Milk and Guns

In the shaggy and shaky bar in the far out of town sat a young man with a large hunk of metal slung across his back, drinking a glass of milk with approximately 20 pints of green blood soaking his whole body.

His usual messy black hair was drenched down, and his fingertips and shaped lips stained the glass of green prints. The barkeep and the other cowboys, gangsters and all sorts of shady characters kept their heads down and the talks low. The pianist kept playing his slow and sombre melody of his instrument of relief.

The barkeep, dressed in his usual brown slacks and matching vest, wiped down his glass and stared down at the young man. He’d seen strange things before, missing limbs, battle scars, the real gritty things but someone this calm with blood all over him was the dictionary definition of unusual.

“Say, kid,” the barkeep hushed, “you wanna talk about the little splashes of green on you?”

The kid took a sip of milk and stared at the barkeep before shaking his head.

The barkeep nodded in reply, preferring the safer option of minding his own business. Sure a conversation would ease up the mood, but people come and go. Besides, talking to a Killright didn’t exactly please him.

After a small while of silence, the kid decided to talk.

“Okay, I accidentally got into a little tussle.”

“A little is quite the small way to put it.”

“You could say that I guess.”

The barkeep wiped the glass with a precise hand before setting it down. He jerked his head to signal the kid to continue.

“Well there was the Sandbeast that was causing trouble in the village far off. Captain got separated from all the hurricanes and stuff and I had to make an... executive decision. When I found the big ol’ bastard, I took out my Death Arm and got to work. It was long, tough and gruesome but the thing didn’t stand a chance.”

The barkeep hummed in agreement. “That’s quite the warrior’s battle.”

“Indeed it was, barkeep.” The kid took a sip.

“Do warriors, perchance, get paid in such high honour?”

The kid smirked. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you just drained my weekly supply of milk and sugar.”

The kid’s smirk grew bigger. “You know this body can’t run on anything. A warrior needs his fuel.” The kid then flashed the silver pin on his large black trench coat. “Killright’s job, ya know?”

The barkeep grabbed the kid’s pin and eyed it. “Certainly not a rookie’s job either. And the smell of green paint isn’t quite uncommon around here.”

The kid blinked and chuckled. He slowly got up and rubbed his gloved hands.

“Sorry about that, barkeep, I just need to go speak to my captain. I’ll go ask about his tab and whatnot and get you a good amount of cash to compensate for my needy belly .”

The barkeep snapped his fingers and multiple guns aimed at the rookie Killright. The kid stared at the several silver barrels of different shapes and sizes.

“I outta get to know you’re guys’ gunsmiths. Real nice heaters, ya know.” The kid smiled trying to ease the tension, but his mind imagined the guns to get even bigger.

He ran.

Out the bar and into the empty lands of sand and white moon, bullets hollering and exploding right behind as the kid screamed at the top of his lungs and past the angry painter beside the bar. Soon, the whole mob of customers rushed out, and the kid found another gear to run like hell.

Ahead, Captain Mitchell Rosner sat on his horse, eyeing the far desert lands with a keen eye before snapping his head back to see his green-painted junior hauling ass over to him, yelling, “HELP ME!”

Rosner, with a heavy and every so fighting urge to mush his horse and ride off, reached into his holster, grabbing his large .357 Magnum and began firing shots at the mob. Each shot was an explosion, blowing up the ground, sending multiple bodies flying and crashing into the wasteland terrains.

When Vadars Keinricht halted and huffed, he laughed manically to himself and heaved out a heavy breath before standing upright.

“That was a good— “

The .357 Magnum crashed over Vadars’ head, knocking him clean out.