Hellhound

CHAPTER 9

-PART TWO-

-STORY OF TRES DIABLOS-

-MEETING THE ACHILLES HELLHOUND-

His eyes

Held a gaze more fearsome than a Panther. A thin paper cigarette hung from his bottom lip, a small trail of smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth danced its way to the ceiling above. In one hand a gun lay loosely, his finger gently pressed against the trigger sending a bullet millimeters away onto the wall behind with a bang that echoed throughout the room. His eyebrow raised in amusement at his allies' reaction,

nothing

not a flinch,

not a single damn thing

Lock let his eyes roll up to the woman that had entered. Her heels clacked like they were damaging his walnut floor and he wanted to tell her to take them off. She was a red head in a dark suit, but that isn't what grabbed his attention. Before her she held a dagger,

She killed someone.

He cursed inwardly moved to stand, but then sank back down. He was lower than her, but sitting was a powerful position so long as he was relaxed enough. Instead he extended his hand open palmed and invited her to sit. She stopped with no emotion. And ignore him.

…

Sometimes memory can make a person sad, fiercely loyal and overprotective,

like I ever needed that.

The sun streamed through the windows, yet his mind was clouded with grey. His mood ricocheted between low and lower. He had no energy or motivation to get done the mountain of work that awaited. This melancholy is a cloak he can't simply let fall to the floor, and though he holds it so tight he can't find the warmth he need,

yet it clings.

It is the anchor to his feet, the reason he can't find the surface or the sunshine, that feeling of soft joy that lives in memories that can't rise within.

Can't rise again.

…

Even the shadows now were swallowed by the encroaching darkness. In the gathering gloom the stars and the moon shone brighter in the sky, as if to remind that even in the darkness there is light. The warm bronze moonlight was swallowed by the horizon.

A beautiful darkness.

A darkness where his laughter lines illuminated and seemed to turn from creaks to craters as he smiled at the scintillating moon. Somewhere in the distance an owl sounded, awakening the nocturnal nature. The lustrous, dancing stars glinted in the sky, brightening it even more. As long as the moon is iridescently shining and the stars gleam above, the nightfall brought a welcome coolness to the land after the sultry day. Described it as like 'the breath of God after the fires of a hellish day, soothing us to sleep like a lullaby, refreshing the souls for a new journey in the morn. Nightfall cocooned to everyone in its protective folds, they would not search for one in the darkness. Now he was protected and hidden in its velvety blackness. I could curl up under the white gold moon and sleep under the constellations for a couple of hours, then rise before the dawn and follow the stream toward the river and the boarder to freedom. The familiar trees and rocks of the daytime took on new and ominous forms. It was as if by stealing their colors the night also stole friendly spirits and replaced with malicious demons.

Returning to the demon they once become.

Even the stars and mood could not make seem any less threatening. The lack of bird song made the woods eerie and imagined every leaf flutter or twig snap to announce the arrival of a dangerous man or beast. Shivered in the inky darkness until the dawn chorus broke the malignant spell, voices had never sounded so sweet and the return of the watery daylight slanting through the canopy above had never been so welcome. Bathed in the gentle glow of the street-lamps, now there is only darkness. Once the darkness of the night is complete there is nothing more terrifying than light. Pastes his body to the cold dark wall behind while drinking a glass of sapphire alcohol. The night's mauve spittle is staining the marigold and medallion of the day, lines of Eagan blue teeth ripping at the seams of light. The night is a dark tiger, savoring its tasteful prey of the sun. The land beneath the night is deserted, for with the tiger's arrival comes threat. Long gone is the time when humans watched as darkness devoured the light. But one stays.

"what do you want me to do?" he asks the so-called king while drinking a glass of rum

"Use your darkness" the man quickly utters and flash a smile

"As the medicalization of criminality continued, anxiety in the population grew to fever pitch. Any person with a so-called diagnosis was treated with leniency and let out to offend repeatedly. If they offended enough, prison was considered ineffective and no sentence was given at all. Societies that had been peaceful grew more violent… he's no normal mate! we have to decide violently… If you insist I can make it" He explained his side properly as he sips another turn of rum.

"The victims soon developed disorders of their own anxiety being most common. The solution to this problem was to force violently or predatory disordered on the rest of society and tell him to deal with it or pay the price." The man desperately murmurs the line

"How can we be so sure that he will obey any?" he negatively stated

"he will because he must"

…

Waking up everyday trying to impress people, try to prove any point to someone not worth proving.

