The Ballad Of Gray Bullet

Chapter 1: Fine Dell'inizio

Another night, another rite. That's what I thought when the cold breeze pierced my limp body, a hollow sensation to feel. Given by an imaginary figure, the angel of death himself.

Because, I'm lying within a pool of spills, maybe a combination of radiator, waste, or maybe mixed with a rat's wasted urine. Fermented altogether for longer than I wanted to know.

While Blunt Bruises kept plastering on my now broadened face, receiving marks that were getting bigger and deeper into my cheek by his "child-like" punches. Harvesting dried spills of blood, sweat, and wounds that marked my own misery. Each haymaker launching loosely, yet endlessly like beating a dough, a messed up kind of dough. Says the one who kept ignoring the fact that his stupid dough Face once was an ugly loser.

Looking at the Youthful Clouds above, all of this made me think, like- why the hell am I still alive up 'till this point?

"Here's your price, you piece of shit!" he wailed with his thick Scottish accent. I must say, he barked like a fucking dwarf.

"That's it, Rumpelstiltskin? 'Cause I can see now- how hard- you JACKED OFF!" I shifted my eyes, down to my left hand, holding my revolver. Still, no bullets. Just making sure-yet kept me awake, due to the fact that I nearly passed out at this point.

He picked me up, and another hook hit my left cheek. As forceful as it feels, that made me spout out some blood. Should I really just keep taunting him despite my body saying otherwise?

He then slammed me back to the ground and said.

"You sick twat, I tell you what, nobody crosses with the Ross!"

He strangled me tight like a noose, my legs jerked around violently. While my hands are grasping his arm muscles, trying to break free from the grasp. We're both fighting for dominion, and yet he still got the upper hand. I then tried to grab and punch his face, until I finally began to give away all my attempts. I said, "Sucks for you, this- is what I've always dreamt of!"

But then,

"Hey!" Shouted a voice from behind, I shifted my vision below-between my feet and figured out who else, if it wasn't the one and only, Brando Cattaneo.

"Leave him be..." He Demanded, Obviously, fucker then looked at Brando for a couple of seconds.

"He got me first!" Then he shifts his view back to me.

"Seems like our playtime is over, your daddy is here!" he scoffs, followed by a laugh. Walking away, ahead, deeper into the dark alleyway.

Shortly after, I pushed my limp strength to get up, only for me to lose some balance, and fall back down. Brando pulled my hands up, and carried me by the arms, leaning my back against his chest. Like a drunkard, I am, with a very-very nauseous feeling I might trip again to the ground.

"That man roughed you up huh?" He said, while I brushed off all my dust and bloodstains in my coat, I looked at him and said...

"See papa, I think we should approach 'em with a different method!" I suggested,

"What happened?"

"Well, that Bastard refuses to pay, keeps bragging about his shitty boss in which I don't even care at all, and then he pounces on me! Not to mention, while I was stunned, he took away my revolver, discarding all of 'em bullets, then I saw the holster rushing towards me an inch away from my face. What a douche!" I complained.

I mean, to be honest, today is pretty shitty like any other day this week. I don't know how, but... FUCK I just don't understand why it keeps happening to me. Somehow, like this somehow! I mean one very useful philosophy that maybe I could propose right now is nothing other than, FUCK IT ALL! Because life is a coward. Why would I even bother wasting my time, committing to serve someone else that lives in a completely different groove from what I've been through?