And as he ranted, and raved to his audience of three, he forgot his own advice. There had always been three, Dorothy, and the girl behind him, on the periphery of his vision, in the corner of his eye. Spasming void of meat rising from the shadows, teeth and gristle and sinew, human figment, rotting, growing.
And he turned, back to the door, spine engulfed in moonlight, chair hit the ground, cigarette batted from his lips by the abomination as he dodged sharply backwards, claws centimetres from his broken nose, he fired from the hip, slug shattering it's knee and bringing it low to the ground, and it laughed, terrible guffaw into the knight, flesh snow hanging in the air, heavy dust in the sinuses, in one swift motion he emptied them with finger pressed to his nose, and in the door crept elongated fingernail, rhino tusk, razor sharp, and he would be feasted on, they were vultures in the violent blue of the cold night, dragged into the night once more, dragged under.
Flashes of what happened. The gun in his hand became part of him, became his body, became his soul, the rains of the jungle, heavy thumping rains, it was all alive. They were screaming, the apes in the trees, howling, this wasn't for meat, this was for his family. Skull hits rock, and the ululating intensifies.
Landed in the snow. It was above the door to the cabin. That other place lay behind his eyes, death-wheeze, he knew he would return.
Pine-barrens. 2006. He's young, the gun is in his hand. Jimmy, please, don't do this. See, it was over, and Mikey just couldn't see that. It was already done.
Eyes peeled open, it was on top of him, and it was like he could almost see the person it once was. Yellow grave-stone fangs, chips of wood for teeth, dry putrid breath, dead black tongue licking at him, it took a bite, a taste, flesh ripped from his face.
The gun was apart of him. He wasn't like everyone else. Sickness. Bullets in his vomit, sunk to the bottom of the toilet bowl, refused to flush, refused to be ignored, he had tasted the lead in his belly.
At a thousand miles per hour, he spat shrapnel from his mouth, metal stolen from the gun, it shredded skull to nothing, writhing mass stopped dead, butted the pile of bones off him, taste of gunpowder in his mouth, sinking feeling, like acid comedown, like your brain is a used up battery, very suddenly needed to piss, badly.
For a moment, he lay there, in the snow, in front of the cabin, staring at the sky, dead from light-pollution from the nearby town, moon fighting against us, setting ourselves on fire, just so we can see in the dark, just to keep the monsters away.
Must he see his whole life, every time he dies? He's seen it all before. He knows how it goes. None of it's pretty.
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