Guns N' Rosaries

Meet Your Maker

Chi-chick. The gun cocked.
The cold metal of the barrel made contact with the man's temple, as a somber hand reached for the rosary which dangled from his neck. He couldn't bring himself to look up at the much taller man standing over him, finger glued to the trigger. His eyes remained shut, hoping whatever God was out there would hear his silent pleas.

Holding the gun was a lengthy, pale man with glasses and short black hair. He held his weapon mercilessly, his eyes wiped of sympathy. The man looked to be in his late 40's, and his eyebrows were in a stage of growing back in after he had forgotten to shave them off the week prior. His name was Pope, and he was to be feared.

It was silent, only breathing could be heard from both parties, adding to the suspense. Pope moved the gun from his temple to his forehead, slowly, letting the muzzle trace the sweat-beaded skin beneath it.

A trembling voice broke the silence, "Mister? Please don't do this.." his hand released his rosary as he slowly brought his hands together to a praying position. "It's not Christian. I have a wife, a beautiful wife who I've loved for many years of my life," his voice cracked, "and my mother-" he was cut off by a loud shushing, which echoed off the walls.

Living in the Bible Belt of Tulsa, Oklahoma, this was a phrase Pope heard quite often. 'It isn't Christian.' He had often heard the phrase during many different parts of his life, and he had deduced that hearing it never got less annoying.

Still holding the gun to his forehead, the taller man's eyebrows furrowed at the words that fell out of his victims mouth. He kept the silence, using his permanently blood stained fingers to scratch an itch that had presented itself on his forehead.

"How much love do you have for your God?" Pope's arm straightened out as he waited for a response out of the trembling mess of a human before him.

No answer.

Pope's foot stomped suddenly, "HOW MUCH?" His gravelly voices bounced off the walls of the empty room, losing his temper. His glasses slightly slipped from the bridge of his nose, he pushed them back up in one swift movement as the silence deafened them.

A sob choked out from the man, "Sir, please.." He made a desperate attempt for his life, "My God is everything to me." He gripped the rosary once more, opening his mouth to continue.

"Would you die for your God?" His finger tensed on the trigger, watching large tears roll down the mans cheeks, and down to his drooping neck.

No answer.

BANG BANG.

Blood splattered onto Pope's clear-framed glasses, he glanced at the lifeless corpse that lay at his feet, the face now unrecognizable from how it was only a few seconds prior. He knelt down to the body, and removed the rosary from his neck, tucking it into his pocket.

He didn't give it a second thought, clearing his throat before he safely stored his gun on his person, and using the sleeve of his black shirt to clear his glasses of the blood. His large black shoes avoided the matter which had spilled from the holes in the man's head onto the floor as he walked. It was a mess of chunky, bloody brain meat which would surely be impossible to work out of the concrete without chemicals.

He was paid extra to drag it out, what he had just done was not his usual style. Typically, he didn't engage in conversations with who he had been hired to kill, but in certain situations (and with the right pay), it was a treat.

Pope's shoes clicked against the floor as he made his way towards the large red gas can and pack of matches, which resided in the corner of the room. Then, he got to it.

The smell of gasoline became apparent as soon as the first drops graced the floor, soon he had used the entire can, covering the floor and body. He did a quick double take around the room, making sure he was not forgetting anything, before standing in the doorway.