Aardvark Posted August 1, 2003 Report Posted August 1, 2003 As I strode through the parking lot, I was filled with a sense of excitement. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, despite the warm draughts blowing through the area. As I strode onwards, my coat, heavy with concealed items, flowed around me. My eyes, ever hidden by almost black sunglasses, were darting around from one point to another, checking every possible location, every spot, everywhere in the parking lot, for signs of anyone other than me. I couldn't see him or hear him, but I could almost taste him. I knew he was around, but I didn't know where until the first gunshot rang out Some would call it a warning shot, a gunshot aimed to miss. But most warning shots are never meant to pass within half an inch of someone's ear. The shot that signified the start of a duel. No sooner had the bullet passed me, I'd about faced and drawn the first two pistols my hands could find and emptied both magazines into the most likely places the shot could've originated from. I froze on the spot as the last sounds of gunfire echoed off into silence, then remained still for several moments longer. He'd moved, I was sure of it, but to where... I cat rolled off to the side and behind a panelvan as my previous position was engulfed in automatic weapons fire. The coward. Most considered machine guns to be dishonourable. I was one of them. As I darted between the van and a truck parked several meters away, more gunfire came my way. Evidently, he was not. Behind the truck, I reloaded my pistols, and holstered them. On my belt, I had four pistols. Two Brownings, two Glocks. In my haste, I'd grabbed one of each. I reached deeper into my coat and felt the grip of my babies. An Anaconda and a Python. Revolvers. I would save these for later. My hands moved to lower pockets and retrieved the two .357 Desert Eagles within. What could I say? I love Hollywood. I heard footsteps. I dropped to my stomach and fired under the truck just ahead of a disappearing foot. Four powerful shots ripping into one of the concrete supports of the structure. I rolled out from behind the truck and strode towards the pillar. Was he still there or was he...? I fired at the car just beyond the pillar, then dove aside as a large man in a brown trenchcoat dove out the other side, unloading his MP-10 at me. I let off the last few shots from my Eagles in his general direction, then listened. I waited. And my patience was rewarded with the faint sound of a magazine being quietly removed from a weapon. White Holden Ute, behind the back tyre. I deposited the Eagles, unloaded, in my coat, drew the two Glocks, then bolted past the Ute, firing blindly. He dropped his MP-10 and dove over the bonnet of the Ute, barely avoiding my hail of bronze. As the two magazines fell from my pistols, he revealed himself, armed with a Winchester .308. I'd always wanted one of them. As I strafed to avoid his first shot it occurred to me that I may acquire one today. I'd dropped the glocks as soon as he'd popped his head up. Before they'd even hit the ground, the two Brownings were out, returning fire. He darted between cars, stopping occasionally to let off a shot. Three times he fired, three times he missed, despite me remaining in the same spot. I was dealing with an amateur. This would be over sooner than I thought. I reloaded the brownings, dropping to one knee when he got wise and tried aiming. Then I charged, guns blazing. Behind an old Falcon, he let off a final shot, before abandoning the rifle in favour of two antique Mausers. At least he had taste. I dove aside as he fired the two pistols. I felt, rather than heard, one of the slugs tear through my coat. My three thousand dollar coat. Oh, would he pay for that. My left hand gripped the Python. My much stronger right hand drew the Anaconda. Some questioned my choice in weapons. I always let my survival speak for itself. When he saw the .44, his eyes widened. He tossed the Mausers aside and drew a pair of P228s as he bolted from the Falcon. The huge slug from the Anaconda tore through the old steel panels of the vehicle, leaving a hole where his head was moments ago. The next shot was from the Python, at his feet. He skipped over the small explosion of concrete from the floor, fell into a catroll, then dove behind a Celica, letting off two shots in midair. I walked towards the sports car, firing shot after shot into it, until he dove over it towards me, firing his Sigs. The only two shots he got off missed. In such close quarters, it was simple to bring my Anaconda up, knocking one of his weapons aside. My boot disarmed him of his other. I would've finished it there, but he surprised me with a quick slash from a hidden blade. It caught me in the gut, slicing buttons off my black silk shirt. As he recovered, I spun my two revolvers around, gripping each by the barrel. This was my preferred method of ending a duel. The steel studs on the butt of each weapon, stained with red, were a testament to that. I brought the Python up into his ribs, then swung the Anaconda at his temple. This should've finished it, but he countered by slamming the hilt of his blade into my hand, causing me to lose grip on my most prized weapon. I retaliated with a kick to the midriff and swung the Python at his throat. This missed, mostly due to him still reeling from the kick, and he took advantage of this. One more weapon down and I had a bleeding wrist to boot. I was unarmed and he was already reaching for a firearm. But I was far from finished. A simple block kept his knife from my shoulder, followed by a short punch. He stepped back and doubled over. Perfect. I flung my arms forward, quickly flicking my wrists. Two small duelling pistols, each with only one round, flew out of my sleeves. His mouth opened in silent protest as I caught each weapon and unloaded the two rounds into his heart. My final act was to retrieve all my adversary's weapons, lay them by his side and burn the lot of them. This served no practical purpose, except to satisfy some time-honoured code. But to this day, every time I think back to that fight, something always strikes me as wrong. I could never put my finger on it. Then one day, I realised what it was. I never burnt the Winchester
Peredhil Posted August 1, 2003 Report Posted August 1, 2003 I simply love the way you do combat scenes. I can smell the burn...
Valdar and Astralis Posted August 5, 2003 Report Posted August 5, 2003 +5 points for every Ute destroyed/rendered inoperateable* *-For refference, a ute (or Yute) is a pick up truck, if I remember what a pickup truck looks like. A big engine connected to a cabin connected staticly to a sort of bed-thing at the back.
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