent sense of humour. The quip about Paige Strand in particular brought quite a smile to his face. Although the joke about the "extra crispy Daniel Vaughan in the molotov sauce" brought him nothing but horrid memories of the event... So, Nick Reid was the name of the bastard I let get away huh? Hmm, perhaps I should be taking notes...

After writing down both the dangerzones AND the names of the apparent killers on the back of the map, he decided to head outside and get some fresh air in order to clear his mind. After all, he had a long day ahead of him... What with planning his escape and everything. No point in trying to get away if you never actually sit down and THINK about how you're going to get away in the first place.

With this in mind, he casually headed out through the cave entrance into the open, shielding his sensitive eyes from the recently arisen sun. He yawned loudly as he creaked his aching back, glad to finally be out of that accursed cavern as he loosened his red tie in the sunlight. It was an undoubtedly beautiful day that morning... The sun was shining brightly in the lightly clouded sky, the sea rocked back and forth in a hypnotic yet pleasant fashion...

...And standing right there in front of him was some bastard wielding a shotgun.

Oh, you have GOT to be joking...
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The announcement wound down to a close, the morbid list and accompanying corny jokes (adding insult to injury, Dougal thought) still fresh in Dougal's ears. Dougal stored the list of the dangerzones in his memory (dying by collar explosion seemed like a silly, embarrassing and pointless way to kick the bucket) and began trying to mentally attach the lists of killers and deceased to faces, but was interrupted by a yawn coming from the cave he was heading for.

Restraining the urge to yawn himself (yawns are even more contagious when you're tired, after all), Dougal instinctively took a couple of clumsy steps back and brought up the loaded shotgun, aiming it straight at the boy's face. Dougal's already grouchy, on-edge mood was not helped by who he saw. One of the few people at Bayview Dougal could genuinely bring himself to hate. The spoilt, pretentious egotist otherwise known as Maxwell Lombardi. And it wasn't just Maxwell's horrendous personality that rubbed Dougal the wrong way. Dougal's intense hatred was, in his eyes, pretty damn well justified.

The thing is, Maxwell fancied himself quite a ladies man, unlike Dougal who, thanks in large part to his somewhat nerdy appearance and his cynical outlook, could charitably be described as someone who got lucky when he began going out with the rather attractive Annabel Stephenson from one of the other St. Paul schools. Long story short, Dougal and Annabel were going out together to one of the local St. Paul clubs, the creepy bastard came along and casually hit on her, she said no, Dougal saw the situation and interfered half-way through (rather understandably pissed off), and then the cowardly Maxwell left before the shit hit the fan. Luckily for Maxwell (well, luckily for Dougal, as Maxwell could probably wallop the wiry Augustus in a fair fight), the two hadn't really met since then.

Until now.

And now, Dougal had the rather unfair advantage of a shotgun pointed straight at the prick's face. He could kill him right here, right now. Close that unfortunate chapter in Dougal's life. But Dougal wouldn't. Dougal was stronger than that. Dougal had morals and responsibilities, unlike the prick emerging from the cave in front of him. Dougal was just going to show Maxwell who was boss, maybe get his bag so he could have some extra supplies to use (Maxwell could make do with eating swamp water and frogs for all Dougal cared, and it would make a rather "refreshing" change from the caviar and roast partridge Maxwell was probably used to) and then send him on his way. Of course, using the cave as shelter was now out of the question, as if Maxwell did have an ounce of cranial matter in his skull he'd just come back and kill Dougal while he was sleeping. But, the sweet taste of nonviolent karmic justice would be more than enough to sustain Dougal until he reached a more appropriate hideout.

Now, the hard bit. Dougal opened his mouth, still keeping the barrel of the shotgun aimed squarely at Maxwell's general area as he took a couple more paces back. "Right, Maxwell. I don't know if you remember me, but I remember you. I have no intention of hurting you." Resisting the urge to add "even though I want to", Dougal paused to collect his thoughts and ponder on what to say next. Dougal was shaking quite visibly, partially out of cold, but partially out of fear. Dougal had never been in a situation before where a real person's life was on the line, and it was a rather frightening experience.

Dougal knew that if he killed Maxwell right there, right now, his friends and family would be disgusted with him if he got back, and his own personal demons would make it even worse. However, they'd all probably let mugging someone in the name of survival slide, especially someone who had it coming. Maxwell had no chance of surviving with or without his bag, but the prick's worthless life might as well end without Dougal's direct intervention.

His hands still tightly gripping the rather cumbersome shotgun, Dougal carried on, monitoring Maxwell closely for any signs of resistance. "Just....throw over your bag, everything will be a-okay."
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Quite frankly, Maxwell couldn't think of a more frustrating moment in his entire life.

Barely hours after surviving the fiasco back at the gazebo, and already he was under threat once again. This time from some skinny blond-haired bastard who just so happened to have a rather large gun at his disposal. He didn't seem particularly dangerous at first... Insipid, yes. But not dangerous... It wasn't until he started pointing his shotgun at Maxwell that he went from being a mere nuisance to an actual threat. Why, the little bastard...

"Now now, lets not do anything rash..." he said calmly, putting his hands up as he did so. To say Maxwell was infuriated at the idea of being at this curly-haired prick's mercy would have been a heinous understatement. It would of been bad enough if he was being threatened by some hulking 7ft tall monster. At least then you could take solace in the fact that at least you were at the mercy of someone who was genuinely threatening. But to be at the mercy of this... This... This complete and utter SIMPLETON! That was just painful...