Realizing no matter how good either angelic you are, how many lives you touched and how many people you've helped, one wrong move and you will somehow always be a bad person.

Very bad.

Learning how to lower down ego and self-pride to those people who doesn't see good in you.

Always thinking what other people think about and doesn't matter.

…

MUSIC ON: Sucker for Pain

I torture you

Take my hand through the flames

I torture you

Someone breaks the rule of the duels. When it came to attacking he never played by "the rules." He aimed to get back to his king in one piece and celebrate as if it was the last. Sat in the dark with weapons ready and picked off before opponent could send a hit squad after him.

Times are dark.

L-KLC was not his real name. His hair- black and a little greasy

was fake

as were his glasses, mustache, and uneven teeth. He looked thirty years old, but he was actually closer to Twenty. Nobody knew the man's real name, but in the business he was in, a name was the last thing he could afford. He was known merely as "Poison" and he was one of the highest-paid and most successful contract killer. He had been given his nickname because he always sent flowers to the family of his victims. His mark stepped out from the black limousine, the man had the right physique and the right hair, but he'd have to wait for his turn to get a positive I.D. on the face. Poison made the siren noise, everyone turned toward it, including him.

Who doesn't want to see the ambulance or the police chase?

The photograph hadn't done his justice at all. In his magnified scopes his eyes shone and there was a genuine look of concern on his symmetrical features rather than the glee of a gawker. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but it was all just a play.

Fake!

His bare arms were honed from hours in the gym and about his neck sat the gold chain necklace. He was the rival or someone close to them, either way his brief was to eliminate him. He fell without even a cry, never aware of his own end. One minute he was expecting a glittering gala and the next he was gone.

Dispatched

I'm a slave to your games

I'm just a sucker for pain

I wanna chain you up

I wanna tie you down

I'm just a sucker for pain (Dolla Sign!)

Only for so long would Lock remain calm, after each rant his inner countdown to his next explosion began. He needed to fight often,

part of him craved it.

Others may say that we recreate our childhoods, seek the same dysfunction we escaped from, he tries to make things perfect, create the chill environment he needed, and he could have it like that until everything starts to messed up. He launches himself, tear everyone apart with a no holds barred attack,

I'm a sucker for pain

I got the squad tatted on me from my neck to my ankles

Pressure from the man got us all in rebellion

We gon' go to war, yeah, without failure

there was nothing too low for him to say. After each attack he'd wall himself off emotionally, shut himself out, stonewall. It is fear that brings rage, that hot burning anger that seeks to harm. It is a biological button better left alone. Seeing something that frightens each one, a primitive part of the brain is activated to produce aggression. That rage can destroy from the inside, corrupts the senses of community into one of competition and suspicion. The rage that fire, for the fire burns hot and dies fast. After such an inferno that will be able to walk over the cold ashes to side and will be nothing but cooling water for your soul.

Do it for the fam, dog, ten toes down, dog

Love and the loyalty that's what we stand for

Alienated by society, all this pressure give me anxiety

Walk slow through the fire

Like, who gon' try us?

Should find the own rage cold, a frozen fury that burns, be miserable. For he can only be that way with those who aren't in his heart and to get there from where he was now means turned traitor. Be schooled by the flame so that he never knows the torment of the ice. He has never felt so much rage as when pushed into passivity against his very own will.

That's what they expect though,

you'll find that.

Showing his anger and drug you into compliance. That isn't the only emotion you aren't allowed here, you'll see.

They aren't used to natural people anymore,

haven't seen one in so long, except the so-called new recruits. Most in here are drugged to the eyeballs, poor sods. This rage he keeps inside will be his own ticket to his own concept freedom. Without his rage everyone treats him as the carpet on which they walk. With his rage everyone's trouble best ignored, left alone until signs of submissive behavior are offered. Should demand an acknowledgment of his pain that can expect its counter-rage, the scorn of last resort to put back into box. Should no fail to acquiesce, can expect the long drawn out so-called big freeze in which he demonstrates just how little everyone needs him, that he was an optional in everyone's life.

