Thief of Memories

Chapter 6

Death in the Family

I can’t take this anymore. Does anybody actually take a single fucking moment to consider how somebody else might feel? No, of course they bloody well don’t. These tossers don’t care about me. I’m just their sentient delivery boy. Tabitha gives me enough attention so that I don’t wither away and die, that’s about it really. Don’t even get me started on the rest of them. Elizabeth doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to me save for when she needs somebody to model here ‘newest most fabulous range of gentlemen’s wear.’ A little shred of me regrets growing up and quitting her, and then I remember what a bitch she was to me.

Catherine ‘head so far up my rear my hair should be brown’ Dash. I could write a book on things about that girl that annoys me. She, for one, seems convinced that she’s some kind of second coming. Hell if we could combine her ego and her dick-headedness then use magic to turn it the mix into food nobody on this planet for the next millennia would go hungry ever again.

Then we have Diane. Two words shut up. That is all I want to say to her. Not everybody WANTS to keep on being happy, not for one moment giving time to their less joyful emotions. Can’t she get that into her thick skull? Fiona just rocks my nerves. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure she means well only it’s hard to see that through the blind condescending attitude and total lack of spinal nerves or bones. Finally we rest on ‘good ‘ol Jackie’ of Sweet Apple Acres. More like Sweet Inbred Acres, I don’t think I’ve seen a dimmer collection of rednecks since that time me and Twi’ went further south. It also doesn’t help that they all have apples for their marks and look the fucking same!

I will give Twi’ my respect. After all she has taken care of me for the last fourteen years as well as tutored me in most fields of knowledge. So as far as everyone in this town I know goes; she’s the only one who has so far earned my respect.

Now there’s this Riley kid. He looks and acts far older than he seems. He also happens to be the only person in the whole town who carries both a blade and a fully loaded revolver at all times. Seriously I’ve seen him sleep with those things still strapped to his body. Then there is that amulet

I’ve only seen it once but the chills it gave me were indescribable. It looks like its metal, wood, bone and gemstone all at once like the material can’t decide what it wants to be. Then the shape of it damn it the shape. I remember what it is when I look but whenever it’s not in my line of sight it is everything and nothing.

It’s almost as if the amulet doesn’t want to be remembered.

Something about that thing wants to hide itself away.

I’ve never seen him take it off. He wears it twenty-four seven, more than he keeps his bade by his side. Riley is hiding something. He’s not just any ordinary thief is he? He wants something special. I just have to find out what....

*

Riley rubbed his eyes until they stopped stinging and the blood was cleared away. He cursed slightly as he backed away from Spike’s bedroom door; he was getting worse at it.

Something was starting to interfere with his powers.

After all just then he had attempted to review the memory of Spike and Twilight’s first meeting, only to be greeted with Spike’s most recent thoughts. It was a worry that the little boy was becoming all too inquisitive but Riley didn’t worry about that, he had other issues.

Downstairs Twilight was looking at the newspaper with a deep worried frown. She was reading over another article.

Another gang had turned up dead in Canterlot.

*

The Boy walked calmly through the streets of Canterlot. His cloak billowed softly in the hushed evening breeze as the last of the street’s occupants made their way home. The Boy took a moment to assist an elderly man who was struggling with getting some crates up a flight of stairs. The old man gave him a hearty handshake and thanked him for being such a kind soul. The Boy smiled at the delicious irony of him being called kind, a smile that was taken for thanks by the elderly man who once more gave his thanks. The Boy took no more detours. He stepped quietly towards the ‘Robinson Museum of Natural History’ with hardly a sound. Not even his steady breathing would disturb the quiet dusk air.

Two women were standing out front. Many would write them off as security or just people loitering about because they had nowhere else to go. The Boy knew better. He took a list, stained with a few drops of blood, from his pocket. He ran his finger down the paper until he found ‘The McCarthy Gang.’ He made sure that he was definitely targeting the correct order.

“What goes there?” He called out to the women, both of them took a moment to analyse the source of the noise.

“Nothing my brother for that is our way now and forever.” They both responded. The Boy smiled having just been given an oral signing on the death warrants for everyone inside the museum. For now he tucked the list back into his pocket and reached under his cloak. He removed a loaded pistol with his left hand and checked the cylinder, three bullets left for three skulls. He placed the pistol back into its holster, but kept his hand under his cloak while approaching the front of the building.

The drab grey bricking echoed with the sound of The Boy’s now weighted footfall, somewhere in the distance a cat hissed loudly as it warned off an attacker. The two women in front of the building didn’t give a moment’s notice to the person who had returned their call-sign because they were gullible like that. The Boy stepped between them and, slowly moving his hand, gave a grim smile.