"Right, Maxwell. I don't know if you remember me, but I remember you. I have no intention of hurting you."

"That's, uh, good to hear..." Do I actually KNOW this punk then? His face does ring a bell, now that you mention it... Ah what the hell, it probably doesn't even matter...

It was then that it suddenly occurred to Maxwell that Blondie here could very well be one of killers mentioned in the announcement earlier. After all, it DID mention about at least two guys who'd shot people in cold blood... Was this asshole one of them?

No, that'd just be silly. Surely if he was a player he'd of just shot Maxwell by now... Obviously, he had some ulterior motives in mind... But... what?

"Just....throw over your bag, everything will be a-okay."

......Ahhh...Now it ALL makes sense...

Seems Blondie wasn't a player after all. No, instead he was something far worse... A thief. A spineless coward who steals from others who're weaker then them in some desperate hope to stay alive whilst the rest of the island rots away and goes to hell around them. These kind of players were, to Maxwell, the lowest of the low. At least killers were actually trying to do the practical thing in ending the game as quickly as possible... But thieves? They don't care how long things have to go on for as long as they get the chance to pray on the weak and helpless for their precious supplies... And frankly, that just sickened Maxwell to the bone.

Who the hell do you think you are, trying to steal from ME of all people! You're just a pathetic loser, a complete and utter NOBODY! So how DARE you think you can just wave around a shotgun and receive free gifts as a prize for your efforts! I don't care if you're armed or not, theres no way in hell i'm letting a punk like you anywhere near my stuff... Not in a million fucking years......

Still, that didn't change the fact that Blondie WAS actually armed, and probably quite dangerous. Scaring him off wouldn't be easy, especially seeing as Maxwell hadn't a single thing on him. That was when he noticed something odd about the kid...

Is it just me, or does he seem somewhat... Anxious? Come to think of it, he's trembling all over... And here I thought I was scared! This guy on the other hand is practically terrified by comparison!

Hmm... Perhaps I could use that to my advantage......


Slowly, but surely, a menacing smirk began to form on his face as he lowered his hands into his pockets. He stood there with a sense of unyielding confidence about him, chuckling lightly to himself as his eyes bore into Dougal's. After all, if he was to assert his dominance over the weak minded imbecile in front of him he would have to show no fear in the face of certain danger. Show him how he wasn't afraid of any puny weapons hay may have hidden up his sleeve... It was mostly a bluff, yes, but if there was anything in the world Maxwell was good at it was taking advantage of idiots like Blondie here...

"Well, I have to say, that's quite a proposal there... I give you my bag, with all my worldly possessions in it, and in return you promise to NOT blow me away? Am I correct?"

That's it Maxwell old boy... Show him whose REALLY in control of the situation here...

"Well, I hate to be a be the bearer of bad news and all that, but I'm afraid that's just not possible... For you see, believe it or not, if I were to give you that bag it'd mean that I'LL have to spend the rest of the island without any supplies... And I don't think EITHER of us want that to happen now, do we?"

He punctuated this remark with an especially smug-looking grin on his otherwise attractive face.

"Now, don't start waving that silly gun around like you're in some action movie or something... We both know you don't have the balls to actually use it, not unless you were forced to defend yourself anyway. So as long as I just stand here, YOU can't do anything about it... Unless you're okay with the idea of becoming a cold-blooded murderer. Something I doubt either you OR any of your family watching this from home would be particularly comfortable about..."

He was on a roll now, and he knew it. This idiot was eating right out of his hand! All he'd have to do now is convince him that even if he DID try to attack Maxwell, he could easily dodge out of the way in time and strike back before Blondie even knew what hit him! Well, he assumed he could anyway... If all hell broke loose, he could PROBABLY disarm this prick without much hassle...

It was at that point that he came up with a particularly harsh thing to say to the already distressed boy in front of him... Hmm, would I be going too far if I said that? Oh hell, why not... I doubt the bastard even HAS a girlfriend...

"...I mean, you wouldn't want to give any sluts waiting on you back home even MORE reasons as to why they shouldn't bother waiting for the inevitable to happen when theres a perfectly attractive bodybuilder just waiting for them across the street......"
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Dougal was, up until now, under the impression that pointing guns at sane, non-suicidal people without a weapon of their own tended to have two impacts: they'd do what ever the hell you wanted, and they'd be scared shitless. While this outlook on life was mainly based on what he'd heard and seen from the media, and how he'd imagine he'd react with a gun pointed at him. However, NEVER would Dougal have considered that anyone but the most carefree badasses would actually consider being snarky to the guy with a gun. And Maxwell was definitely NOT a badass. Carefree, possibly, but not a badass. Spoilt pricks without a sense of control didn't become badasses overnight, not in real life anyway. So either Maxwell was proving he was insane when he began calmly trying to explain to Dougal, in the most jerkish way possible, why mugging Maxwell was a bad idea or his perception of how people reacting to guns aimed at them was wrong.

Tightening his grip on the shotgun, he shook his head in denial, and took a couple more steps back from Maxwell. He was rambling about how Dougal didn't have the balls to use the gun and how it'd ruin his reputation back home (well done, Captain fucking Obvious, Dougal thought bitterly when Maxwell said this, that's why I'm just mugging you), and Dougal decided to open his mouth in response. This would not stand, and Dougal would make Maxwell understand how very wrong he was.

