Sho nuff bloodbath at fuckyall saloon! (2591 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 1.84 on 16 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Barnymeinhoff <barnymeinhoff.at.gmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-09-01 11:42:18 EDT
Sho nuff bloodbath at fuckyall saloon!
Sheriff Lautrec shifted his weight and lent back causing the wooden chair to creek alarmingly under his weight.
Despite his diminutive stature he was still heavy set and the lack of any recent action had enabled him to spend some quality time at the local krispy crème loading up on his favourite butter fucks and sugar daisy chains.
It had been about ten months since he had brought the bandit Merit Oppenheim to justice, ten months since he had had cause to ride a horse or pull his gun. Ten months since he had had to reach for a canvas and knock out one of his trademark paintings depicting Parisian nightlife in the eighteen nineties.
Slowly getting to his feet he waddled to the bar for a refill, He knew he was getting melancholy due to the drink but he was also aware that there was some truth in his self critique,
I'm short, I'm Drunk and I'm fat. He began to mutter this mantra to himself as he went back to his chair. All the while the watchful eye's of the saloons other patrons nervously observed his progress, there was little else in the west as potentially dangerous as a drunk French impressionist.
One pair of eyes in particular watched the progress of Toulouse as he walked from the bar. Edvard Munch had been in the saloon since the afternoon of the previous day, Watching and waiting for Lautrec to appear.
When the sheriff had finally pushed his way through the swing doors two hours ago Munch had almost lost his nerve and left straight away.
But to do that he would have had to walk past Lautrec and even in his disguise the sheriff would have recognised him. And so Munch waited and hoped that the rest of the gang would trust his judgement and wait as well.
Two weeks ago in their Larido hideout the plan had seemed so simple.
Munch, who had drawn the short straw would position himself in the bar with his sawn off shot gun and give Lautrec both barrels in the back of the head when he was to drunk to defend himself, it was by no means the honourable way of avenging the hanging of Oppenheim but Lautrec was to dangerous to risk facing outright and Hursts plan to cut Toulouse in half and suspend him in formaldehyde would have cost them valuable getaway time.
Across the road in Constables hardware store the rest of the gang were getting restless.
It was only a matter of time before someone noticed the store had been closed for two days and if anyone happened to ride by old man Constables homestead they would have found him splayed out in the yard where they left him deader than Jean-Paul Marat.
With the exception of Munch who was in the saloon and Turner who had died the week before when his horse had reared up after being scared by a rattler the entire Oppenheim hole in the wall gang was there.
Damien Hurst and Tracy Emine inseparable as always were sat by the window watching the saloon for signs of trouble.
The Chapman brothers squated near the back of the shop trying to explain the rules of shithead to Gustav Klimt who's mind was elsewhere.
Klimt had no idea why he was there. To start with he had been comforted by the security the gang provided but he had been making a lot of money recently selling prints to first year college students and was starting to think the risks of banditry were really not worth the hassle.
Duchamp sat behind the counter listening to the mutterings of the gang and slowly loading the spare clips for his twin Browning nine mils.
Emine was nervous. There was something horribly familiar about one of the horses tied up outside the saloon. Suddenly it hit her
"Renoir!" she shouted, Just then a shot rang out from over the road.
Munch swayed on his feet and cast about the room for the source of his pain.
He had just been making his way up to where Lautrec was sitting, he had slowly pulled his shotgun out from its hiding place in his sleeve when the shot had sounded.
He felt a hot pain in his neck just behind his left ear. Raising his hand he found a rough hole there and blood was starting to pump freely from the wound in steadily stronger bursts.
The bullet which had been fired from above had smashed down through his neck tearing his vocal chords and ripping through his right lung before exiting his body.
Munch was aware of the patrons of the bar cowering on the floor beneath their tables and he heard a low chuckle from Lautrec. It had been a trap all along.
He turned and looked up, searching the balcony for his hidden assailant. He found himself staring down the barrel of Renoir's Winchester rifle.
He was starting to choke on blood and mucus as he turned again to face the dread cripple Lautrec, He started to raise his shotgun and Tolouse shot him again through his left eye.
Munch's body dropped to its knees before toppling forward and spilling his brains out all over the floor. He lay there twitching and gargling as his bladder let go and the bar began to fill with the acrid stench of piss.
Toulose prodded what was left of Munch's face as Renoir came down the stairs to stand beside him.
Although he had been widely regarded as a merciless pistalaro in his time they both knew that Munch would have neither the balls or the brains to attempt an assassination on his own and subsequently the rest of the gang would not be that far behind.
Renoir's eyes looked down at Lautrecs tiny legs, he saw that he was standing in Munches piss and began to laugh just as the world exploded into flames and shattered glass.
The sound of the gunshot from Renoirs Winchester had been unmistakable and if he had fired first the gang knew that Munch was dead. They also knew that they had to move fast or they would also be dead. In all likelihood they already were. Renoir was a bloodthirsty bastard and never failed to get his man.
Emine had been the first through the door but was still struggling with her M60 when Marcell Duchamp had raised his Colt M203 and punted a 40mm Grenade through the saloons swing door.
