---George Dorn <toadpooka@usa.net> wrote: > I'm accepting submissions and requests NOW for the first issue of the zine. If I don't get any, > it's going to be entirely composed of stuff I wrote, most of which being ramblings like the one > you're reading right now. Oh, dear GOD, no! Better send you some stuff!!! Here is a short story that is in reality the first in what hopefully will be a long piece of work. Also, here is the Renegade Automaton that almost everyone likes. Enjoy! Graveyard Greg _________________________________________________________ DO YOU YAHOO!? Get your free @yahoo.com address at http://mail.yahoo.com
Part 1: The Devil
The devil arrived in Tranquility, ready to raise some Hell. He stood on the outskirts of town, baleful eyes peering out from underneath the wide brim of his hat, thumbs hooked on the waistline of his pants. If anyone had been allowed to notice him, they would have thought he was inspecting the town; they would not have been far off on that assumption.
The devil then broke into a quick stride, his gaze never wavering, his stride never hesitataing. He knew where to go; he always knew where he was needed.
Traffic was especially heavy that mornig, but the devil's path was open, as people unconciously moved out of his way. If they were allowed to notice him, they would have moved faster once they saw the fire and brimestone that raged behind those eyes.
But no one noticed him.
No one ever noticed him, except for the ones who need to see him.
It was noon when the devil entered "Herkie" Johnson's store. The owner was sweeping the floor when he saw preacher walk in; his first thought was Is it Sunday, and I just plain forgot?
The devil was clothed in the collar of a preacher, along with the tradition black outfit of a man of God. The additions to the garb were a black stetson, black snakeskin boots, and a black gunbelt, in which the butt of a pearl-handled revolver could be seen.
Herkie, however, didn't think of the arrival of a gun-toting preacher as odd. "Howdy, sir," he smiled warmly, "can I help you?"
The preacher returned the smile, yet it didn't warm the eyes; they remained cold as flint. He removed the stetson from his head, revealing closely-cropped white hair. "You cain't help me, suh, but ah kin help you, mebbe." he drawled, causing Herkie's eyes to widen slightly in surprise, as he'd never seen a Southerner so far up North.
"Ah've come to help you receive forgiveness, ol' timer," the preacher said without waiting for a reply. "Y'see, God's been watchin' you, an' ol' timer, He ain't happy with whut you've been up too."
Herkie took a involuntary step back; the preacher immediately closed in the gap between them. "Look," Herkie protested. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, preacher, but--"
"LIAR!" the preacher roared, glaring at him as if he were some filthy animal. "You know your sins, I know your sins, and God knows your sins, so stop you're lyin', and listen!"
Herkie's face and neck grew red from the growing anger within his gut. "Get out of my store before I get the sheriff! You're crazy!"
The preacher let out a gale of laughter. "You're right, Harold Johnson," and Herkie drew in a gasp as he heard his christian name," I am crazy--crazy with the love of the LORD." He took a step closer to Herkie, whose anger slipped away as fear creeped in his bones. "And I want you to have God's love too, Harold."
"Get out of my store," Harold said weakly.
"I cain't leave until I have done the Lord's work, Harold. You got a lot of sins all built up, you know that? Cheatin' on your wife with the Widow Christians, drinkin' that devil's drink every night at that den of sin you call a saloon, and stealin' money from those good, hard wokin' folk by chargin' them twice what this stuff is worth! Absolutely shameful!" he said, every word uttered lashing into Harold's spirit like barbed wire against flesh. "And your lust for young boys! That is, by far, the worst of your sins!"
Harold wept openly as he sank to his knees, his legs no longer able to bear the weight of his transgressions. In his mind's eye he saw all of the townsfolk judging him as this preacher revealed his sins one by one. They would cast him out, his sins would be forever branded on his flesh, so that all who met him would know the kind of wretch he was; he was less than human, less than an animal.
"Yet Harold, there is a way to the path of forgiveness." Seeing Harold look up at him, seeing the glimmer of hope in his eyes, he continued, "You must be ready to sacrifice those earthly wants, for they are what will drag you screamin' down into the pits of Hell! Are you ready to make that sacrifice?"