"Firstly, I don't give a shit about you," Dougal replied, in a calm, yet furious tone (he was still shaking, but now out of anger), "so you rotting away without your supplies doesn't mean shit to me. Secondly...."

However, Maxwell did not seem to have noticed Dougal talking back, or simply decided he was too important to be polite and not interrupt people mid-sentence.

"...I mean, you wouldn't want to give any sluts waiting on you back home even MORE reasons as to why they shouldn't bother waiting for the inevitable to happen when theres a perfectly attractive bodybuilder just waiting for them across the street......"

That was it. That was the comment that made Dougal throw all calmness and fear and logic out of the window, and replace it with nothing but self-righteous fury and complete and utter hatred. His face turned red, his hands tightened their grip and steadied their aim, Dougal began shaking from head to toe with uncontrollable rage. As much as a cliche as it was, Mr. Nice Guy was out of the window.

"Listen here, you fucking shithead", Dougal ranted, spitting as he did so, the volume of his voice escalating as he continued, "Firstly, I have a fucking girlfriend. REMEMBER HER? About 5"8, attractive, light brown hair? You hit on her when me and her were having a night out, then the moment I came, you ran away like a little pussy? Or is that too much of a regular occurrence for you to remember every specific girl you did that to? The thing is, you rely on your charm and your 'good looks' and your spoilt English brat persona to get a girl, hell, you rely on those things to get ANYWHERE in life. I, and everyone else, attractive or not, rely on our fucking personalities and the fact we're not complete scumbags!"

Who's on a roll now, shit-for-brains?

The rage penting up inside him, Dougal continued, his hands shaking and the direction the shotgun was aiming at rapidly becoming very inaccurate "In fact, that's the main reason I have no worries about your stupid, worthless life being lost, I just didn't want to do it myself because UNLIKE YOU I have morals, and I don't want my fucking family and friends and girlfriend seeing me waste valuable time killing a stupid little waste of oxygen like yourself! But, yeah, you don't think I have fucking balls? FUCK. YOU." Dougal was seeing red, and logically, he would have thought the decision he made next to be an extremely irrational, stupid one, a decision made by a man blinded by emotion.

BANG!

....

Dougal had no idea what stupid decision he had just made, and what happened afterwards, but all he knew was that he was lying on his back, his arms aching like hell. The shotgun lay abandoned on the floor, the shot pellets having missed their target, lodged harmlessly in the stony sand to the left of Maxwell. A few had just missed him by a matter of inches, but Dougal, in his state of blind rage, had hopelessly misjudged the aim.

He'd also not realised 144lb, thin, wiry, untrained kids like himself with as much muscle as Maxwell had moral fibre, were not built to shoot shotguns. He didn't know whether the recoil had simply blasted him off his feet or whether he'd actually dislocated something, but he was on the floor and completely vulnerable to being killed.

Just fucking great.
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(Harold Fisher continued from Rest and Relaxation)

"Well well," Harold muttered to himself, "what's this now?" The pudgy man had been slowly walking in a northerly direction from the Residential Area, in the hopes that cutting across several territories would allow him to see more people. But no such luck, at least not until now. As he had been walking across the sand, he had caught sight of someone walking in the same direction a little further ahead. Keeping his back towards land, he followed at a slow pace until he could see what was going on, hoping to mask his approach by making that stealthy motion that he had always seen in cartoons.

It didn't take long for the first gentlemen to get into an altercation with another, with the first holding the other at gunpoint. Creeping slowly along the sand, curious as to whether or not the shotgun man was one of the people in the previous announcement, Harold watched as the two men shared words with one another. He wasn't entirely sure what they were saying, but it apparently wasn't pleasant, as it ended with the shotgun man raising his weapon and missing by a good margin. The blast from the boomstick made Harold wince, even at his distance, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that the man with the shotgun was on his back.

That will teach you not to brace yourself properly, idiot. Now then, will the other man take advantage of this, or won't he?

Quivering with anticipation, Harold pulled his pistol out of his bag and shakily loaded in a clip. He'd be ready for whatever occurred, but he wanted to be watching when it happened. He had been theorizing that the reason for his hesitation beforehand had been a mental block due to not feeling justified in performing the heinous act of murder. But if his target killed someone in cold blood, perhaps he wouldn't feel so inclined to spare him. It seemed scientifically sound, and besides, it would be one person who he wouldn't have to kill himself, which would save him the bullets.

Come on! Come on! You can do it! You know you want to!
Edited by Blastinus, Sep 17 2010, 06:29 PM.
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"Listen here, you fucking shithead"

... Wait, what?

He'd anticipated that there would be SOME kind of reaction from the gutless cretin in front of him. After all, it was only natural for people to retort after being on the receiving end of a particularly sharp comment such as the one Maxwell just made... But on the other hand, he hadn't anticipated just how FEROCIOUS his reaction would be...

