codexwyrm

And so, as upon awakening from a thousandfold of misspent nights, visions the like of which would be done unto the damned did Rex awaken once more. Wrenched from the worst life had to offer, an ephemeral immortality surviving the endless violence and pain that caused a strong light to flicker and finally die, day after day, would seem the greatest blessing. A renewal of life, even at its most foul or mundane should be in stark contrast to the unearthly hell that was required of his nightly rest. But the pain lingered, and the memory was strong.

As the sky darkened so did his mood, his muscles tensing in anticipation of battle, and the rest of the day defined gloomily in gradients of the same. The brief time spent between ravages is not in revelry or joy, but simple rest, preparation for the next so as to ensure survival. The night was a black screen behind the light, and in the screens shadows, his dreams. The most joyous colors became as the moribund blossoming of a swollen bruise. The specifics of life, and the prizes that went with them and their toils, rusted and blurring, became trinkets, tokens of a time that had passed beyond memory or care, and have finally left only vague incomprehensible shapes to mark its passing. The circle of life as Ouroboros eating his own shit, each piece having no definition of its own, but only in context to the pale glowing eyes of the night. Surviving these horrors in actuality would require of Rex to be a god. The fact that the mind couldnt die made it hardly any less true. The god was made no less one by his helpless invulnerability. If God was truly dead, then he might as well be me.

Birthed in the ashes of pain and despair, god was impossible to find without soiling your hands and knees in poisonous blood, broken bottles, spent shells, and shit.
Rex had no idea where he was. His body felt foul, the difference between it, the spilt alcohol, and the sewage slicked forgotten was impractical as much metaphorically as in reality. Much of it was defected defecation from the Rex Biological Collective, exiled extensions of himself.
A shelf lay next to him. The muffled sound of industrial music permeated the air. He turned over, aching, his head so heavy it should have fallen off of his shoulders, to see the legs of a woman trace upwards through tight black leather to the point of a shotgun in her face. A panicky atemporal slideshow played before him: the woman, her demonic persona splattered all over him, him grabbing the shotgun and finding in her defense the roles reversed and the butt of the gun slamming over and over into his head. The last seemed most likely as a justifiable reason for his head to feel the way that it did.

Rex saw her pupil contract, her body stiffen, too late, and he braced himself.

Click.

Vivica Duciel, in her self-destructive haste, had forgotten to reload.