...Elsewhere...
"You failed, m'boy," chuckled the Man in White, casually strolling back and forth, his ivory cane clicking against the dead floor. "You had one job, Mister McLeod, and such a simple job it was! I gave you everything you needed. The power. The objective. A bullet with the power to kill even the strongest adversary...the one who killed you, of all people-my favorite employee! I think, lad, you just lack the initiative that so many others have shown in the past," said the suit-wearing entrepreneur, stroking his small white beard. Horn-rimmed glasses adorned his uncannily symmetrical face; his smile betrayed the sinister aspect that hid behind the suit and garish white cowboy hat. A small silver cross hung at his neck.
"Well, I'm nobody to break a deal, Mister McLeod," said the Man in White, gesturing for Desmond to walk by his side. "Say something, kid! You're killing the mood!"
Desmond narrowed his eyes. His shallow breathing stopped, replaced by a more calm stance. "Are you really the Devil," he inquired, walking to the Man in White's side. The silver pistol was in its holster at Desmond's side. He felt the bullet scrape against the side of the barrel, knowing instinctively the difference in weight between a loaded gun and an unloaded one. Desmond's cold eyes met the Man's unnaturally perfect ones. Eyes so blue, they were practically white. The formerly warm ones went stone cold for a fraction of a second. Then it was over, and the Man was back in good humor.
"Well, well, well, m'boy!" hooted the Man, who slapped his knee with a chuckle. "Cutting right to the chase, now aren't we? No formalities with you, Mister McLeod, no siree! Well, if you must know," said the Man with an uncanny grin, "It's all a matter of opinion." he said cryptically, chuckling to himself again.
"I say, I say, I say, Mister McLeod, lookie here! It's the men and women who held your position before you!" he said enthusiastically, pointing with his cane at a small wall. Upon the wall was a shelf, and upon the shelf...
Dozens of jars. Each decorated with different, intricate patterns, they held within them...people. Frozen in time, staring off into the distance. Horrified, Desmond peered into the canisters, momentarily too afraid to even speak. A small gunslinger, riding a horse and blasting two revolvers, was contained in one, wearing a white mask and cowboy hat. His neck and shoulders were adorned with a similarly white cape.
"The Pale Stranger?" whispered Desmond. He'd heard the story of the Old West frontiersman, a lawman who they said never missed. He would have been one of the first modern "superheroes," riding around in a mask, shooting any who dared threaten peace in Arizona, New Mexico, and beyond.
"And this man...this hunter..." Within another jar, there was a sportsman, a monocle-wearing English gentleman. He seemed to be aiming a blunderbuss, looking down the sights at what could only have been supernatural big-game.
"Ah, yes, Sir Worthington! I commissioned him to hunt down all manner of otherworldly beast. He was quite a man, of course, until I asked him to shoot a certain someone, rather than a certain something. That's when he backed out of our contract, you see," said the Man in White, polishing his small eyeglasses. He breathed on the jar for a moment, then wiped it with a silver handkerchief, as if to remove a smear. "And so it goes, and so it goes. People simply must learn to read the fine print!" he said, laughing once more.
There were so many more jars. They lined the entire shelf, which Desmond now saw extended nearly up to the ceiling. Why...he was in a room full of them. A veritable library of souls. Desmond took a deep breath. Now or never.
"I've got one more thing to ask you," he said wearily, turning to look the Man in his pale blue eyes.
"Why, Mister McLeod, anything for you! Anything at a-"
The silver revolver flashed, the sound of the single gunshot echoing off every jar. The bullet seemed to travel in slow motion, slicing through the air as it careened into the Man. It ripped through his white suit, disappearing into his chest, directly below his white carnation. Desmond's eyes widened as he watched the metal slug, still emblazoned with the name Ivana, vanish in the Man's suit. A little splotch of red appeared, then enveloped the left side of his tuxedo. His smile was still frozen on his round face, but his eyes had grown cold.
"I was wondering what would happen if I shot you with a magic bullet. Y'know, before the soul-reapin' and whatnot." The Scotsman cocked his head, still staring his controller in the eyes. "Will I lose me powers now? What with you being dead and all," he said, turning to face the jars. He continued to gesture with the gun, staring into the frozen eyes of a tiny woman with a bow. She had been raising it at a wall full of soldiers, preparing to let fly an arrow that would probably have torn through them all. "Also, all these lih'le people...are they gon' ta go free now? That always seemed t'happen in the movies. Was just a thought."
"Also, if you're really Satan, which I doubt, to be honest, is there going to be a war in Heaven now? End of days? Fire and brimstone and whatnot?" The Scotsman chuckled, holstering the pistol. Indeed, it seemed as though the jars were now empty. The Man, no longer frozen, had begun gasping for air, a small line of blood running from his mouth. Suddenly, he cackled, eyes growing warm again.
"Ho-ho, m'boy! You got me good, you did," he said with a slap to the knee. "I was really willing to give you the benefit of the doubt," he continued, eyes glazing slightly. He began reaching into his rapidly reddening shirt, pulling out something on a chain.
"What do suppose this is, Mister McLeod?"
"It's a cross."
"And why do you suppose I'm wearing a cross, Mister McLeod? Could it be that you, the good little Catholic Scotsman, just killed me, your one and only G-"
Desmond shot him again.
"You're just wearin' it to f*** with my 'ead," he said, holstering the pistol once more in a smooth, practiced motion. Another bullet. So, I've still got it then. "You ain't no God, and you ain't no Devil. You're just a dead old f*** who happened to make a deal with the wrong man. Me. Thanks again for the powers. I love 'em. Also, I ain't no Catholic, so you got that wrong too. Must be losin' bloodflow to your brain," he said.
"Is that a risk you're willing to take, Mister McLeod? Repent, and I shall save thee from thy si-!"
"Christ, shut up," said Desmond, bringing his hand back down to the gun. And for the first time, the Man listened, blood stains still developing in his suit. "I do the talking now, mister. I'm through being controlled. You might have been able to give me these powers, and this suit, and conjure up whatever the Hell this all is, but you rely on one thing for your real power," Desmond hissed. "Fear. You think I'm afraid of you? Not anymore, you stupid git. Also, I like this gun. I'm keeping it."
The Man sighed, his characteristic grin vanishing for the first time. His eyes went stony cold again, serious in the face of his demise.
"Mister McLeod...Desmond...I'll admit you caught me by surprise. I wasn't expecting to die to you today. But...there will be repercussions to your actions. We're all puppets, Desmond. Controlled by something far greater than you can ever think. Just because you have your own name now, you think they're going to leave you alone? You'll never be truly free, Desmond. He's still pulling the strings as we speak. I suppose my time has come. Good luck dealing with what's next...all the innocents you've killed? They'll be back from the grave. He's going to make things very hard for you, Desmond. Very hard indee-"
Bang.
"I said shut up."
Silence in the unknown hall. The Man slumped forward, dead with a hole between his eyes. The jars were empty. The door on the far end was open. Shootout put away the smoking gun, slowly wandering down the long hallway.
Finally, no more stories about Desmond McLeod, he thought. No more drafts, no more shooting innocent people for someone's sick amusement. I...am free, he thought, arriving back in his room, as if waking up from a deep sleep. The doorway closed behind him.
Finally free.
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