There wasn't really any way of describing it... He just EXPLODED on the spot, suddenly going into a lengthy rant at Maxwell about how he apparently DID have a girlfriend after all... Jesus, who'd of thought anyone would have actually wanted to go anywhere NEAR this basement dweller let alone go out with this prick! To make matters worse, from the sound of things he and this slut had already met before... Blondie didn't elaborate as to where exactly, but according to him Maxwell had apparently been flirting with this mystery girl until Blondie came along and ruined it for him. Whilst he hadn't any recollection of the event itself, he didn't have any reason to believe it DIDN'T happen... After all, whilst for the most part he avoided flirting with the women of Bayview (Apart from a certain lying cow who shall remain nameless...) he'd often tried his luck with some of the OTHER girls in St Paul to varying degrees of success. And events such as the one Blondie was referring to happened to be something of a common occurrence. Although, he hadn't quite "run away like a pussy" as Blondie put so bluntly...

The longer Blondie went on insulting him like this, the more reasons he had for despising the infuriating bastard. Not ONLY was he accusing him of being such things as sexist, spoilt, cowardly and a complete scumbag... But he also had to go ahead and insult his own COUNTRY of all things! A country with far more class and complexity than this philistine's pathetic excuse of a nation could even DREAM of! And this lowlife thinks he has any right to mock him because of that?

Personally, he'd had enough of this nonsense...

"Now... LISTEN here......" he said in a menacingly venomous tone of voice... But before he could continue, the blond-haired boy had already began to continue his relentless tirade once more. This time with thrice the amount of vicious energy as before...

For the first time since he'd come across this shotgun-wielding boy, Maxwell was actually starting to become afriad... Before, when he seemed to just be some nervous wreck who hadn't the slightest clue what he was doing, Maxwell thought that he could control him through persuasion and smoothly spoken words... But now it finally seemed clear to Maxwell that his little plan had backfired majorly. He realised now that he'd pushed this boy too far... WAY too far... And unless he was careful, the stupid bastard might accidentally try to......

"...But, yeah, you don't think I have fucking balls? FUCK. YOU."

Oh SHIT!

It all happened way too fast... He should have dodged. Should have tried to roll out of the way or run back into the cave or ANYTHING. But in all the confusion, all he did at that moment was close his eyes and make a pathetic attempt at blocking the inevitable gunshot with his equally defenceless arms.


BANG!


..........................

.......Am I... Dead?


He slowly opened his eyes, lowering his arms so that he may get a proper view of the situation. As implausible as it was, it seemed as though he was unharmed. Well, physically unharmed anyway... The gunshot had completely missed, bar a few pellets which had embedded themselves in the stone wall right next to where Maxwell was standing. Blondie was no longer shouting obscenities at him, mainly due to the fact that he was now laying helplessly on his back with a pained expression on his face.

My god... He... He nearly SHOT me! Could have flat out KILLED me right there and then! The only reason i'm still alive now is because of sheer dumb luck... I...... I should be dead right now! There should be a huge gaping hole in my chest! But there isn't! I'm still alive! I'M STILL ALIVE! And so is... so is......

......So is he.


By that point, the initial shock of what had just happened finally wore off... Replaced instead with a an unnatural rage unlike any Maxwell had ever felt before in his entire life. Back at the gazebo, Reiko had managed to greatly offend him by calling him something as simple and petty as an ass. But Blondie? He'd successfully managed to enrage Maxwell to a point that no other man or woman had ever achieved before... Not ONLY had he insulted Maxwell in almost every conceivable way possible, which in itself was enough to piss him off on a major scale... But he had actually tried to KILL HIM! Shoot him dead on the spot! And he would have too, if Maxwell hadn't been so damn lucky......

How dare he... How DARE he! Does he have ANY. FUCKING. IDEA who the hell he was just SHOOTING AT?!? Who does he think he is? WHO THE FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS!?!

He should have just left Dougal there. Should have just headed back inside and grabbed his stuff, making a run for it before Blondie had the chance to get back up at fire at him once again. But by that point, Maxwell Lombardi was far too furious to think things through. Far too enraged to consider his alternative options... His blood was boiling, his vision red with sheer rage. All he wanted to do was slaughter this infuriating son-of-a-bitch and end this once and for all, with his own bare hands if need be...

And sure enough, thats exactly what he did next.

"You...... Fucking...... CUNT!!!"

And on that note, he just sprinted towards his enemy's prone body and literally pounced on top of him, grabbing his fragile neck with an iron grip. He clenched onto it tightly, blocking the oxygen from entering the poor boy's windpipe. His fiery eyes bore into Dougal's, his primal expression that of pure unadulterated hate as his grip got tighter and tighter. His victim struggled, trying desperately to get Maxwell off of him before he finally choked to death. But Maxwell was far too enraged by this point to be shaken off so easily, far too dedicated to snuffing out this idiotic sap's pathetic life to let anything distract him from doing so...

It wouldn't be long now until Blondie stopped moving, until what little was left of his miserable life was finally extinguished... And all Maxwell had to do was hold on patiently until the job was done.
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Dougal tried to push himself back up so that he was in a position to fight back against Maxwell or at the very least run away and live to die another day (he was quite a good runner, and his legs felt perfectly fine), but his arms felt weak and it hurt like hell to move them. He was deprived of sleep, and his thoughts were pulling his brain in completely different directions, some of them nonsensical. He didn't know whether to feel angry, or scared, or depressed, or whatever. He still had no idea what exactly had thrown him back onto the stony, dirty beach, but he could make an educated guess and say that the fact he was a pretty thin, wiry kid meant he was not built for shotguns, and thus was why he was in such a compromising position.

