mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
78 lines
2.6 KiB
TeX
78 lines
2.6 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{Zahgaegun}
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\chapter{The Pus-Stained Email from Hell}
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The sweat dripped off my forehead, running down my face and forming
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salty pools on the ground. Pools like the pools of blood that
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always form after I kill someone. I have seen a lot of blood pools
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in my lifetime for I have killed a lot of people in a lot of very
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messy ways.
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It's what I do. My name is Luke Bavarious; hitman, soldier,
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{\em killer}.
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I had been called to this sweaty place, Arabia, to kill some guys.
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This was an honorable job, a soldier's mission. ``We need some guys
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killed, so we called you'', they said on the phone. So here I was,
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in this Godforsaken hellhole, hunched over this screen, hoping for
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a morsel of communication from Home, something to feed my rotting
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brain, to let me know that there was a Reason To Fight, To
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Live.
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Suddenly, the machine screamed out a bing-bong. New mail. It made
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me smile because it reminded me of the time that I told that hooker
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``You've got Male!'' while we did the sex. Now she's dead. That wiped
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the smile off my face.
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``I'm from the Internet'', the letter moaned onto the screen. ``We
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have found your Hidden Stash of Writings from Long Ago.'' Dang, I
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thought, I had hoped that no one would find that. The sweat drips
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came faster now, the pools getting bigger like a child vomiting
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blood{\ldots}-red cherry slurpees from the fear of riding the Viking
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Ship at the county fair.
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``Hurry'', it continued to moan, ``there are already many people here
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pretending to be you.'' I typed fast as I could, pus-filled blisters
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rising from the friction of the keyboard on my gnarled fingertips.
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``I am coming'', I typed, ``Prepare the way.'' I tried to log in, but
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the passwords they used were too long, too complicated for my
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gnarled brain. I may only be thirteen, but my soul is almost 100
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years old, due to all the killing.
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Before I could get there, the sergeant bellowed my name. ``It is
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time to kill'', he said while handing me a beretta and a knife.
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``This is all we have left. Are you a bad enough dude to kill
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everyone with just this?'' ``Yes'', said I, the cold steel of the
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knife blade glinting off my eyeballs. ``Did you warn them?'', I
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asked. ``Yes'', the sergeant burped. ``We flew over them and dropped
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fliers warning them in whatever language they speak.'' ``Good. Then
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it is fair.'', I said and walked off towards the gate of the
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compound, the gate of my future and their destiny.
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As he walked away, a private leaned towards the sergeant and said
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``Warn them of what?''
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``I warned them that The Writer is coming.'', he said. ``God have
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mercy on their souls.''
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