The Banshees Vol. 1

CHAPTER 7: SWEET BULLET BEAT

"Vito should be just in here, along with some of his goons and a cop or 2. Should just be a quick firing squad situation." Thomas finished.

Blake frowned, looking down at a grenade in his hand. "Aw, I wanted to blow someone up." Samuel patted his brother's shoulder.

"You can blow them afterwards." He said, a crap eating grin on his face.

"Shut up." The younger brother said, getting ready to kick the door down. Jack pulled the old revolver from his belt.

"Hey, boys, mates, friends for many years who would never pressure me into doing anything I didn't want to do, is it okay if I just, y'know, aim for the legs?" He said, cocking it. "Y'know, injure one, you'll take 3 outta the game." They all looked at him, bemused.

"You do realise we're going to be in a room, not a battlefield, right?" Blake chuckled, packing 2 pistols. "Aim for the bloody heads!"

"Well, I just don't know these guys, and I don't want to kill anyone without good reason... soooo," Jack trailed off, scratching his head. "Okay," Red said, licking his teeth. "They're racist misogynists that hate gays, and they eat babies... maybe not that last bit."

"Okay, I have no problem with shooting them, but do I have to kill them?" Jack asked again, hoping for a "No, of course not!" Or a "We wouldn't do that to you!" But no, all his bich azz got was "Mate, just shoot the bellends!" From Blake.

"You want me to shoot the tops of their penises?" Jack smirked, slightly proud of his knowledge of foreign slang. "Yes, but no. Save the ammo and blast them in the chest at least!"

"WELL I'M SORRY THAT I DON'T LIKE THE IDEA OF KILLING SOMEON-" His final word was drained out by his gun going off in his hand, putting a hole in the door leading to Vito, followed by a scream, a couple clicks, probably a cat hissing and some rubbish bins rattling. Jack looked down at his hand.

Something didn't quite feel right.

His hand had a strange feeling of absence.

Like something should've been there, but wasn't.

Something metallic, probably.

Personally, I believe it's his gun, which is now on the ground.

But, of course I can't tell you that, it'll ruin the pacing, and he needs to find it out himself.

He still stared, eyes seemingly glazed over, thinking.

He reminds me of me during this one maths test, where they had the dumbest questions, like, one was "h+h-h=?" The hell does that mean? Does it mean anything? I'm honestly confused about that, do you guys know the answer? Is anyone a mathematician?

Oh, wait, I think he's getting the idea.

He looked down at the revolver, then at his hand, then at the revolver, then at his hand, then at the wall, then at the revolver, then at the McGins, who were patiently waiting for him to stop looking at everything, then he looked at his hand. "I dropped my revolver."

"Yes, we can see that."

"It- but- it was in my hand, but, it isn't."

"That's what happens when you drop something."

"Can I pick it up?"

"Probably."

"I just mean, like, will it burn my hand?"


"No, pick the damn gun up."

"You'll probably be shot if you don't." Red added.

Jack kneeled down and picked up the small revolver, just as the wall was destroyed by machine gun fire. The McGins ran down the hallway, bullets hitting the walls beside them, and Jack crawled to a door and opened it. He fell in and pulled back the hammer on his pistol when he saw the dark blue of one of the cops. The bullet erupted from the barrel and hit the cop, blood spraying from his shoulder. Jack scraped up from the ground and ran into him, both falling to the ground in agony. They rolled over and over, but the cop ended up on top, his hands clenching around Jack's throat. Jack was grasping for every bit of air he could as he tried to rip the policeman's hands off of him.