Breathing heavily, he tried to contemplate his next move. Moving his arms was pretty much out of the question, they felt like they were on strike, refusing to move a muscle in fear of making the sheer agony he was already feeling even worse.

However, up until now, Dougal had assumed he had hit Maxwell. In fact, the very idea that Maxwell may still be a threat and may be out to end Dougal's life as retribution for Dougal's extremely hostile tirade hadn't even crossed his mind. If he was to think about what his biggest problem was, he'd probably say the tide going higher than he expected it to do so, or a passing player like that Kris or Clio or Reiko coming by and picking him off in his vulnerable state.

So, Dougal was rather shocked, and quite frankly terrified out of his mind, when he heard Maxwell's words pierce through the air. Judging by the tone and the profane, aggressive vocabulary used, Maxwell was still alive, and he wasn't shellshocked or seriously wounded. The only emotions he was feeling were pure hatred. And Dougal would have to suffer for it. Bracing himself for a shotgun blast to the face, he closed his eyes shut, and began quivering like a nervous wreck once again. He couldn't die, not like this. He was too young, he had so much to do in life, and --

What happened next, Dougal had not expected. The wind was knocked out off him as Maxwell landed on his torso, having pounced his stationary target instead of going the quick, relatively humane route. And then Maxwell placed his hands tightly around the exposed skin of Dougal's neck, barely missing the collar that was "shielding" a large part, but not all, of his neck. Immediately, the expression on Dougal's face turned from a flustered look of exhaustion and depression, to one of desperation and fear. He'd never had hands around his neck for more than a couple of seconds before, and never in such a hostile, dangerous way. A split second after Maxwell closed his hands around Dougal's hands; his breathing became a lot more painful, air struggling to get through his windpipe, his mouth feebly coughing and spluttering, his mind in full panic-mode, shutting out all thoughts except for fears of death and ways of getting this attacker off of him.

His aching arms were still both out of commission, barely moving, having apparently given up and prepared for their imminent fate a long time before the rest of Dougal's body had. They just lay there, sprawled on the sand, doing little to try and resist the maniac with his hands crushing against Dougal's neck. In an attempt to make up for the lack of action from his arms, Dougal's legs began kicking and thrashing, however doing nothing but kick sand, stones and litter up in the air, the sand being picked up by the breeze and carried away. As a final attempt at getting out of a futile situation, his torso began squirming uncomfortably as much as it could, which was not a lot, considering it had the full weight of Maxwell Lombardi on top of it and the general weak, tired situation of Dougal's body to contend with. There was nothing he could do to stop this.

He was going to die.

He was never going to eat again, have fun again, relax again, see his friends again, see his family again, see Annabel again, and all because he happened to be in the same class that Danya decided to pick for his little death-game. He didn't even have the thought of the possibility of a benevolent afterlife to comfort him; despite his Christian upbringing, he could be described as agnostic at best, however most settled for calling him a cynical, nihilistic atheist. And even if there was an afterlife? He would go there now, wait years for his friends and family and Annabel to die and come up and join him, and by then they'd all have moved on. Jacob, Alberta and Bill would all have new interests and new friends to entertain themselves, and probably would have developed new personalities to boot. Annabel would have moved on, probably gotten married and had kids and would only remember Dougal as a sad memory, someone to remember and mourn from time to time, but not someone to change her life for. And his parents and his sisters still had each other; they'd just sell Dougal's stuff, mourn for a few weeks than get on with their lives.

It was a strange person who actually hoped there wasn't an afterlife when they were about to die, but Dougal was that person.

The pain was getting stronger.

His windpipe was getting weaker, fighting a losing battle against the force of Maxwell's hands. Dougal could feel his bodily extremities begin to go limp, he could sense parts of his brain begin to go fuzzy and useless as they ran out of air, he could feel his lungs go into panic mode as the vital supplies of air began to run dry.

He tried uttering an apology, a plea for mercy, tried saying something to try and get Maxwell to calm down and negotiate, but all that came out whenever Dougal tried to say something was a barely audible somewhat-squeaky grunt. Even if he was able to talk, he wouldn't have expected Maxwell to listen.

So, this was it.

His final moments.

Not how he imagined going, even when he woke up on the island half-expecting to die in a shitty and painful way, the idea of being strangled on a rocky beach by some stuck-up English cunt wouldn't have crossed his mind.

The pain was becoming unbearable. His body had fallen limp aside from the occasional twitch, the pained, contorted expression on his face and the semi-frequent splutters and groans from his mouth being the only signs of life from the boy. He could feel a sensation he'd never felt before; a sensation he guessed was dying.

So this is how it feels.

He was just going to die, unimportant, worthless, insignificant. Evil had won. He had lost. Sure, that was how his life philosophy went, but it wasn't a nice feeling to have, to know it to be true for certain. He'd just die right here, right now, and be forgotten amidst the long list of the names of the dead, remembered by history and his classmates only one last time as his name was read out by Danya and accompanied by some sick, twisted joke that wouldn't even be that funny.

And Maxwell would just pick up his bags and stroll off to cause more trouble....

Though he'd probably die too. He'd probably get his comeuppance.

