"Goodbye Curly Head"

"For Whom The Bell Tolls"

Barren was the land, turned infertile and deserted by the endless wars, the raging conflicts over matters so unimportant. So meaningless and minor, small men and women yelling into the wind, hoping to be heard and led towards glory. For their acts to be remembered and turned to grand marbles, statues lasting an eternity, outliving generations and never letting the names carved onto the stone be forgotten. These men and women rule these lands, have ruled over them and will continue doing so for years to come, with their gentle voices, fists of iron, and reigns leading towards a future so bright. 

Some hunger for war, some yearn for peace, others are blinded by greed and few wish for the land of old to prosper. A never ending war, waged against the creatures of times long forgotten - it rages on within the hearts of only the eldest of the Teekaz, those who remember the very first invasions, the plagues sent upon their homeland by a force far beyond any mortal’s comprehension.

In this land of old laid a town - a decently sized settlement, home to any and all mercenaries wanting to take a breather from their endless march towards a goal so blurry and mysterious. Surrounded by muddy plains of bleak nothingness, all turned to no man’s land - fair game for any skirmishes and merc clashes. The town’s name was not important. It could be called a safe haven, for the sake of easier understanding between conversations. The sarkaz never really cared much for names, treating them as a luxury of sorts, only claiming titles to be easily told apart, never attaching one’s person to a mere word for too long. 

Within the town was a bar - a place bustling with life and loud noises. With music so cheerful and happy, courtesy of a local pianist’s dexterous fingers. Rows of tables all crawling with devils, sitting around, drinking, celebrating. Upon one of those tables sat a man so very different from the rest - a man of principles, clad in armor so bright and holy. A man of the Law, a former peacekeeper of these wretched lands. With a bright halo above his lush head of hair, a pair of shining wings protruding from his back, the angel sat at one of the tables and engaged in a game of poker with the sinners. 

Round after round, more and more chips kept disappearing from the Lawkeeper’s grasp, despite his cards not being all that awful at all. Four sevens? Well, it just so happened that the devil in front of him had a straight flush. A full house? Everyone’s suddenly passing, despite him not raising the bet by even a single shekel. Something was up, definitely a case of foul play being involved.

The sankta stood from his seat, his toned muscles and mighty physique glistening in the light coming from a window behind. His hand reached towards a six iron resting on his hip, waiting calmly to be used in a situation exactly like this. All eyes in the bar turned towards the angel.

“Treacherous fiends! Cheating bastards! I know a mind reader when I see one! You’re non-verbally laughing in my face, thinking you can strip me off my chips and get away with it! That shall not stand, as I…”

The gun left its holster, being pulled high above the glorious man’s head. A crack of lightning could be heard outside.

“I, a son of Laterano, shall prove you all wrong and bring justice to this unlawful land. With this gun, bestowed upon me by my very own father…”

The chamber went spinning, landing on a .38 cartridge within, ready to be shot at anyone dumb enough to oppose his will.

“... I shall strike down the treacherous cheaters, in the name of the Law!”

The entire bar went silent. The grand gun knight stood proud, boasting his gun with flair and splendor. Ready to fire upon the scoundrels, to bring order to this Lawless cantina. A swift knife whooshed by, embedding itself right between the angel’s eyes. He fell onto the table with a loud thud, dropping his peacekeeper.