One of my favourites. ^_^

To write well a story, you must start with laying out the setting. The setting gives colour and feel to everything that goes on; and anyway, you've got to know.

Naturally, running out a long list of attributes will get tedious quickly. It's not a textbook, it's literature, and it's gotta flow. So. Best let the story - introduce itself.

"Agnes, where did you get that *beautiful* blouse?"

"I robbed it off a man who ah had to kill in defence luv. Nice innit?"

"Oh aye, tha's the trouble with living in an ANARCHIST STATE. Still, you got off well din'tcha luv?"

"Oh, aye. Spech'ly in comparison to me hubby tha's been kept PRISONER in the dark dungeons of MUNDAGORDOR where, ah've heard, there'r lots a spiders and things."

"Kids these days eh?"

So now, without long and boring intros, we have the setting. Thank you ladies. Now we can perhaps introduce the hero, who just happened to accidentally hear the conversation, and, driven by his overwhelming desire to rid the world of its foul stain, steps in.



“I said EH, Geraldine!”

“…Geraldine?” Unfortunately, Geraldine was too dead to answer. Her carcass lay like a beached whale on the filthy city streets with a throwing knife sticking into the flabby bridge of her nose, a comical expression of surprise splayed across her frozen, piggy face. Somewhere down the rooftops, a cat sang her lament.

Agnes whipped her six-gun out and ready from her ungainly wide frock, leaping her eyes from shadow to shadow for the hunter she instinctively knew was there.

Eyes met. For a split second things froze, eyes locked in a predator’s standoff. Then the other leapt forward. His blade flashed the moon’s reflection as Agnes let off an animal bellow and hammered her rounds wonton into the uncertain -- as the hunter pirouetted to the side blindingly fast, thrice round and ending the movement in a crouch, one hand touching the ground and the other thrusting his scimitar high into the air shining black with unilluminated blood.

Her neck was open so quickly she could not register. She felt everything and nothing in that moment, senses so staggered by the shock of aldrenaline and the distant pain that she couldn’t think of anything more than, Fuck, ah’m ackchally dyin’. It became her to just fall to her knees and let go.



The hunter spat on her body and returned to the night.





…because I felt like it.

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