Harold tried to reply, but his throat tightened, and only a rasp of air was released.
Are you ready to make that sacrifice? Speak UP, Harold Johnson!"
YES! Oh, God help me, yes!" Harold screeched, tears and snots cascading down his face, his hands gripping the preacher's pant's legs. "Show me the way, preacher!"
The preacher too the storekeeper's hands, pressed something cold and hard into them, and smiled broadly. "Then take this weapon, an' smite them sins that dwell within you!"
Harold eyes took in the image of the pearl-handled six-shooter. He glanced at the preacher's empty gunbelt, then at the preacher, with confusion clouding his eyes. "What...what do I do with this?"
The preacher's smile never faltered. "If you are truly sincere about your desire to repent, you will take that holy pistol, an' shoot down those sins within your body."
"But that'll kill me," Harold whispered.
"'He that believeth in me shall not perish, but will have everlastin' life.' Only the flesh dies, Harold. Your spirit will be cleansed of all your sins an' wickedness, an' you'll go to your great reward in Heaven! Ain't that wonderful?"
Harold shook his head wildly, as if throwing off something attached. "No! You're no preacher, you're a madman!" He shakily raised the six-shoot so that it aimed directly at the preacher's heart, emptying the gun of its ammo, but the hammer struck empty chambers six times.
The preacher slowly took the gun from Harold's nerveless fingers. "Then ah guess ah'll have to smite those sins myself," he said, sounding almost disappointed.
As the barrel of the weapon was aimed at Harold's forehead, he laughed nervously. "You're crazy, mister! You can't kill me with an empty pistol!"
In the hands of the faithful, this gun is never empty," he whispered as the bullet opened up the back of Harold's skull, throwing the body crashing down onto the floor. As the blood began to pool around Harold's lifeless body, the preacher knelt beside him, dabbing the first two fingers of his right hand in the congealing blood. He made the mark of the cross on Harold's forehead, with the bullet hole in the center of the intersecting lines. "God has forgiven you Harold; you have been cleansed."
The devil left Tranquility that evening, singing a hymn of praise.
No one had been virtuous enough to hear it.
Automaton Renegade
Personality: Once, I was human. Then I died. It wasn't until I woke up and found my brain encased in a iron coffin called an automaton that I realized Fate had other plans fer me besides bein' worm food. Still, at least I'm in my right mind, 'cause I been hearin' how other automatons got some evil demon in their brains. How I cheated my way outta that, I don't know.
Anyway, I played it smart, actin' like I was a good ol' soldier for Throckmorton until I had the chance to skeedadle outta there. They probably still don't have any idea I'm not under their control. Might come in handy if I ever have to go back to the Combine.
Sure, there are advantages to bein' an automaton. You don't have to eat, drink, or feel pain. I'd trade it all just to be human, though. Not only can I not feel pain, I can't feel anything.
Quote: "I'm the real Man of Steel!"
Somehow, your brain survived the process of becoming an Automaton, and you have full control over your new body. Or so you hope.
There are advantages to being an automaton. You don't need to eat or drink. You don't bleed, so you don't have to worry about Wind Damage. And you're pretty tough--being made out of iron and steel, of course.
Now for the bad news--there are two hindrances you gotta have; you're Ugly As Sin, and if the Combine ever found out a renegade automaton existed, they'd come after you, pardner (Enemy -2). And then there's the matter of that little explosive device implanted in your noggin. When you're finally taken down, you're going to make a big BOOM! In other words, you'll explode for 6d20 damage with a Burst Radius of 10.
Oh yeah, there's also the matter of the manitou that shares that brain with you. Your hero is an alternate version of a Harrowed when it comes to dealing with Dominion, and animals react badly to a manitou-posessed walkin' tin can. All ridin', animal wranglin', and teamster rolls are made at -2.
By the way, don't expect any Harrowed powers. You're already a walking tank--what more do you want?