Feeling the world go against us

So we put the world on our shoulders

I torture you

Take my hand through the flames

I torture you

All he ever wants is for the to give a damn about how he feels, demonstrate care. Instead take the route of least brain power,

Ignore

shut down

sulk

And so the hot rage of his soul becomes a cold smolder of suppressed anger; what should have been over quickly becomes a bitter taste that remains. Rage builds like deep water currents. he did everything right

Everything

and still this place is a God damn mess. Everything they have is what he made. That's when his anger comes, unleashed without thought of consequence. Even those that didn't earn this wrath today earned it at some point. Every one of them took what he made without thanks or even a backwards glance. He reduces them to human rubble within his own words, all of them shocked. Mild mannered, a wicked tornado. Expect sorrow, apologies, regret, repentance yet none comes.

I'm a slave to your games

I'm just a sucker for pain

I wanna chain you up

I wanna tie you…

Angry that he perceived "servant" has turned, apparently he has a right to the negative emotions everyone touts with pride on a daily basis. It was like a vexing of the soul for what I felt was not human, it was twisted and distorted but it was something strong. It burned so bad like fire lacing his veins and creeping up his spine, his skin was a sore looking red but all he could feel was desire;

desire to hate.

He was intoxicated with emotion he had no intention of ever feeling, the acidity of it was residing in his stomach waiting to be spat out of mouth in foul and vulgar words he would be stared at for saying, except he wasn't going to say them, he was going to screech everyone with every ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs. His vision blurred as a flame curled in the pit of his stomach. His brain went on overdrive as it picked every moment that he'd spent crying. The memories weighed down on him but instead of breaking even more, his heart turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as his brain took complete control. The flames in his stomach rose up to his chest and crawling through his veins, took over the rest of his body. His fingers coiled into fists, crushing the glass rods he'd held. The glass pierced the skin of his palms but he barely felt it. Waves of fury rolled off his as the blood rose to his cheeks. The term anger, barely even touched the tip of the volcano that he so clearly was in that moment.

…

Lock left the mansion with the air gun perched on his shoulder, striding sturdily like a soldier convinced of victory on the battlefield. He cracked the silence of the morning and awakened the air of curiosities. Along the way, his ice-like face remained unchanged even though he kept nodding to the people he met occasionally.

"Training," said Lock briefly to the peasants who asked him where he was going, but no one could ask further; he did not allow people to think of another question as he left them quickly.

Since the day that Blade disappeared he and Knight-drain proceeds to the so-called training. Lock ignored everyone and left them with their frowns, odd smiles or confused faces. They did not understand Lock's unusual cold behavior. Probably he was quarreling with his own thoughts again, or maybe he was angry with someone; that was what crossed everyone's minds.

After a few minutes of walking, Lock approached the mango groves that belonged to Chase's. He opened the gate, entered the groves and looked around. Before him, the mangoes were lain on the ground. Some of them were no longer intact because they had been eaten by bats.

Over the following weeks, Lock visited the groves routinely. He always left early in the morning, carrying the air gun either different types of gun from his gun running business to give blow and acting like a soldier who was heading for the battlefield. In the beginning, town people who actually sees him were perplexed, wondering what had happened to him. Then everything became clear, like a blue sky on a sunny day.

No more frowns or odd smiles.

"He will be a tough protector for his ally," Pendelton stated every time they're having family dinner.

The mango groves had turned into a place for shooting practice, where Lock learned to use his first air gun; where he learned to sharpen his eyes, calm his muscles; where he tried to make his ears and body more sensitive to every movement and sound. Before his eyes, ripened mangos, or almost ripened, were turned into shooting targets.

Poor mangoes

He practiced from early morning until noon, taking a break only when Pendelton came to have some mini chitchats. His so-called bother would leave directly after. Meanwhile, Lock would continue his training until late in the evening, patiently, as if he was an obedient disciple in front of his teacher.

Pendelton

At the first few tries, Lock's aim missed the targets. It was only on the fifth day that he managed to shoot a mango off the tree branch. The minute the fruit hit the ground, Lock gave out a victorious shout, alarming passersby who were walking along the footpath near the groves.

"Hell Yeah!" said Lock proudly shouted, while showing the mango he managed to shoot to his mentor.

"Just a coincidence," the man replied calmly and unenthusiastically. "Shoot down three more and I will believe you." Tricking would be the best thing Pendelton create to challenge his adopted brother.

Lock walked over to the bench hurriedly, filled his air gun, pumped it, stepped into the middle of the groves and began to shoot. One mango immediately fell from its stalk.

"Jesus!" He then shouted excitedly, took the mango and rushed to the wooden fence.

"One," the man said, still unenthusiastically.

"Two," Lock replied.

"I won't count the first one" Pendelton disagreed. "I did not see it fall off the tree with my own eyes."

