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[Fiction] Rain Dog, Part II


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The wayward, somewhat unkempt youth in the trenchcoat extended two gritty fingers forth in emulation of an expression that is largely regarded as quite rude in England and shoulder-checked the looming, adamant figure that stood before him in an attempt to shove past, finding that instead his efforts -- even with the full bearing of his strength accounted for -- were to no avail.

Of course, he could have left if he wanted to, but it seemed more appropriate to make the gesture of rudeness in walking away.

"That won't work.", was the dark figure's only reply.

The youth rolled his eyes impatiently and ran his fingers through neatly-trimmed but altogether unkempt black hair, further promoting the bonding of locks of his curt threads into short, sticky clumps that bunched together like they had been dipped in oil. "Move", he snarled, putting on an air of being in a considerably larger hurry than he actually was in an attempt to rid himself of the babbling imbecile who insisted on robbing him of his time that stood before him. "I've got a lot of work to do" he added, unsure whether it would make a difference.

"I'm telling you the truth", the figure returned.

"Who are you, anyway? Why is it so important I know this?" The younger one folded his arms impatiently began to pick at something sticky and brown lodged beneath his fingernails with his thumbnail, wiping it on his coat sleeve.

"I am ronin", the man replied, a certain grandiose emptiness to his announcement that almost conveyed a sense of humility. "And I am trying to give you this information so that you don't make the same mistakes I made."

The young one tapped a boot-clad toe and scoffed. "Look, I appreciate the thought and all, but even if you weren't insane -- which you clearly are -- I don't need or want the advice of anyone, let alone some lunatic nova in a straw hat and shroud. I'm a free man with a free mind, and I'll make my mistakes on my own. That's part of what this is all about." The 'this' was punctuated, obviously in reference to something his audience was supposed to have understood.

ronin sighed, somewhat sadly. "I should have expected no better."

"Fuck you." was the only reply, driven home by the wet slosh of a booted foot being slammed into the staining carpet below.

"I understand. Goodbye." The one who called himself ronin bowed his head and, with a very slight gesture of his scarred, granitelike hand, disappeared from the bedroom, leaving two neat imprints in the blood that caked the bedroom floor as he vanished out of reality.

The young one spat, punched the decapitated corpse of a man in the chest in a display of impotent anger, and followed suit with the enigmatic figure, teleporting to the next location on his list.

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