Yeah, yeah, yeah. He knew that he was breaking one law after another and from time immemorial, Guns had been a repeat offender of the most basic of laws as well as the most mundane as well as the most inconceivable legal restraint known to civilized man. But he was a New God; none of them really took words-on-paper rather seriously. They were conceived either by abstract ideas or science—not by history, or by hand-me-down legends. They didn’t fade away when their ink had begun to lose its boldness. They were persistent creatures that wormed in mortals’ heads, burrowed in logic and common sense.
Many times he had crossed paths with an Old God and most of those instances were encounters Guns preferred to forget altogether. While the details blurred together, like thousands of bullets, different kinds of them, had spilled on the ground, mixing—all bullets but not all of them alike—the bitter taste in his tongue remained constant, as well as the strain across his shoulders, and the sudden itch of the finger to pull one trigger, two triggers, several triggers to finally finish the job.
Guns didn’t reply; an exchange of words with the Old Gods meant a recitation of just about every fucking verse from every fucking piece of literature that ever pertained to them in the past, written or not, and Guns was sick and tired of archaic passages. Pretentious fuckers.
Instead, Guns lifted his arm, pointed his gun, and pulled the trigger. It was a hasty shot; Guns hadn’t bothered to check if he would hit or miss. He just wanted to shoot something. Quickly, he cocked the revolver and aimed again and this time, he wasn’t expecting to miss.