Hell Raiser

A Quick Detour

"Where are we going?" asked Violet, a confused look on her face. We'd been driving for two hours and the guy we're going to 'visit' doesn't exactly like me much.

"I'm gonna stretch my legs." My casual voice hides my icy rage, loathe I am to see the ancient bastard in the Pale Rose. Entering an unremarkable city, I open my senses. They lead me to an embassy for some country I can't be bothered to remember. I park a block away. Getting out of the old muscle car, I stretch, a ripple of cracking sounds echoing up my back. 

I lean in through the window. I jerk my chin to the chained girl on the backseat. "Keep an eye on her," I say before grabbing my bag, turning and walking to a nearby restroom. Shut up, I know I'm not as classy as Superman. 

1. I don't give a shit.

2. Fuck you, Superman is dead.

What's in the bag, I hear none of you ask. I flick down the lid on the piss covered toilet. What's the bet that the last fucker to use this bowl had a seizure half way through? This is one reason why I hurt people. Unzipping the bag, I pull out the red helmet. With it on, I click my fingers and the bag vanishes, somewhere and nowhere. It hurts my head to think about the concept behind it. 

Out on the street, I make for the embassy, hood over my masked face, and grin. The power that is inside me roils and coils in glee when my eyes land on the armed guards. Oh, this is going to be fun. 

Walking across the broad, traffic congested street, black, spiked bars greet me. Barbed wire runs along the outside, encasing the― Wait, is that actually razor wire? I'm standing on the path now, and I laugh, like I was at a comedy show, and not about to break into a fort-like embassy. 

It attracts the attention of two guards, who are kind enough to open the gates for me. Before they step over the threshold, two knives are in their throats, and I pull an ancient sword from out of nowhere. Dashing to the gate box thing, I pull out a 9mm handgun, putting a bullet in the brain of the guard, blood spaying on the street side window, a woman screaming at the sight. Breaking for the second black gate, I decapitate one of the guards with a punch, slicing his friend in half. By now, my hood is off and my dusty brown coat is almost crimson. 

A heavily accented voice finds it's way to my ears. "Fuck you red man! You're not getting the money!" someone shouts.

I zero in on it and winnow behind him. He squeals like a pig when I speak. "What makes you think I'm here for your money?"

Deadpool would be proud of him. He's wearing brown pants. And from the scent that assaulted me whilst I thought of that, he needed them.

"Then what are you here for?" his voice was shaking and quavering. 

Not deigning to answer, I look around the room. It's not bad. A mahogany table sits in front of the window, loose papers floating around on the mostly clean desk, a few filing cabinets against a wall and the most atrocious paint job I'd ever seen. 

"What do you do here?" I ask instead. 

"I'm―I'm no one." 

My mouth forms a tight line. "Notice that I don't give a shit who you are, just what you do."

"My―I'm a lawyer..." Silence falls as he sees my hand reaching behind me.

"A lawyer, huh?" I raise my brows in surprised approval, but before him can say anymore, his throat has another hole to get food and air down. He collapses, hands still clutching his neck. I stare down at him, twitching, blood gushing through his fingers. "I don't care for lawyers."

I walk to a bland door that leads into a hallway, and I sense two guards nearby. Grabbing the lawyer's leg, I spin, slamming him onto the desk. The sight makes my dark blood sing.

But, as I had hoped, the guards came running, coming to see what was wrong. My flying kick to the door took two men, killing them. The other two were knocked to the ground. One of them scrambled to his feet, then launched himself at me, baton in hand. 

I didn't move as he swung down, onto my shoulder and... and as it snapped like a dry twig. I didn't move... I laughed. A cruel, sadistic thing. I snatch up the piece that broke off before it hit the ground. Spinning it in my hand, I skewer the man's neck, his companion running off. "Coward," I whisper, as I rip the spike from the other's neck. And lob it. 

The snapped baton moved so fast that when it hit its mark, it kept going, through skin, muscle, organs and bone, and lodged in the wall at the other end of the off-white hallway. I licked my lips at the sight of so much blood, but I reminded myself. 

I went in deeper to the embassy.