PISTOL DEEPTHROAT

The entryway to the tenement was cluttered with trash. Broken bags pierced with needles leaked rotten shit out onto the sidewalk, discarded looted out machines lie dormant. Blood stained the concrete, and where it didn't you could see hints of stains almost washed away if you looked hard enough. The door in would not open without force, groaning awfully like a dying animal. The interior wasn't much better- The smell of droppings, piss, and tobacco had long ago sunk into the very foundation of the building. Two corridors off to either side of the doorway held, one to the left and one the right, held dwellings, and at the end, a stairwell. Pistol Deepthroat went left. This is where it had to be tonight, and so it was. As it passed through the hall, the words, "Unit oh-thirteen, second floor," echoed in its overstimulated mind. The drencrom was pulsing through its fleshy body by now, filling its stupid animalistic brain with whirling fancy. It knew what was coming, it could practically taste the carnage on its expecting lips. It heard the noisy clamor of norm life in each flat, which bothered it something fierce. "Unit oh-thirteen, second floor," it persistently reminded itself as it came to the end of the corridor. Another fucked up door, and then a small poorly lit stairwell in grey concrete. One flight of stairs went by quickly, yet another difficult to open door, then it was there. Unit oh-thirteen was just across the hall from it, conveniently located right next to the stairwell entrance. It smashed through the door, and was greeted by a schlubby looking dude standing up from his couch in surprise.


"Hey man," he said, sounding more confused than afraid, "what the fuck?" Pistol Deepthroat is not a man. It is recognized by international law as a weapon of war. Pistol Deepthroat is phantasmagorical violence in flesh and metal. It took a few solitary steps forward and exposed its handcannon. "What the fuck?," repeated its quarry. "I know why you're here, you wanna collect right?" It could hear the fear creeping into his voice. It came closer. "You coulda just knocked, didn't have to smash the door down. Can we talk?" He reached down to his coffee table, taking a bundle of legal tender in hand. "I've got the money," he said, voice quavering as threw the bills out towards it. Why had it waited this long? "I'm not a bad guy, see? I paid you. C'mon!" Pistol Deepthroat shot the man square in his forehead, his blood splattering the wall tastelessly. It did not enjoy this one like the others, it realized. The drencrom wasn't moving as it should, perhaps. The neighbors heard it happen, and so they grew quiet. No more clamor. Pistol Deepthroat stepped out of the flat, back into the hallway, and then trudged down the stairwell. Something about the scent of this building reminded itself of something old, something it had felt once. It hurried through the ground floor corridor, then back out onto the street. It didn't fear cops or neighbors. This sort of thing happened often in these places. Something else was the matter, though, and it was seeping into Pistol Deepthroat. It trudged into the night, tapping a button on its wrist that would confirm that the job was done.


It arrived back at headquarters soon after, an immaculate construct of glass and steel rebar. The lobby was empty this time of night, and so it helped itself to the elevator and rode it deep into the earth. It walked down the tubular corridor the elevator opened up into to its pod, where its technician sat waiting in a chair lazily. "Deepthroat," he said. "You took a while. Yergonna need a tune up." The drencrom would have kept it compliant, but not this time. It heard the kind of agonized screaming it'd heard so often, one being its own from a time long past. It allowed the technician to approach, then grabbed him with astonishing speed and wringed his neck. Down the tube, up the elevator, through the lobby and back into the night it went. It could feel the metal weighing the flesh down as the drencrom cut off.


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