Cellar Dog

Feel the rain, the rain that paves a way for a river of blood that shines in the moonlight. Start to uncontrollably shiver, whether it's from the cold or nervousness is unclear. The weight from the tool in the waist, while not much, still holds almost too much weight for him to carry. Finally notice the stairway. Suddenly you get slower, dragging torn and ripped boots on the paved ground. Hesitant to keep walking.

The thought of platinum and ice made him agree. A god of death is all he ever wanted to be. A man to be feared, respected, a made man.

What lies and waits down those old stone stairs. Something that turns a man into an animal. A man makes his own luck when he strives for greed. One more look down the street from whence he came. His mind was made. He meanders towards the stone stairs, each step taken bringing him further into the jaws of hell. At the bottom, he meets a run down wooden door. Very slowly he rests his hand on the doorknob, the other, the metal in his waist. He takes a long breath, then rams his whole body weight into the door abruptly swinging it open. His hand raised to eye level, where the eye of the snub-nose stared into a single man's soul. As he stares back into the barrel he doesn't panic. No fear, at least no sign of any. To which the man who called himself devil, called himself god, gazed into the fearless man. Seeing red. He started to shiver slightly, he wanted him to be afraid. So he would show the fearless man what he was capable of.

A snap squeeze of the index finger is all it took. He realizes first hand the destruction the smoking tool in his hand could cause, the only witness to his handy work with his brains on the floor. A sense of dread flows through him as he realizes how easy it was to take another man's life. He was just following instruction. His grip from the cool steel loosens, suddenly feeling everything. Seeing everything. How’s power feel? He starts feeling shaky and panics. This is what you wanted. Being a god of death was not what he had thought. He couldn't handle the pressure of what he’d done. What else is there to do when memories haunt.

He turns to the only one he could for guidance. The snub-nose answers. So he raises his left hand, burning the smoking barrel to his temple. His mind raced. Then suddenly, emptied. A snap squeeze of the index finger is all it took