That was a comfort. It was a sad situation when the impending death of one of your peers was the only positive thing in a situation, but this was undeniably a sad situation. He wouldn't be there to see it and savour it, but Maxwell will get a taste of karma. And, even if against the odds he somehow won the game and got off the island, he'd be ostracised from every community on the planet, hunted down if not by Dougal's family and friends then by someone else’s. In Dougal's current state of mind, one of panic, delirium and regret, the idea of his sworn enemy getting a taste of his own medicine was more than enough to make Dougal happy.

And while his facial expression did not change, and the physical pain did not cease, Dougal was alright with the thought of his death now. He was no longer thinking about regrets or the afterlife or how he'd fade into nothing, he was perfectly satisfied with the comforting thought that Maxwell would die.

And just like that, without a final thought, or his life flashing before his eyes, with no warning aside from the encroaching darkness and the steadily increasing difficulty to breath, it all stopped. Dougal stopped moving, he stopped thinking, and he stopped living.

B143 - AUGUSTUS MACDOUGAL - DECEASED
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He did it! Amazing! And my faith in humanity has been restored.

Seeing a man crush the life out of another was both shocking and oddly fascinating. Even as Dougal's arms went limp, Harold remained rooted to his hiding spot, his loaded pistol held loosely in his right hand. He didn't know how he would react to the murder of another man, but he had expected to be revolted, to lose everything that he had eaten earlier that day. He had expected to be frightened, to cry out in terror and lie shaking in a trembling ball. He had expected to be offended, to curse out himself and everyone around him for not deigning to prevent a waste of human life.

He had not expected to be eager to try it out himself.

Rising up from the sand, Harold walked purposefully towards Maxwell, his pistol raised. It'd be easy right now to snuff out this man's existence. After all, he was probably still concerned about having killed a man for the first time. Or was this even his first? For all he knew, Harold could have been looking at a double or even triple offender, long ago deadened to the art of murder. If so, this was an even larger reason for him to kill the man now, while there still was a chance. And yet, there was something stirring within the self-proclaimed genius: a desire to be grand and dramatic. To savor his first kill, and let it hang for as long as he wanted. After all, the shotgun was still yet unclaimed. There was no reason to be concerned about an attack at range.

"Nice work there. I was concerned that you wouldn't go through with it," Harold said as casually as possible, resisting the urge to giggle. "You know, I'm happy that there are others on this island with the killer instinct. I was worried that we'd all be a bunch of pansies, and that wouldn't be fun for the people at home, would it?"

Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, Harold tossed the pistol from his right hand to his left, nearly fumbling it on the way down. "Heh...So, I'll cut to the chase here. I don't know who you are, and I really REALLY don't care. The point is that you, sir, are going to be the starting point for my career on this island. No hard feelings, right?" Harold tossed the pistol in the air again, back to his right, and this time, his hand missed. As he fumbled about in midair, the pistol flew off his outstretched fingers and landed with a small "poof" in the sand.

SHIT!
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It was quite something, really, realising that you've just choked another living person to death with your own bare hands. For most people, the initial reaction upon realising this would be to feel immensely guilty with themselves. To be repulsed by what they had just done, about how they had just ended another man's life in such a brutal and inhuman manner. To be sickened by the sheer ramifications of the crime they had just committed. To undo what they had just done so that they may try and reconcile before it was too late...

But at that moment, Maxwell felt none of those things.

He was shocked alright, no doubt about it. But not with the fact that he'd just ended another human being's life... But with how he felt about it afterwords.

Because at that moment, Maxwell felt good.

Earlier, he had always assumed that he'd never be able to take the stress of having committed murder. That the sheer emotional turmoil that it would bring would be enough to break him down into nothing. But the thing is, he DIDN'T feel stressed from what he'd just done. If anything, he felt even better. It had been so exhilarating! The sheer adrenaline rush of taking another man's life away from him! The power of doing away with another person's life as he saw fit! He hadn't had this much fun since he first arrived here...

...THAT was what shocked him most of all.

This can't be right... Shouldn't I be freaking out right about now? That's what's usually supposed to happen, right? I mean... I SHOULD be feeling guilty for this filthy sod... But i'm not! Good god, i'm not! The horrid little bastard had it coming! I couldn't imagine a far more appropriate end for the insipid lowlife...

But... Damnit, what does this mean?!? I'm not a monster! Sure, i'll be the first to admit I can somewhat harsh on occasion... But surely I can't actually be enjoying this? Only a complete psychopath would... would.....


He had to get away. FAR away. As far away as he could from this accursed island before he lost what little left of his morality there was left... He'd already killed, nothing could change that now... And unless he got away soon, there was not a hint of doubt in his mind that he'd be tempted to do it again... And again... and agai.......

"Nice work there. I was concerned that you wouldn't go through with it,"

...What the devil!?!

He turned his head over to see the last thing he could have possibly wanted to see at that moment... Namely some fat baseball cap wearing retard aiming yet ANOTHER fucking gun at him.

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Fucking. KIDDING!

"You know, I'm happy that there are others on this island with the killer instinct. I was worried that we'd all be a bunch of pansies, and that wouldn't be fun for the people at home, would it?"

This guy... He just HAD to pick now to be the time to start being a smartass with Maxwell. It had only been a few seconds ago that Maxwell had just killed another man in cold blood, and already he was strongly tempted to do it again. This guy... Within a few seconds he had already signed his death warrant the minute he opened his big mouth. Only problem however, was how Maxwell was going to deal with him... There was a shotgun barely a few feet away from him. Perhaps he could try and make a dash for it or something...

