The Sin Hunter: Double or Nothing

Stripes of Scarlet and Blood

The hallway cast cold, quiet shadows across the once lively pub beneath the mechanic's shop on Thirty Fourth Street. The Crimson Stripe gently brushed his palm across the handrail down the cold stone steps into the small shaft beneath the earth, vines and something resembling tar pooling from the brickwork behind the railing while the serial killer swept along, stopping in front of the door. His mask tilted to the sign hanging above the door, a faint, weathered sign that read, "Closed for Maintenance." The Crimson Stripe chuckled, pushing into the door and stepping inside.

It was dark, certainly. The only light that gave any context to the mystery came from the gutter windows on the West wall, beams of pale red light shining through into the pub. The light glossed over dusty, unopened bottles and wine glasses left for the webs and dust of time. Chairs on tables remained seated, the lights were blown out, and somewhere in the dark, a faint clicking noise from some type of insect(The Stripe believed it to be an insect) echoed its pleas to be left to peace in the dusty, dry remains of the place. The Crimson Stripe took his seat at the pub, reaching an arm beneath the counter and finding himself a proper glass.

Once a symbol of prosperity in the late 1930's, when alcohol was smuggled in coffins and shells of the Sinners who arrived in Hell to deliver, the pub had been one of the leading influencers of the glorious age in which liquid gold pooled and lined the streets and ammunition with weaponry was plenty for more alcohol. In those days, the Crimson Stripe had educated himself on, the most powerful of Hell's Demonic Overlords were the ones who had no conscience for killing the right people and taking whatever they could find for themselves. It was, to say the least, a time when Hell defined itself by the rules of the Christian and the Catholic and all the religious ideas it could possibly provide.

The Crimson Stripe spat into his glass, a deep crimson choking the edges of the dusty glass while he reached for a handkerchief from his pocket square, cleaning out the fossil for a quick drink. He reminded himself, then, upon seeing his gruesome, twisted reflection in the blood of someone who wasn't he, that he was far happier here in Hell than anywhere else. Not even the Living World had given the serial killer nearly as hard of a laugh since he had switched trains and gotten off at what he called the 'true stop.' Not the place he expected to go next, but the place he deserved to arrive at. And the Crimson Stripe had seized every available opportunity to rise in power to the seat he now held at the table.

In hindsight, the Crimson Stripe almost felt apologetic toward the other Demon Overlords and Ladies who inhabited the Continents of Hell. "Sure, they're like family," the Crimson Stripe chuckled, pouring himself a glass of dry sherry, freshly opened, and swished the drink around in his contents. "But even family gets bored of one another." The Crimson Stripe tilted his head back, and drained the glass of sherry down through his throat. The liquid that poured down through his mask bubbled and frothed in the corners of his mask, leaking blood and horrific tears in the corners of the forced smile plastered to his form.

The Crimson Stripe set his glass on the table, tapping his foot gently on the floor to the tune of his favorite Living World tune. It was a slow one about a woman who believed herself too good for a shorter man. "I'm taller than you without my heels," the serial killer sang into the empty light of the decaying pub. Somewhere above the underground speakeasy, dust swirled in the air. Footsteps followed across the way, shaking around the Crimson Stripe's shoulders while he continued to envision the story. His voice came across smooth and alluring, like a dread Flytrap calling to its latest prey in the darkest night, a beacon of false hope in times of despair.

When he was younger, in his prime, mind you, the Crimson Stripe had been the king of the world. Presidential elections? Something to laugh about on the weekends while he fixed them. Sports games and shows? Not a bet he couldn't win. Drug operations? Corruption? Politics? Economics? Guns? Violence? He kept it all in his notebook whenever he went out for a walk in the city. Yes, the Crimson Stripe held all the strings, kept all the cards up his sleeves, and no matter where he went, he always walked out of the show with something to remember them by.

......And then the Sin Hunter came back. The Crimson Stripe felt the notes of his tune shrilling, scratching the walls ever so slightly while the song continued, like a record that had been scratched beyond repair. The Crimson Stripe, a man who believed in false honor, in killing behind and stabbing into backs, the most powerful man in the whole wide world, unstoppable, a practical god amongst all people......and then the bullet came. It stopped for a visit, said hello and left the other end, and then it was over. Like taking a vaccine for a disease, or falling asleep.

The Crimson Stripe stopped singing, resting his hands on the counter with a slow, silent nod. Everything in the room seemed to freeze, solidifying with icy stature while heartbeats grew louder. His ears rang in the emptiness of the bar. He remembered the moment. No swing, no just or honorable battle. 'He shot you in the head.' Everything had been going so well to that point. He was getting ready to claim his three newest victims, too. 'He shot you in the head!' And after that he would have ruled the world with V.I.O.L.E.T and-"HE SHOT YOU IN THE HEAD!!!"

The Crimson Stripe snapped awake, the crack of a gun, visions of laughter and the Sin Hunter's stupid trench coat flashing fresh in his mind when he awoke. "Shit!" He shouted, fumbling and falling backward out of his seat. With a crash, cobwebs and dust flaked into the air around the fallen Overlord while he wiped a bit of blood clotting(his twisted take on drool) from his mask and his scarred, blood soaked face, sitting forward in the empty pub. Time had passed, though he knew not how much. The Crimson Stripe stood up slowly, rising into the air while swallowing to salivate his parched throat.

Heavy breathing followed the serial killer's eyes around the room in a dazed fashion before he stumbled, righting himself before leaving the pub, slamming the door shut behind him.