Block punch. Move left. Upper cut into stomach. He grabs a broken bottle. Grab right arm and disarm. Follow up with a kick to abdomen. Show no mercy. Kick to legs. Finally finish up with a kick to the sides.
I am Black Rock Shooter, mercenary, hit man, and gun for hire, more like " rock Cannon for hire", but that's beside the point. I suggest not asking why my name has star in it, it's my personal touch. You're also probably wondering why my name is so unusual than others, well it isn't, at least once it wasn't. You see I let my true name become the same thing the world became, dust and rubble. The world had destroyed itself by people's selfish thoughts of power, with their nuclear bombs, and warfare. Never considering a retaliation by the other side may affect those they were supposedly protecting. Thus the world was buried under dust and rubble. Of course us humans having the unusual wish to stay alive, somehow survived and have set up new towns to replace those that were destroyed. Really cliche, I know, but it's true. Anyways this is the part where I enter the equation.
You see there's good demand for bounty hunters, and their pay is that of royalty. Simple enough, find a person, bring back their head, profit. You may say I'm a sadist trying to make a quick buck off of my hobby, but that's not the truth, far from it. My life took a complete turn after the aforementioned nuclear weapons rained from the sky. I was left with no parents, friends, or valuables to help me out in the twisted, desolate, barren, world I now live in. Even my poor older sister, who gave her life saving me, died. I never did find her body, some stupid animal must've eaten her, and I was powerless to do anything about it.
With no money, being a hired gun became my only choice. Using a weapon me and my sister had found in a destroyed safe, I drew blood for the first time at sixteen years of age. I still have the old thing, "Seven-Shots" we called it. Six years later, I'm doing the same line of work, with upgraded hardware, I have never come back empty handed, and have always been paid.
This then brings me to my current predicament, in a pub, fighting two, mammoths of men, just because I wouldn't lie in bed with them. They were in a world of pain. As one of the men tried to punch me, and the other was trying to recover, I ended backing up into the bar counter. Quickly, I used this to my advantage, using it as a support, I kicked the man violently with both feet, thanks for the gymnastics class mom.
Feeling overconfident, I smirked, only to fall on my back after the man I had floored unexpectedly punched me in my gut.
"He-he, that's how's I likes me womans," he said, his mouth smelling of cheap whiskey, "on their back." The other man, dressed in denim picked me up, making me squirm, there was no way I would let him. Not being able to hold me tightly, I was able free my hand, I was able to hit him in the back of the head, knocking him out. As I got back on my feat the Whiskey-Drinking-Man began to raise fist, when I gave him a "are you sure about that?" look. He quickly dropped his hand and quickly left the pub, denim jacket-man in tow. Pathetic.
Ron hummed to congratulate me. My Seven-Shots has been replaced by an "object" I acquired, nicknamed "Ron," it's "regular" form is that of a snake, that coils around my arm and sometimes talks, though that seldom happens when we're around others. It's second form is that of a sword, called by Ron the "Black Blade," then it is followed by his third, and last, form, the, " rock Cannon." In addition to this he's one of few, allowed to shorten my name, this right includes...
"Sorry about that Rock, if I had known they would've, I would've..." Caspar said apologetically. I smiled as I nodded, assuring him that it was okay. Caspar was my only normal human confidant, owner of the pub, was around fifty-five, and acted as our manager, getting us hits to deal with, and in return all I had to do in return was visit him. Although I would give him a tip every once in a while (which I had to force him to accept), as a sign of thanks.
"Wow!" a man of about thirty-ish said to the right of me as I sat down on a stool, "Are you a bounty hunter or something?"
"Or something," I muttered, "get me another of the usual, I spilled my drink when I got into the fight."
"Alright, Rock, but it isn't on the house, wife would kill me," he said as he poured me a wine glass of cider. I don't drink any liquor, I need my head clear to take on what's ahead of me.
"I'll pay for that," the man to my right spoke again, "if you take my deal, of course."
"Not interested," I said bluntly, trying to get him out of my hair. I had enough of men trying to sleep with me.
"No you don't understand, it's a hit," he pleaded.
"Still not interested," I said. After six years in the business I gained a reputation of never failing, with it came a never ending demand for my services. Thus, I now only choose jobs that pay well, are interesting, or those that demand...
"Justice, please, I demand justice," he said in despair, "my sister, thirteen, was kidnapped by a soldier of the Army of Oblivion, who knows what they're doing to her, probably turning her into one of them, a merciless killing machine." If I had been any other person I would've done it for no pay, but I'm not any other person am I?
"And the reward?"
"I had completely forgotten about that..." his mood took a huge swing, "I have no money to pay, just enough to pay your drink. All I can offer you is our everlasting service as me and my sister will be your servants, till death part us."
"Fine, and let's just say I was generous."
He explained to me who had stolen her sister, a man named Seargent Zaha. Believed to be a religious freak due to the fact of wearing a chain headband in the form of a crown of thorns. His age is unknown, but many estimate his age to be eighty to ninety-five. This perplexes many due to the average lifespan now being sixty-five. If this weren't enough reason for him to be a walking anomaly, he is known to be an extraordinary fighter in hand-to-hand combat, he even goes off to claim to be undefeatable in close-combat. Egotistical bastard.
Finally knowing the information about my target, I got off of my stool and headed for the door. The client chasing after me, only catching up to me once I got on my motorbike.
"Wait, where are you going?" he said exasperatingly, "I want to go!"
"Suites yourself," I said nonchalantly, "that way you can get started cleaning butler."
"I have a name you kn-" I cut him off
"The only name you need to know now is mine, Black Rock Shooter by the way, your sister, Ron," I said patting him, making Ron look at him, "and somebody else, you'll meet her later."
"But!" he protested.
"Shut it butler" he remained quiet the whole trip home.
Black Rock Shooter is the property of the artist, Huke, no copyright infringement intended. Not much to say, but I would appreciate, support, comments, and constructive criticism. See a spelling/grammar mistake don't be hesitant to mention it in a review, negative or positive.