3 Cheers For Sweet Revenge

"Kill him."

I had to take over, he asked me to. A man's dying wish.
With what strength he had left in him, I combined it with my own unholy escence, and rose to my feet, firing my pistol off at the one shooter, striking him in the chest.

He flew back twelve feet, slamming hard into a pew. He tried to raise his hand to fire back at me, but I blew his hand off with a well placed shot.

The other shooter fired into my back, the bullet passing through me and embedding in the cold marble columns. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as it would have if I were still alive in my own body.
The gunshot jerked me a little to the right, almost making me lose my footing.
But I spun on my heel and fired on him, taking out his right leg, his lower shin and calf flying and bouncing on the carpeting a few feet away from him.

He toppled over, screaming and clutching his wound, I fired a second shot into his right eye socket, the blast of bullet and organic matter pulped against another pew. He crumpled over, dead and silent.

Rochester had ducked and hid amongst the pews, too afraid to return fire.
I calmly walked up to the other wounded shooter, who was desperately trying to free a back up pistol from his ankle holster with one hand.
I kicked his hand away, quickly knelt down, and freed the weapon, turning my head away, so not to get any fragments or splatter as I emptied the entire clip point blank into him.

I dropped the gun and went to turn away, only to hear the dead man wheezing for air.
I turned back and around, withdrew my folding knife, gutted him, and strangled him with his own large intestine. When his body was still and silent, I released my vise like grip.

Now it was time to kill Rochester.

I heard him crawling around under the pews, desperately trying to find an escape route.
The church, now the Hotel Buella Muerte.

His movements echoed off of the walls and ceiling, his pathtetic whimpers and gasps as he crawled on his hands and knees.

I cut him off, he tried to escape from the side. He went to raise his gun, but I stomped hard on his, causing him to cry out in pain as I ground my foot hard and heavy on his fractured finger joints. I kicked the gun away from him, standing over him.

"Please!" he pleaded.

I looked over at Helena, then down at him, then back at Helena.
With the gun still trained on Rochester, I let him back in....

When I opened my eyes again, Rochester was kneeling in front of me, begging for forgiveness, to be let go, to live. My body was a mess of blood.
I felt weak, tired, drained. I don't know how much longer I could stand.
Black had taken over my body as instructed.

Thank you.
(Whatever, just end him.)

I looked down at Rochester, all of this, this hatred, this pain, this suffering.
I shot it all away.

(All we are, is bullets.)
You mean that?
(Yes I mean this..)

I emptied the clip into Rochesters face, sending his eye, nose, teeth, and bone all over the floor and walls.
I picked up his dropped weapon, a .38 Special six-shot revolver, and fired that into his groin and stomach.
I took my knife, and carved "HELENA" into his cold flesh.

(It's time.)
I know.

I lifted the revolver to my head, pulled the trigger...

"CLICK"

"Grey! Stop!" shouted someone from behind me.

I turned to see Dr. Kiplinger, in his wheelchair, staring at me.

"Don't do this! There are other options!"

I shook my weary head, "No Doc, there are none. I'm not going back to prison. I'm not going to keep on living my life. I have to end this."

He scooted closer to me, "I don't understand this! Why are you so compelled to destroy yourself?!"

"Not just me, Black too. We have to die, for both of us. He only needs two more victims, and he will be released from this world. I need to die, to end this cycle, to be with her, Helena. I have...to die Doc...I have to die."

Dr. Kiplinger looked sad, he cast a glance to the floor, then to me, then to Helena.

He nodded sadly.

I limped my way over to the open casket, to gaze down upon her. A drop of my blood spattered her pale cheek as I bled out the last of my blood.

"Helena...I'm coming.."

I heard the sound of a gun being cocked, I turned slowly, to see Dr. Kiplinger holding a high power rifle in his arms.

"Ready when you are, Friend." his voice shaking, a solitary tear drop ran down his cheek.

"You have to give us two shots to the head, and only then will we all be dead....now."

He nodded as he took aim, a sob racking his body.

I turned and stood over the coffin, gazing at her.

Helena.
(Ophelia.)

"Godspeed Greydon Delmont..." Dr. Kiplinger said softly.

I smiled weakly, I hadn't heard that name in ages it seemed.

"May the devil take you Cyrus Sinclair.."

I heard Black snicker.

(NOW!)
NOW!

The sound of the two shots were muffled, followed by a high pitched whistling sound, as if I were underwater. My vision blurred and leeched away, as I saw Helena fade to darkness.


When I opened my eyes, I was in hell.
A thin man stood next to me, his black hair was matted with blood.

"Hello Black."

He smiled, "Hello Grey, welcome to hell."

"What now?"

Black shrugged, "He'll be here shortly, to mete out your trial and judgement, and to finalize mine. A happy ending I suppose, you'll get your Helena, and I'll get my Ophelia."

I wanted to believe him, but for some odd reason, it didn't seem that simple.

"Greetings my boys! Welcome to hell, and welcome back to hell! There are no names here in hell, but if you are to name me, call me by the title of Virgil! We have much to discuss and much to debate here, time is short and much is to be done. Come!" decreed a mysterious voice.

Out of the muggy mist of hell came a tall gaunt man, dressed in all black, in a black drum Majors uniform.

"What's with the get up?" Black asked, looking the strange man up and down.

"If you must know, the black parade is being formed even as we speak! Tis to be a glorious celebration of death! I am quite excited myself!" replied Virgil.

"Oh brother!" groaned Black.

"Right! Enough dilly dallying, like I said, we have much to do! Come now, follow me gentle men, follow me to the negotiation tables!" Virgil said, pushing us along with his long skinny arm and hand.

I looked around the black place with red skies, a fine mist of reddish liquid kept our skin and clothes damp.

"Blood?!" I gasped.

"Mm..yes, gallons of the stuff! We give the damned all that they can drink..and honestly...it'll never be enough!" was the response from Virgil.

Black groaned again.