A Story of Cinders: From the Ashes

Chapter 2: Ten Feet Tall

            On his way out of the bar, Gray Wolf bumped into a heavy, solid object. He looked up. It was a man. Well, it looked like a man. Real tall, real thickly built, and with ritualistic scarring and branding covering most of his body, dressed in an armor of sorts, made from leather and scraps of fabric and metal. Medium brown hair shaved into a short Mohawk down the middle of his head, ending in the back with a long braid. His frame encompassed the entire doorway. He didn't bother looking at his face because it was towering over him. That's one mean looking motherfucker he thought to himself. Feel sorry for the guy who pissed him off. Gray Wolf left the bar, making his way to the brothel.

That mean looking motherfucker had set his eyes on the hooded man at the table with the severed head as a centerpiece. He couldn't believe his luck. He had finally found who he was looking for. A voice was bouncing through his head. Kill him! it screamed. Kill him now! Make him suffer! Remember your brothers! You want them to die in vain? The voice called itself the Baron. For a long time, the Baron had been the giant's only friend. Sometimes that voice was him. But right now, cooler heads were prevailing. Relatively cooler heads, at least. He then mumbled to the Baron out loud, "No, no no. Be patient. Killing people in bars is a bad thing to do. Wait it out..." That floor would look a lot better splattered with his insides though... "True, but the sand outside wouldn't look bad either." His thoughts were muttered under his breath. People shot him quizzical looks. He returned with an angry glare, and those looks of wonder quickly turned into looks of fear. Images flashed through his head. Dead bodies. The explosions still ringing in his ears. He reached up, feeling the bullet wound in his shoulder. Remember that? He remembered seeing that hooded man walking over his dying brothers, examining the carnage with a cold resolve. He could hear the sound of the gunshots as the hooded man put them down. Like dogs! Like animals he killed them! Slaughter him like a pig! Bottling his rage, he walked over to the hooded man's table. He sat down in the chair across from the hooded man. The chair creaked and groaned at the sheer weight of this behemoth. He had to have been well over 350 pounds of lean muscle and rage. "Give me a reason I shouldn't tear your arms off right now..." he said in a grating growl.

"If you remember correctly, I let you live."

The giant, touching the bullet wound, replied, "I don't think that was your intention."

"Well Louis, since you're still alive after my trap, I think I might have a use for a man of your resilience."

Surprised, Louis squeezed the edge of the table with a vice grip. The wood began to crack and splinter. "What do you mean? And how do you know my real name?"

"I know many things, Louis. Or should I call you by your raider name: Brawler?"

"I prefer that one from you." Why haven't you ripped him in half yet? "Because the man is talking," he said out loud to the voice in his head.

"If the Baron is done talking, I would like to make a proposition." For the first time since he escaped the asylum, the voice went quiet. The silence was almost more maddening.

"What do you want with me?"

"Have you heard of The Czar, Abram Karlov?"

"The man who burned the world? Of course I've heard of him!"

"Good. I'm putting together a little team to bring him down. Since you are now a free agent..." The Brawler stands up grabbing the back of his chair, swings it over his head, and brings it down on the cloaked man with the force of a meteor slamming into the earth. The cloaked man hits the ground, then stands up and brushes himself off, as if nothing happened. "Are you finished ruining the furniture yet, or would you like to use the table as well?"

"That doesn't sound like too bad of an idea," he said to the hooded man. "No, this man has a job for you. Hear him out first. Be patient," he grumbled to himself.

"Very well, I will continue. As I was saying before you interrupted me with a chair, I think someone as hard to kill as you would be a good addition to the team I am putting together. For once in your life, you could have an honest living. Like you've wanted."

"How do you know that?"

"Do you know which voices are your thoughts and which ones are actually spoken aloud?"

"There's plenty of chairs in here for me to hit you with again."

"You can use as many as you like, all to the same effect. My offer still stands." There was a pause. Brawler eyed the head sitting on the table. "Who killed Gearbox?"

The man chuckled, "You know that man you bumped into on the way in?"

"What of him?"

"He killed Gearbox. Do you know who that man was?"

"No."

"Maybe you've heard of him. He's the Gray Wolf."

Brawler stared blankly at him. "That's the notorious Gray Wolf? He doesn't look like much."

"Compared to you, nobody does. I'm trying to get him on board as well."

"What do you mean trying?"

"There was a little... complication. He was under the impression that he would be doing this alone, and he didn't like the odds. And he's not motivated in the way I thought he was..."

"You mean he doesn't like suicide? And what do you mean by his motivation?"

"Exactly. Apparently he's not as greedy as I thought. Those bounty hunters are all wild cards... If you so choose to join me, maybe you should have a word with him. Try to put the fear of God into him." Silence. "I'll give you some time to think about it. If you accept, meet me at this location. We'll all leave to rendezvous with my partner," he said, handing Brawler a piece of paper. "I'll take my leave now," said the cloaked man, standing up from his chair. "Oh, and don't be afraid to use a little force, if necessary. He can be quite stubborn, but he can take a hit pretty well..." The hooded man slunk into the shadows behind him, disappearing. Probably out a back door. You should've killed him! screamed the Baron. "Shut up," he said to Baron. He walked over to the bar and ordered the strongest drink they served. The bartender slid a full glass of Rat Piss Rum to the Brawler. The glass barely fit in his giant, meaty hands. He knocked back the entire glass in one giant gulp. It was aptly named, as it was the most disgusting drink imaginable, but it was cheap, strong and did the job. Across the bar a man stared him down with a steely resolve. The belt buckle of the Brawler was familiar to him. It was a vulture's skull, lashed onto the leather belt. It were the trademark of the Vultures; the most ruthless and fearsome gang of bandits in the Southwest. The gang that had sold his wife into slavery. Mustering up his strength, and with the help of another few shots of whiskey, he stood up and confronted the hulking figure before him. "I know what you are," the man said, prodding him with his fingers. Brawler shattered the empty glass in his grip. "And what would that be," he said, not turning to face the man confronting him. "You're a Vulture. You bastards sold my wife to slavery!" Brawler, trying his damn best to keep his composure, turned slowly to face the drunken man, towering over him even as he was sitting. "Please stop yelling," he said very deliberately through gritted teeth. The blood from the gashes in his hand dripped on the counter. "No, fuck that! You're gonna pay for what you've done, monster!"

"Look, if you don't leave in the next five seconds, I am going to tear your ear off and eat it..." He was still trying to stay calm. Just rip his head off! Get it over with! He's asking for it! The man attempts to shove him, but is met with a brick wall of a man. Brawler stands up, grasping the drunk by the crown of his head. He then proceeds to yank the man's ear off with his free hand. The man screams in pain and terror. Brawler gently sets him back down, and swallows the severed ear whole. Blood dripping from his mouth, Brawler grumbles "I warned you..." The man runs out of the bar, his hand covering the place where his ear used to be. Brawler turned back to the bar and, wiping the blood from his chin, ordered another drink from the bartender cowering behind the counter. He sat silently at the bar, entranced by the piece of paper the hooded man gave to him. "Fuck it, I'll do it," he said to himself. He knocked back another drink, and made his way out of the bar to the location disclosed on the note.