14th Bullet: The Unruly CRUSADER.

The Winchester Rifle with the shined yet slightly scratched barrel tapped Vadars' forehead with an unwavering sense of firmness. Behind the barrel was a young man, a bit older than Vadars, that had squinting cold eyes, not as cold as Rosner's but much more colder than Janda's. He had full lips and was missing a chunk of his ear. 

"Go to hell, Killright," the gunman said.

"Not yet," Vadars replied. "I kinda got some things to do before I pass away. You know, like getting my bike fixed and doing a seriously important mission. My bike's name is Shirley. She's a lovely thing and wishes to have you do your mechanic-y stuff so please, Kincaid, lend a man a hand."

"Like I care." The gunman clicked the hammer back.

"Oh hell," said Vadars and he slapped the barrel away and punched the gunman but the gunman dodged and cracked Vadars' head, right on the spot where he had hit it on the rock, knocking the Killright out cold.

                                                                                   ♱♱♱

Balt had ran. He ran like mad. Deep in the south of downtown, he barged into the broken down warehouse that contained about a thousand present Chain Dogs. Some sat on the towering crates whilst others leaned against the rubble walls. Balt panted.

"Balty, my boy," one bandit said.

"Not now... Weason..." Balt puffed out.

"What is it now?" Weason walked over and roughly tossed Balt around. "You trying to put some muscle on your bones?"

"Killrights… They're coming. One of them, a kid, took out Yanka."

Weason raised a brow. "Yanka? By some rookie Killright?"

Balt exploded. "Yeah! He had a huge sword that looked like a crucifix and had an earring as well with an X on his cheek. He looked like he came out of a storm, I tell ya. You can't miss him. I was... hiding in the buggy. But only because that kid was so strong!"

A couple of the men broke out in laughter. "That's the only believable part of that story!" one shouted.

"Listen, Balt," Weason patted his buddy. "Ain't no Killrights coming. Those government bastards ain't care about San Fran. They let it be to the criminals, the outlaws. And now? With our new artillery, we'll blast those fools Imperium and Black Angels out to their graves. San Fran's ours, ain't that right boys?" 

The bandits let out a rambunctious shout that riled all the men up. Weason laughed and Balt shook his head.

"I'm telling the truth, man," Balt begged. "Please, you gotta believe me."

"Balt's right," a deep voice boomed. Everyone hushed and bowed their heads low. A large man, about 6'9 or so, approached Balt and Weason. The two bowed and stared at the ground. Sweat began to drop and figures shivered. The man was bald but had a lusciously braided beard. His eyes were small but piercing and his leather sleeveless jacket had multiple phrases and tough words stitched on it. His gloves were black and had metal attached around the knuckles. His steel toe boots were heavy and riddled with red and dirt. Scars dressed his tattooed beefy arms. The man's name was Black Hand Monroe, the leader of the Chain Dogs.

"B-boss Monroe..." Weason whimpered.

"As I was saying," Monroe continued, "Balt's right. A tip from Hanze-fi has alerted us of our visitors. We don't want those pups ruining our turf takeover, right hounds?!"

The man let out war cries, howls and hollered. 

"Now," Monroe hushed. "Where is this... Unruly Crusader? I want him here. I want him in my hands along with the other Killright we got. Matter of fact, bring him here."

The man rushed and grabbed a tied up and battered Killright. He was young, dark-skinned and had his dreadlocked hair clearing his face by a camouflage-patterned, orange and black headband. His face was bruised, cut and he had a black eye. His little chins hairs were visible but the blood made it hard to see.

Monroe crouched and smacked the Killright's head. 

"Listen here, Andreius," Monroe said. "Do you know anything about this Killright? Perhaps your ratty mouth is responsible for this again?"

Andreius laughed in dead joy. "I have no idea who you're talking about, fatso. Maybe belly ate the answer." He chuckled but he coughed up blood. He cursed himself for showing weakness.

Monroe smacked his face, slammed his nose into the floor, hard, and yanked his hair to face him. "Your tongue just gets more filthy as you talk, doesn't it?" He pushed him away and stared at the open entrance, viewing the docks of cargos and the rocking ocean, the pale white moon shimmering. "Starve him some more. I want his stomach to cry in pain."

The bandits obeyed and dragged Andreius out, leaving Monroe standing in a oddly captivating light. His bulking figure was frightening, ruthless but now he was strong and capable, the man all these dogs decided to follow.

"Do you know what's the most important thing about a dog?" Monroe asked. Balt and Weason shook their heads and Monroe feigned their ignorance. "It's its hunger. The hunger to move forward, the hunger to live, the hunger to take. We dogs, we roam the sands for a meal. We take our food and eat. We eat out of someone's palm and eat the hand. Hounds like us don't have a home. San Fran here is simply some land we eat from." He turned around and faced his men. "But when we're full, we're weak, we're tameable, we're domestic. We're always hungry. We must be hungry. After all, a starved dog on the brink of death is mightier than the well feed and bred pup. I wanna see whether this Unruly Crusader is a hungry dog or a bred pup."

