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RedPiggy
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Author’s Note: There will be violence. However, this story has been stewing in my head since – well, last night. I promised myself I wouldn’t get into another fanfic, but who am I to deny inspiration?
Chapter 1: Prologue
The sixty-eight-year-old Caucasian man deftly scrambled up the long black fire escape in the downpour, slipping only twice. He focused only on breathing, which was beginning to be labored, and his movements. His joints weren’t nearly as well-oiled as they used to be. Still, he couldn’t stop.
That freak would get him sooner or later.
He popped over the edge of the roof and sat down, glancing at his glowing watch to ensure he didn’t take too long to catch his breath. He was getting too old for this. So, too, apparently, was his opponent – which was why the hired help was chasing him.
Four years he had spent in prison. Three long years trying to get all that was rightfully his, namely, his personal affects and a job. He had finally found work two years later as a theme park security guard, but after misinterpreting a situation with his most recent employer’s visiting friends, he had found himself once again scrounging around for a paycheck.
And then he met that real estate guy, twelve years later, which was last year. The man chuckled. To think: while he had been wealthy and was now miserably poor, that moron used to actually be some pathetic fast food nobody and now found himself rising among the real estate tycoons, particularly in the southwest.
The man wiped the rain off his forehead and stood up to continue running. There was a staircase just across the roof leading inside the building. He glanced around. The nearest building was just across an alley, maybe thirty feet. He frowned. That was far too risky.
His heartbeat quickened as he heard slow and steady footsteps come up the fire escape. The arrogance, he thought to himself, as if this was Looney Tunes and he was the frantic cat and his pursuer was the confident skunk, just happily bouncing his way to his prey. He searched around his black jumpsuit’s tool belt and found a small screwdriver. It’d be hard to use it to make the fire escape stairs fall away, and he’d be vulnerable to any shots fired. So, he nodded and tucked himself into the corner of the rooftop and the edge, grasping the screwdriver tightly, his jaw set in determination.
A tall lanky man with a long brown poncho hopped over the edge of the rooftop. The hiding man thrust the screwdriver right into the back of his pursuer’s knee. He watched the other one crumple in pain, a smirk forming on his lips.
The victor stood, gloating, the rain dripping off his graying dark brown hair. He smirked. “Go tell that eighty-year-old bum he has no idea who he’s dealing with.” He kicked the guy over … only to find an athletic, tan-skinned, chiseled young man, who even managed to grin through his pain. The victor looked confused. “I thought he sent Walker after me.”
The crumpled man laughed, nodding. “I am Walker.” He took his good leg and kicked his prey in the shins, bringing him down. The injured man took a silvery trident-like harpoon and swiped at his prey’s chest, making bright red lines that soon mixed with the rain.
The first man winced and chuckled, cringing. “You gotta give me that youth recipe.”
Walker stood up, keeping his weight on his good leg. “Pest extermination’s a family business.” He shrugged. “Too bad you’re a pest. Dad actually admired your persistence.”
The prey laughed. “And here I thought I was too spoiled, using all that high-tech equipment.”
Walker shrugged. “We all use the tools that fit us best. Question is, is that still good enough?” He pulled out the screwdriver from the back of his knee and casually tossed it to his prey. He frowned as he saw his prey glance behind him. He turned only to meet a fist coming for him.
All was black.
An elderly pale man, nearly skeletal he was so thin, seemed like a ghost under his broad black hat and scarf and goggles. He, too, wore a dark brown poncho and thick rubbery boots that went all the way up to his thighs. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile, he didn’t frown … he was emotionless.
“So much … for … family,” the prey grunted. “How could you attack one of your own, Snake?”
“My paycheck,” growled Snake curtly. He took out a gun and a trident-shaped harpoon and loaded it, aiming it straight at his quarry. He remained expressionless, but his voice had a tinge of pride. “No more holidays,” he said as he fired.
Chapter 1: Prologue
The sixty-eight-year-old Caucasian man deftly scrambled up the long black fire escape in the downpour, slipping only twice. He focused only on breathing, which was beginning to be labored, and his movements. His joints weren’t nearly as well-oiled as they used to be. Still, he couldn’t stop.
That freak would get him sooner or later.
He popped over the edge of the roof and sat down, glancing at his glowing watch to ensure he didn’t take too long to catch his breath. He was getting too old for this. So, too, apparently, was his opponent – which was why the hired help was chasing him.
Four years he had spent in prison. Three long years trying to get all that was rightfully his, namely, his personal affects and a job. He had finally found work two years later as a theme park security guard, but after misinterpreting a situation with his most recent employer’s visiting friends, he had found himself once again scrounging around for a paycheck.
And then he met that real estate guy, twelve years later, which was last year. The man chuckled. To think: while he had been wealthy and was now miserably poor, that moron used to actually be some pathetic fast food nobody and now found himself rising among the real estate tycoons, particularly in the southwest.
The man wiped the rain off his forehead and stood up to continue running. There was a staircase just across the roof leading inside the building. He glanced around. The nearest building was just across an alley, maybe thirty feet. He frowned. That was far too risky.
His heartbeat quickened as he heard slow and steady footsteps come up the fire escape. The arrogance, he thought to himself, as if this was Looney Tunes and he was the frantic cat and his pursuer was the confident skunk, just happily bouncing his way to his prey. He searched around his black jumpsuit’s tool belt and found a small screwdriver. It’d be hard to use it to make the fire escape stairs fall away, and he’d be vulnerable to any shots fired. So, he nodded and tucked himself into the corner of the rooftop and the edge, grasping the screwdriver tightly, his jaw set in determination.
A tall lanky man with a long brown poncho hopped over the edge of the rooftop. The hiding man thrust the screwdriver right into the back of his pursuer’s knee. He watched the other one crumple in pain, a smirk forming on his lips.
The victor stood, gloating, the rain dripping off his graying dark brown hair. He smirked. “Go tell that eighty-year-old bum he has no idea who he’s dealing with.” He kicked the guy over … only to find an athletic, tan-skinned, chiseled young man, who even managed to grin through his pain. The victor looked confused. “I thought he sent Walker after me.”
The crumpled man laughed, nodding. “I am Walker.” He took his good leg and kicked his prey in the shins, bringing him down. The injured man took a silvery trident-like harpoon and swiped at his prey’s chest, making bright red lines that soon mixed with the rain.
The first man winced and chuckled, cringing. “You gotta give me that youth recipe.”
Walker stood up, keeping his weight on his good leg. “Pest extermination’s a family business.” He shrugged. “Too bad you’re a pest. Dad actually admired your persistence.”
The prey laughed. “And here I thought I was too spoiled, using all that high-tech equipment.”
Walker shrugged. “We all use the tools that fit us best. Question is, is that still good enough?” He pulled out the screwdriver from the back of his knee and casually tossed it to his prey. He frowned as he saw his prey glance behind him. He turned only to meet a fist coming for him.
All was black.
An elderly pale man, nearly skeletal he was so thin, seemed like a ghost under his broad black hat and scarf and goggles. He, too, wore a dark brown poncho and thick rubbery boots that went all the way up to his thighs. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile, he didn’t frown … he was emotionless.
“So much … for … family,” the prey grunted. “How could you attack one of your own, Snake?”
“My paycheck,” growled Snake curtly. He took out a gun and a trident-shaped harpoon and loaded it, aiming it straight at his quarry. He remained expressionless, but his voice had a tinge of pride. “No more holidays,” he said as he fired.
