Double Or Nothing: A Coin Flip Away

A Nasty Fright

Garrison rested his twenty millimeter AM against the wall, kicked back in his chair with his arms hanging limp and his eyes sore from watch duty. Reaching a trembling hand to his goggles, the leather frames slid onto his forehead while his fingers rubbed at his eyelids. "My God, what's taking the boss so long? I've been on patrol for three days and three nights, and I'm still keeping watch on this dumb dumpster. The Sin Hunter's already dead, what do I need to be here for?" Garrison cracked his back with both hands, rubbing out the knots and creases in his sleeves and pant legs.

As he leaned back, Garrison reflected on how he had gotten all the way up this tower, backed away behind a flashing neon advertising board with his rifle trained on the door into The Big House's storage facility. His expression soured, then simmered as he closed his eyes, folding his gloves over his stomach. Turning to a calendar on the wall, Garrison pursed his cracked, fang-stuffed lips, reaching his wire frame arm over the ledge to grab the chart. Bringing the calendar to his slitted purple eyes, the calendar had a picture of Lust's tropical coast on the cover.

Garrison sighed, tossing the calendar behind him. The papers struck the concrete floor with a slap, echoing around the empty building. This floor wasn't used, unlike the flashing stores, shops and restaurants below. Garrison chuckled, flicking a toothpick between his mismatched white fangs. "Greed's got one helluva system for what business goes on what floors. Some floors get everything, the rest are left the table scraps." Garrison brushed his goggles back over his eyelids, sitting upright with the static of his radio rippling through the floor.

"Yo Garrison! You still guarding that entrance?" Garrison leaned forward, snatching his radio from the shelf. Clicking the button on his side, Garrison shrugged into a, "Yup. Still here." The radio responded, "Good stuff. No sign of the Sin Hunter yet, huh?" And then Garrison sucked in a deep breath, bracing himself for the lashing he would get for asking what he said next. "Yeah, about that. You guys know that the Sin Hunter's dead, right?" The radio was silent for an unsettling time before replying. "You sure sitting up there hasn't knocked some screws outta you, Garrison?"

The sniper sighed, rubbing his goggles. "No no, I'm fine. A twisted spine is all up here. No, didn't the boss say something about the Sin Hunter being taken out with a sniper shot? I thought I'd been sitting up here for no damn reason." The radio crackled again, a couple seconds after Garrison's comment. "There's been an updated report, Garrison. Looks like somebody else is running around Hell with the trench coat and fedora. Meaning either we got the right guy and this is some faker, or-" "Or The Crimson Stripe made a mistake," Garrison finished, swallowing his heart back into his guts.

"Well, sure," the radio crackled. "To be frank with you, Garrison, it's good hearing somebody else bring this up. Nobody's perfect, The Stripe acknowledges that. But he's kinda sunk under the radar on what we're s'posed to be doing now." Garrison nodded, keeping his eyes on the door of the warehouse with one eye at his scope. "Yeah. If you're not spreading fear gas and chaos in Pride, you're guarding one of these rifts in Hell's other kingdoms. I don't get that business though. If The Stripe's so worried that everybody's gonna go funneling out, why not do that and get it over with?"

The radio paused for a moment, but the answer was quick with more riveting emotion. "Son of a bitch! You might be onto something Garrison, I'll give you that. But," the radio sighed, "ah, whatever. We're getting paid our worth in surviving. If the boss wants to chase after this fever dream of a super serum, let him! We're fine where we're at, aren't we?" Garrison chuckled, cracking his toothpick in half. "You got that right, pal. Listen, I'm gonna take a leak, then I'll be right back, alright?" The radio responded, "You do you, Garrison. Over and out."

The radio switched off, and Garrison left his chair to find a dark corner of the warehouse to take care of business. And leaving his chair with his fly down and his immodesty for all to see, Garrison realized he had not been as alone as he thought. Garrison, for a coarse-furred Sinner, was tall if he straightened out. The man in front of him was much taller. Garrison's glare was guiltless and drunk. The man's glare reflected silent, merciless death. Garrison took a step back, keeping a hand over his pants and the other stumbling for his radio.

"G-g-get away!" he shouted, but the man twitched. In a flash and a snap, the radio and the rifle were in the man's hands. Garrison tripped over his own foot, stumbling but righting himself. The man whispered from the darkness, "Scream, and it's the last thing you'll do." Garrison clutched his throat and stomach, his eyes bulging like snowballs from his matted gray skin. Seeing that the man made no sudden moves to kill him, Garrison blinked twice before swallowing. "Y-y-you're...you're him, aren't you?" the sniper stammered. The man tilted his fedora to the side, flashing the full slice of white his eye appeared as.

"You could say that," the man replied. Garrison staggered to his feet, moving away toward a lead pipe in the corner of the room. "The Crimson Stripe killed you. He did it with a sniper shot, how are you still here?!" he barked. The man said nothing, reaching into his coat for something. Garrison took the opportunity to fling himself at the wall, locking his fingers over the cold lead pipe. Planting his feet at the corner, Garrison twisted and swung around, but the man was gone. The sniper froze, clutching his trembling self for many moments before the crackle of his radio returned to the empty floor space. "Garrison! You still there?"

Garrison grabbed his radio with shaking fingers. "Y-yeah," he choked, "still here."