Lock then walked to the bench again, set up his air gun and shot. A mango fell, but he did not pick it up, nor show it to Pendelton standing near the wooden fence. He set up his air gun and took another shot, but none of the mangoes fell; only a giggle was heard from his brother. Knight-lock refilled his air gun and shot immediately, but again none of the mangoes fell. Instead, the giggle turned into a loud laugh.

How Insulting.

As Lock prepared the air gun once again, Pendelton at the wooden fence began to leave but then turned around as he heard the sound of the gunshot. For a moment, he stared at his brother and then laughed even louder.

That day, the third mango fell just as the sun began to set.

"Luckily, he is gone. Otherwise, I would throw these mangoes at his face," Knight-lock said to himself.

Afterward, Lock became more adept. He would score one of every five shots he fired. A few days later, he would shoot down one mango out of every four shots he fired; and on his third week of practicing, each shot would hit the target

flawlessly.

Among the peasants in their town and even other town, it became well known that Knight-lock was growing more and more adept at shooting. Finally, people were getting interested in watching his training. They were in awe of him, clapping their hands whenever a single mango came apart from the stalk and fell, including his very own Pendelton who asked Lock to shoot three mangos and then laughed when he failed.

He's ready.

…

MUSIC ON: Demons

When the days are cold

And the cards all fold

And the saints we see

Are all made of gold

Knight-lock eyed the weapon with bleak gray eyes, the eyes of a hunter framed in the passionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands were steady as they lifted the gun and tried a dry shot at an imaginary target. He nodded to himself. He was ready.

When your dreams all fail

And the ones we hail

Are the worst of all

And the blood's run stale

Carefully he laid the rifle down on the mattress which covered the floor of his firing point, and looked out through the hole in the brickwork to the narrow canyon of the street below. He maintained a cool detachment to his targets. Mostly he preferred not to think of them, but when he did it was as if they were already dead, walking meat bags waiting to be dispatched to the butcher. He thought of them as meeting their destiny and he was merely the conduit. Everyone has to die sometimes, and he considered it a good way to go. No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. They were just happy and oblivious one second and gone the next.

Simple.

Convenient.

Painless.

He was as agile as an Olympic gymnast, although he preferred to think of himself as a ninja. When he had embarked on his career he hadn't been certain it was the right choice for him.

I want to hide the truth

I want to shelter you

But with the beast inside

There's nowhere we can hide

He had thought an assassin had to be cruel and coldhearted, which wasn't him at all. He was just efficient, like a secretary. It's just that instead of dispatching invoices and emails he dispatched people to whatever his brother came after this life; like an anti-doctor. It was just like another day in the office. Except his office was a windy roof-top overlooking his target's downtown apartment. His tools, rather than a computer, was a state-of-the-art rifle with telescopic lens. There was no need for a silencer, the noise would be lost in the droning of the traffic below and most likely mistaken for a back-firing van.

No matter what we breed

We still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come

This is my kingdom come

When you feel my heat

Look into my eyes

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

Don't get too close

It's dark inside

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

He took aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then squeezed the trigger while thinking of the coffee he would order at Shop. He took no satisfaction in killing, but he took enormous pride in getting a good clean kill.

When the curtain's call

Is the last of all

When the lights fade out

All the sinners crawl

He had a reputation to maintain and that reputation guaranteed his exorbitant fee. He took his time packing his equipment into an inconspicuous ruck sack.

So they dug your grave

And the masquerade

Will come calling out

At the mess you made

Don't want to let you down

But I am hell bound

Though this is all for you

Don't want to hide the truth

No matter what we breed

We still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come

This is my kingdom come

He squeezes the trigger and set about packing up.

"It's done Knight-drain" he utters between the lines

"Get back to line-up there's another one" the man stated that makes him shiver

When you feel my heat

Look into my eyes

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

Don't get too close

It's dark inside

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

They say it's what you make

I say it's up to fate

It's woven in my soul

I need to let you go

Even the passage of the light slowed and the sounds became as if underwater. Aside from the beat of heart, no muscle would move. That pounding inside beat a rhythm to the words of the man's execution, the cold steel serves as judge and jury. The bullet entered as if he was nothing, just meat, blood bones, blasting a cavity in his back as it burst crimson into the fading day. His face, so beautiful in life was frozen, eyes open, mouth slack, as he was propelled backward.

This was his Job

It is him

Hellhound

Lock Lopez known as Knight-Lock Chase