|No Goblins Allowed
|[Story] Deadshot - Chain of Ghosts
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|Author:||Heartless Hidetsugu [ Tue May 23, 2017 10:51 pm ]|
|Post subject:||[Story] Deadshot - Chain of Ghosts|
The next in my sequence of Suicide Squad inspired pieces - this time with Deadshot.
We’re living in a world of ghosts, Deadshot thought as he made his way through the rotting remains of a shrine to the nearby village’s local gods. Satisfied that the shrine was empty, he took his time to tease out the details of the story depicted in the old wall scrolls. It appeared to be a tale of redemption that ended with the redeemed prostate before a humanoid dragon-thing and three-eyed ghosts chained to it. Figures that Deadshot took to be the fat cats – their ornate armor and robust builds reminded him of the mobsters he’d worked for in Gotham, Midway, Metropolis and hundreds of other cities across the globes – were being butchered and fed as tribute to the dragon-thing.
Deadshot shook his head and moved on. You’re really making a name for yourself around these parts, Waylon. In his mind Deadshot went over the details of the contract: a salacious priest of some Shinto sect had come on the scene; he’d began turning the locals against Waylon, claiming that the self-styled Dragon King was a charlatan agent come from America to corrupt the folk with his black magic hoodoo.
Magic. Spirit worship. Hoodoo. World of ghosts, Deadshot thought wearily, taking up his post in the shadows of a busted out window. Hungry ghosts, he added. Between Waylon’s hoodoo cannibalism and the priest’s disgusting appetites, it seemed that so long as the ghosts held sway, the future was forever bleak.
The priest arrived to much fanfare and celebration from the villagers. In the back of his mind, Deadshot wondered if it wouldn’t be better to leave this all be – last time someone from the States decided to intervene here, it touched off the war that got Waylon stranded in this humid, jungle-laden corner of the Earth.
I’m not being paid for my skills in armchair philosophy, Deadshot thought as he loaded up his sniper rifle. He took aim, the priest in his crosshairs. His finger wavered over the trigger. A little girl was gripping the priest by the hem of his kimono. She reminded him of his daughter, Zoe. Shoot now and he’d paint her up red, white, and gray with pulped brain.
Harsh lessons, kid. Deadshot pulled the trigger. Horror rang out through the village on the tail of his sniper’s fire. The girl stumbled back into her parents’ arms. He lowered his rifle, slipped back from the window. I wish I’d taught Zoe the same lessons.
In the dark place of lingering ghosts, where he had forged another link, chaining another restless soul to Waylon Jones, the Killer Croc and Dragon-King of the Vietnamese Black Market Trades, Deadshot consoled himself with the vision of Zoe’s new stepfather lying dead in the humid street of Bum****, Vietnam. Beneath his death’s head mask, it brought a smile to the hardened killer.
“Hey – Croc,” Deadshot answered the buzzing phone. “Got your goat. That headful of schemes is spread across the market place of Bum****, ‘Nam.”
“Good deal. Collect the body before the soul flees the flesh.”
“Alright, that’ll be double the original bill.”
“Done. You know where to bring it.”
Deadshot hung up, went into the shadows of the shrine’s ground floor, and shed his black and reds. He exchanged them for a peasant’s garb and exited, mind scheming to snatch the corpse without arousing the ire of the grieving village.
They've been given a valuable lesson, here - the bullet is the way, the truth, and the light: death's inevitable, and its the ultimate escape from this world of ghosts.
Floyd Lawton repeated it to himself as he entered the village. Yet in the village's simplicity - where the drive to survive outweighed all his silly philosophizing - he found something that had eluded him. Here there were no former employers scheming against their best killers, no cutthroats plotting without concern to the collateral damage. Here, Lawton saw people with their backs against the wall - same as he had been before he took up the assassin's trade - that would rather face their reality.
Instead, I'm hiding behind death's head and delivering judgment. Lawton sighed, followed the procession trailing the priest's corpse. One day, I'll have time to figure it all out.
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