"What's your point?" he replied through gritted teeth, a hateful scowl on his face.

"Heh...So, I'll cut to the chase here. I don't know who you are, and I really REALLY don't care. The point is that you, sir, are going to be the starting point for my career on this island. No hard feelings, right?"

Then, almost immediately after the fat slob had finished his arrogant statement, he dropped the gun by accident. YES! Now's my chance!

Maxwell was fast, and he didn't waste any time as he sprinted towards the bastard who dared threaten him the second the gun touched the sand. With all the energy and effort Maxwell could possibly muster, he gave the fat slob a well deserved pummel to the face, knocking him head over heels onto the rocky beach before he even knew what hit him. Then, as he lay there bruised and defenceless, all it took was for Maxwell to pick up the the discarded pistol and aim it at him until the tables were finally turned.

Just like with Blondie, Maxwell COULD have just left him there to rot. Could have just told him to go as far away as possible, never to come back. Done what most people would call to be the moral thing to do in this situation... But right now, Maxwell wasn't in the mood for mercy. Wasn't in the mood for letting yet another bastard get away with crossing him like he had by the gazebo. He was already on another adrenaline rush, the desire to snuff out this tool coursing through his veins.

So, rather then let the oafish buffoon go, Maxwell simply smirked and aimed the gun's sights right between the fat bastard's eyes.

No hard feelings, right?

"No... None at all." he said, shortly before pulling the trigger.

BANG!
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Harold had barely had enough time to recognize the loss of his pistol before Maxwell charged him. He had seen it coming, and he had plenty of time to react to it, but his attention was on the gun. He had expected the other man to take a dive for it, and had been ready to go for it as well. He was heavier, and he was desperate enough to have the strength to beat him for it. But Maxwell knew what priority was highest. Before the fatty could even raise his arms in defense, he felt the impact of a fist against his jaw, and felt himself falling.

His mind cleared shortly afterwards, and through blurry eyes, he saw his foe bend down and pick up the pistol lying on the sand. He knew what was coming, and as the man stepped over him, he whimpered and drew his knees into his belly, covering his head with his arms. Why was this happening to him? It had been one simple mistake, one lapse of judgment. Did he really deserve to die because he dropped his weapon?

Yes, you do, said his rational mind, and Harold cursed at himself under his breath. After all, had he not just called someone an idiot for not using a shotgun properly? How was this any different? If someone had dropped their weapon in front of him, he would have laughed at them and probably said that they didn't deserve to live, that their rampant stupidity had forfeited any right they had had to exist in this world. If anything, Harold deserved to die even more, given that he was supposed to be the smartest man on this island.

I've dug my own grave, and the best that I can do now is die with honor.

With that in mind, as Maxwell aimed the pistol squarely at Harold's forehead, he lowered his arms and faced the man with a nod and a half smile.

No hard feelings.

"No," said Maxwell, "none at all."

The bullet slammed straight into Harold's forehead, knocking the cap off of his head. His head snapped to the side and his legs stiffened, and then he lay still, his eyes closed halfway and a dumb expression on his face.

B150: FISHER, HAROLD - DECEASED
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For the first time since he'd arrived on the island, Maxwell Lombardi began to truly think about the situation he was in.

He stood there for another minute or so, his newly acquired handgun still aimed at the lifeless body of Harold Fisher. Fresh blood was already starting to pour from the fat bastard's forehead, staining the sandy ground he was sprawled upon. Even in death, he still had that same smug expression on his face that just made Maxwell want to beat the living shit out of him (Which, thankfully, he had a chance to do shortly before finishing him off). But even so, as he lay there motionless Maxwell almost felt sorry for the unlucky sod... Well, until he recalled the exact reason why he'd killed him in the first place. Then, the only feeling he felt as he observed the arrogant prick's rotting corpse was a very exhilarating feeling of satisfaction.

He still couldn't believe that he'd actually gone through with it... Barely ten or so minutes ago he was sitting down in a lonely cave, trying to think up ideas for how he could make it off this rock in one piece. Never had he expected at the time that within the hour he'd end up becoming the very thing he'd been criticising people like Nick Reid over. Not that he felt particularly guilty about it. After all, they HAD both tried (Or at least intended) to kill him first, so why the hell should he be the one feeling sorry? THEY started it, so Maxwell finished it. Simple, really...

But that still left one ominous question unanswered... What now?

Ever since he'd arrived here, his only goal had been to get off the island without being forced to play along with Danya's little "game"... Why should he be forced against his will into becoming a mass murderer who'll only be chastised the moment he got home? Not that he doubted his ability to win or anything. Far from it in fact. He was almost 100% certain that if he really wanted, he could take down the rest of this inept island with his hands tied behind his back...

...So what's stopping him from doing just that?

He knew that there was no turning back now. In about a day's time, everyone on the island would be aware of what he'd done thanks to the morning announcement ruining everything. His cover would be completely blown, and as far as the rest of the island was concerned he would be a cold-blooded serial killer. Hell, he'd sealed his fate the moment he strangled a living man to death on live TV! Even IF he managed to find a way to escape, he'd still be branded as a murderer the moment he got home. Nothing could change that now, not after what he'd just done.

So why not go all-out and get it all over and done with sooner? The only real reason he could come up with against it was the fact that it'd mean playing right into Danya's hands.