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Sandusky Dorr was a name that was feared across the Badlands. Bandits and Desperados cowered in hearing that Dorr was walking in town. He was a man of average stature but had a harmful aura that shamans insisted that were from hell itself. His gear was worn but not torn. His hat was made of genuine leather that blocked whenever the glaring sun decided to show itself. His pistol, a custom made Kine revolver from the famous blacksmith, Alver Kine, equipped itself onto his hip with pride and grace. He was described by damsels as a silver fox and by his enemies a demon posing as a human. His face was not to be forgotten either, admired by ladies and feared by outlaws. 

But the opinions of other didn't concern him. What did concern him was his next big pay and a little goal he set for himself:

Duel Severin Colt.

In the large, spacious hotel was a homey yet quality mix of a saloon and a lobby. Women stared and men grunted in shame or spite. He walked over and greeted the manager with that old charming smile. He tipped his hat, ruffling his red bandana around his neck and leaned forward.

"Mind if you give me a room?" Dorr asked. 

The manager smiled and chewed his tobacco joyfully. "How could I decline the great Sandusky Dorr?"

Dorr smirked and took a key but before he went to his room, he needed a little warmth in bed. He turned his head and looked around. He eyed a broad with short black hair but he didn't stand out to him, her face brooding and too serious.. He quickly changed his gaze to a blonde but she seemed to dumb to be around. He had been around lots of women like her, you sleep with them once and all of a sudden they cling onto like they're your only love they'll ever find. 

But then his gaze was trapped, locked on in the woman in a black cloak.

She was a Killright. She had her cloak short and a couple of her shirt buttons undone. She had a tough yet elegantly carved figure. Her face was strong yet alluring, her eyes lustrous. Her jeans swallowed her perfect legs and her thigh high boots just defined her all the better.

Tough, mature and best of all, out in the open. 

He walked up to the Killright, leaning against the wall and taking off his hat to show his short yet perfectly cut hair.

"You enjoying San Fran, Killright?" Dorr asked.

The Killright turned around and smiled. Her long curly dark hair puffed around her shoulders and she cleared a bang from her extravagant eyes.

"Who's asking, cowboy?" she replied with a smile.

"Sandusky Dorr," he answered. "I was just wondering why somebody of such a high stature, like yourself and I, ain't around nobody."

She stood a bit close. "I prefer lonesomeness. I'm not sure about your case, mister."

"Ah, lone wolf," Dorr concluded. "There's beauty in solitaire; yourself and your thoughts. But, a second person ain't that bad from time to time." He stood closer, her body up against the wall and his face really close. "Maybe you'd like to change that."

"That's cute, hon." She smirked, not fighting back at all. "Let's see how quick you are, with your tongue and... your feet."

A large fist hammered onto Dorr's head and he tipped sideways. He stumbled and rubbed his head, dazed and furious. 

A large man wearing a cloak and his ears pierced until only metal covered them towered over the two. He smoked a cigarette and stared down at the female Killright.

"What'd I tell you about flirting on the job, Zelpha," Deacon Holliday said, deep voice and serious. 

"He came onto me this time, Deacon," Zelpha Laylock replied with a moody tone. "Also, you shouldn't hit people randomly. I thought you said you'd promise you won't be violent anymore."

"In another lifetime I suppose," he puffed before noticing the glaring bounty hunter.

"Nice punch," Dorr groaned. "Who's your coach?"

"Self-taught," Deacon said. "I suppose you're Sandusky the Crackerjack."

"In the flesh." He grumbled before setting his hat on his head. "What business do Killrights have in San Fran? You finally got your off-days or something?"

"If we wanted to spend our off-days right, we've had gone to Vegas but at the moment? We have dire matters. Matters that aren't clipped on a price tag."

"Wasn't interested in the first place," Dorr said. He leaned against the wall, tapping his boot. The band had finally arrived, people whistling and dancing along to the fast paced music of jazz or whatever the kids were calling it. Not a bad tune but he preferred his classics. "I'm here for Colt. Word around the campfire is he's in town and I want to let him meet my iron."

Deacon let out a dry laugh. It was a really awful laugh like he had never laughed a day in his life. "Severin Colt isn't a man you meet, he's a man that meets you. Good luck finding him, young buck. Plenty of suicidal cowboys and gunslingers wanna prove their honour, their stupid honour, against someone as dangerous as him."

"No man I can't face," Dorr jabbed. "I've taken down a Desperado before. Don't think I'm some kind of run-of-the-mill bounty hunter who only takes quick bucks."

"Everyone's heard the damn tale." Deacon sighed. "To be quite frank, I don't have time for those. Let's go, Zelpha, we got business to handle. Uvo and the others are waiting for us."

"Righty-o, Cap," Lieutenant Zelpha Laylock, of the Tertius Division said and exited the building with Captain Deacon Holliday of the Tertius Division.

Sandusky Dorr stared as the Killright left. His fish had leapt off his hook. He smiled and fixed his hat on properly. He liked a challenge, not like any of these easy going dames that fell into his palms like dominos. He wanted some dice; the kind where you could toss them, bounce all over the walls before hitting you with that final number.

And boy, he was going to get that six.