The resulting thud and gout of flame had sent glass and wood splinters flying in all directions. Klimt was hit in the mouth by a chunk of the bar as he stepped into the street and was lifted off his feet and back into the hardware store by the force of the impact.
After the explosion there was silence, After the silence came the screams.
Lautrec was the first through the door, his twin IMI micro Uzi's spitting death. Dinos Chapman caught a slug in his face blowing his teeth and upper jaw out through the back of his head before Emins M60 turned Lautrecs torso into mince and cut him in half.
The gang didn't have time to revel in this minor victory, Just as the top hatted totty painter fell to the ground in bits Renoir used the distraction to loose off three shots from out of the shattered window, All found their mark.
Emin turned and saw the top of Damians head lift up like a flip top bin, At the same time she felt as though a horse had kicked her in the gut. She hit the deck and lay there scrabbling at the hole in her stomach and trying to keep her guts from spilling out as she slipped out of consciousness.
The third shot from Renoirs Gun had shattered Jake Chapmans right elbow and he fell behind a barrel bellowing in agony. Duchamp smiled and raised his grenade launcher for a second time, Renoir had been lucky once, it wouldn't happen again. Just as he was about to pull the trigger the launcher went spinning from his hand and three of his fingers went with it.
Duchamp snarled and looked up the street. There on the most gaudy looking white horse he had ever seen was Jeff Koons. It was the last thing he ever saw.
Renoir had walked out of the saloon and across the street. He buried his hunting axe in Duchamps head,
"Lights out motherfucker!" he roared as Duchamps blood and snot gouted out over his feet.
Back in the bar Dali got slowly to his feet, he was in a bad way and knew he didn't have long to go. There was blood in his throat and he knew that some of the shrapnel from the explosion had gone through is lungs. He was drowning on his own blood.
Dali had been following Renoir for six months back and forth across the territories always arriving just to late.
Renoir had shot and killed Dali's friend Luis Brunuel after they had stolen Renoir's piano for the dwarf monk piano drag in Un Chien Andalou.
The film was doing well in all the picture houses but Dali wasn't going to rest until either Renoir or he was in the ground.
He had lost his gun in the explosion. He walked over to what was left of Munch and pried the double barrel out of his dead hands. Only one cartridge was left, he would have to make it count.
"Looks like I got here just in time." Said Koons still sat in the saddle of his horse.
"I could have handled it." Snorted Renoir. He was injured in the initial blast and here was steadily growing patch of read spreading out over his smock,
he pulled off his beret and dabbed at the injury, hearing a cough he turned as his head evaporated into a red mist.
Dali dropped the empty gun in the street and sat down hard on the dusty floor.
"Motherfucker!" screamed Koons as his Remington kicked and Dali slumped over on his side.
Koons started to put his rifle back in its holster when Klimt burst out of the door of the hardware store.
Klimt still had a large piece of wood sticking out of his face and judging by all the blood it was going to take more than a dab of tcp and a plaster to get him back to producing calenders and postcards.
Koons didn't have a chance, Klimt's 357 Python boomed out and Koons was lifted off his horse and straight to hell.
Klimt sat down on the steps of the shop. He was breathing harder now and was starting to see spots, he laughed and watched as a red mist spurted from out of his mouth and nose, then he dropped his head and died.
Jackson Pollock stepped out from behind the remains of his bar and observed the scene of devastation that lay before him.
This was the final fucking straw. He hadn't made it as a portrait artist and had put the remainder of his inheritance into this bar only to have some french cunt and his euro cronies blow it the fuck up.
"Shit!"
he stopped and looked down, he was standing in the brains of Edvard Munch.
There was something about the array of colours and their random distribution on the floor.
Pollock smiled and went to the cellar to fetch a canvas.
The End.
User Reviews
Submitted by swimmingbirdblue (user info) at 2007-01-23 17:59:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Splendiferous. Needs more reviews.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2005-11-11 06:15:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Barny. You have a gift.
Submitted by moopadoopdoop (user info) at 2005-09-28 15:44:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
damn right
Submitted by ozzy (user info) at 2005-09-07 08:46:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Deserves more reviews, but.......
to and too are 2 totally seperate words! Easy mistake to make without doing a really thorough proofread.
This was a good story though. Well done.
Submitted by Merlina (user info) at 2005-09-02 07:52:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2005-09-02 03:42:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2005-09-02 03:21:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Talk about an underreviewed gem.
Submitted by Salvation_Jane (user info) at 2005-09-01 14:40:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
you earned the +2 before I even read the post. Yay for sho nuff!
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-09-01 14:37:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Teephphah (user info) at 2005-09-01 13:40:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
On second thought: B@W.
Submitted by Teephphah (user info) at 2005-09-01 13:13:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Realistic surrealism?
Submitted by kimmy02721 (user info) at 2005-09-01 12:55:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
lovely
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2005-09-01 12:40:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2005-09-01 12:29:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
graphic
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2005-09-01 12:26:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Tanfastic!!!!
Submitted by Barnymeinhoff (user info) at 2005-09-01 12:18:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
you are a god.