Then again... What other option do I really have? Now that I think about it, how on earth WOULD I have been able to get off this rock in one piece anyway? I've been here for an entire day, and I've not come up with a single plausible idea. Not a single one! They've all either been too contrived, too difficult to realistically achieve or just too damn well predictable for it to have not already been considered. The very fact that they could execute us whenever they want to makes it virtually impossible anyway... So the only real option other then playing along would be to lay down and die like a coward. Something I have no intention of doing any time soon...

Besides... Perhaps I've been looking at this from then wrong perspective. Is it REALLY that foolish a goal to try and survive by any means necessary? Surely having the mental fortitude to do whatever it takes must be an admirable trait? So why should I of all people believe that those who play along are the weak ones in this situation? No, of course not... The weak ones are those who choose to just keep running until somebody inevitably ends it and puts a bullet squarely between their eyes. They're the real sheep here, not the players. And I'm not a sheep now, am I? No... Far from it...


The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his earlier excuse seemed. Perhaps deep down he knew all along that there was no real way for him to escape the island without killing SOMEBODY, and the only thing that was actually stopping him from doing so was fear. Fear of what kind of effect committing murder would have on his psyche, that he would literally go mad the second he took another man's life. Who knows, maybe he already had and just didn't realise it yet. Either way, he knew now that his own conscience wouldn't be a problem here. If anything, killing those two morons relieved far more stress then it caused. Hell, he hadn't felt this good since the first time he'd beaten somebody using Muay Thai! The sense of superiority as your opponent begs for mercy... The adrenaline rush as you go in for the kill... And the feeling of satisfaction as you finally deliver the killing blow... Personally, Maxwell loved every second of it.

A smile crept upon his face as he finally lowered the gun, his attention still fixated on the cadaver in front of him. It was clear to him now what he had to do in order to survive on this island, what he had to do in order to make it back to civilisation alive and well. He'd left that cave in order to get his thoughts straight and decide what to do next... And sure enough, thats exactly what he did in the end.

Alright Danya, I'll play your little game for now... Not for you of course, but for myself. After all, theres no way I'm letting myself die at the hands of some weak-minded lunatic who happened to have a submachinegun on him... I'll make it out of here alive, and if everybody on this stinking island has to die before that's possible... Then so be it.

And who knows... Maybe if I'm given a chance, even if its just a small and minuscule chance... Then perhaps I might even have a shot at offing the big man himself for putting me in this situation in the first place... Yes, I quite like the sound of that.

Still, I'm thinking ahead of myself...


On that note, he stepped forwards and picked up Harold's dufflebag, casually throwing it over his shoulder. On his way back to the cave, he stopped for a moment to pick up both Blondie's dufflebag and discarded shotgun as well, carrying all the equipment back inside where he was wasn't out in the open.

Whilst inside, he quietly went about unzipping the bags and emptying the contents into his own. At least, the contents he needed anyway (Such as rations, ammunition, extra batteries for the flashlight, ect...). After zipping it back up, he threw his white jacket back on and carefully placed the pistol into one of the inside pockets where he could easily whip it out whenever he needed to. He then took the opportunity to consider whether or not it would be a bright idea to take the shotgun along with him... After all, he saw what could happen to someone who fired such a thing without bracing themselves first. Still, it'd be such a waste to just leave it here to rust when the tide comes along. Besides, he was in much better shape then Blondie was, and as long as he made sure to brace himself for the strong recoil he should be fine.

So in the end, he decided to take the shotgun along with him anyway as he triumphantly left the beach with his dufflebag hoisted over his shoulder. He didn't have any specific destination in mind, or anybody in particular he would look out for (Although he did make a mental note to finish what he started with that cock Nick Reid should they ever cross paths again...). But nevertheless, he was confident that it wouldn't be long until he finally found exactly what he was looking for... Whatever that was.


As he was barely a kilometre or so away from the beach, he couldn't help but stop in his tracks as he came across a camera watching him from a nearby tree. A cruel idea began to form as he stared back at the blank lens that was observing his every movement, one which he just couldn't resist putting into action...

"I know what you must think of me, and to be truly honest I don't blame you. But just so you know, its been an absolute pleasure teaching your son some manners... Not that he'll ever get a chance to actually practice them, mind you, but at least he died knowing who'll be the one who makes it off this damned rock in once piece. And to whoever it was who that blond imbecile referred to as his girlfriend, may I add that I am deeply sorry for your loss... After all, if that idiot hadn't gotten in the way of things we may have been able to spend quite a pleasurable night together."

He waited for another second or so before he spoke again, allowing what he said to seat in. *Sigh* Its an awful shame I can't see what their reactions are. I'm sure there must be quite a couple of people yelling obscenities at their television sets right about now. Still, they're going to hate my guts no matter what I do, so why should I waste my breath trying to justify myself in front of them? Besides, this is WAY more entertaining... Anyway, may as well wrap this all up...

"Now then, I'm afraid I must bid you all adieu. I look forward to meeting the rest of your children, siblings, lovers, friends and what not. And I'm sure they're looking forward to meeting me as well..."

A callous smirk formed on his mouth as he gave the camera one final stare, the heavy shotgun resting on his shoulder.

"...Enjoy the show." And on that note, he continued on his way at a leisurely pace.

((Maxwell Lombardi continued in Walk the Line))
Edited by Fiori, Feb 8 2011, 07:41 AM.
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