“To ashes you fall.” He whispered.

The blade swiped through the air decapitating the two guards, they hit the floor before their mouths could even move to form the scream that never came. The Boy swung his left hand in a clean arc to test his blade; he was satisfied with its polish. Continuing his walk he entered the museum with the blade still baying for the slaughter of more semi-innocent people. The scene inside was hardly surprising to The Boy at this stage in his quest.

Tables had been set up for people to play cards on and snort Glow-Dust and take other varying narcotics at their leisure. Several areas had been arranged so that party goers and gang members alike could do whatever they so wished, including betting on fights, drinking to excess, wrestling competitions and acts of a sexual nature.

The Boy still found their actions as filthy as when he has started this journey, unclean the lot of them.

It was time to cleanse them.

The Boy continued to walk deeper into the den of depravity without a beat being added to his heart rate. His face was a like a blank canvas and the blood he was prepared to spill would become the paint. The Boy saw it as an extension of their blindness in the face of lesser instincts and heightened depravities that not a soul had seen him yet despite him having nearly reached the centre point of the room. The Boy came to a slow stop so he could observe the room he was in.

It was much like any standard museum atrium, the grand front doors leading to a wide open space that was watched over by the skeletal remains of some sort of old world giant on a podium. The rest of the space had been filled with various items of furniture that would allow for the McCarthy Gang to enjoy their hiring of a public domain to the fullest.

Because that’s what gangsters do nowadays, they hire museums out so they can have drug-fuelled orgies in the skeleton of a Gigaloth and play dice using Wendigo knuckles they painted numbers onto.

Such honourable citizens, as if the world would even care for their passing.

The Boy raised his blade high into the air and, despite the noise, his voice sounded clearly over the ruckus of the atrium and rooms beyond.

“My name is of no importance to you people. Leave now and I will not follow you, you will be free to live your lives on with the knowledge that we may never meet again. Stay here to defend your leaders however and you will die like the rodents you are, exterminated by a force far higher than you in this world.” The Boy took on a strange stance that looked confused and unbalanced. “Choose rodents, face my blade or face your cowardice.”

Muffled rap music played in the distance. Not a word was said, not a muscle was moved unless it was towards a weapon. The Boy closed his eyes solemnly.

“So be it.” He whispered, his eyes burst open to reveal deep orange irises “Prepare yourselves rodents!”

The Boy was fast, blindingly so. Each strike he delivered didn’t even cut that deep but the ferocity and speed in the delivery of them raked flesh away from the skin of his victims. The first five didn’t even have time to blink as he rushed forwards to end their lives. Pulling a rifle from the deceased hands of a half-naked female The Boy spun into the air like a deranged twister firing shots at random that always landed with deadly accuracy. When the volley of shots ended and the weapon was discarded by The Boy over half of the room lay dead, not a single hand had risen to fight back whether it be from fear, stupidity, slow-movement or drunkenness.

The Boy knelt perched on the skull of a Gigaloth as the remaining members of McCarthy present started to move into gear. He gave a bloodthirsty grin and slowly licked a line of red vital fluid from his blade, now was when the real sport began.

He inched his head to the right to allow an off-target handgun round to fly past his face and lodge itself into a nearby painting. The Boy sprung from the skull as rifle fire tore into his last position turning the skull into a dusty mess. The remaining gangsters attempted to get a clear shot on The Boy, only he wasn’t making their job any easier than he needed.

The hyperactive swordsman bounded across the atrium so he could rend two more cattle into bloody scraps as their screams echoed around the slowly emptying atrium. Those who remained tried to escape only to be cut down by the Angel of Death that had descended upon them all. It was over faster than it had started; The Boy checked his pocket-watch.

Twenty-three seconds to eliminate twelve people, not bad in his well practiced opinion.

With blade dripping gore across the formerly well-polished floor The Boy began to trot deeper into the museum so he could find his targets, the McCarthy Sisters.

They were the next beings that needed their life privileges revoked.

For a moment The Boy stumbled as his headaches returned, they were becoming far more frequent now. He shook the pain out of his head and continued to press onwards with his divine task. By now the music in the distance had been silenced and the remaining grunts were no doubt converging towards the entrance hall of the museum. The Boy picked up a ‘discarded’ handgun from a severed hand and checked the clip, eight shots.

Before he had been an elitist only killing the leaders with bullets however the larger, more dangerous gangs called for a change in tactics. The unclean would still be cleansed by holy-revolver rounds but the rest would fall in any way he deemed fitting.

No matter how brutal those means happened to be.

Double doors on the upper level burst open and a group lead by Lindsey McCarthy flooded into the room. The Boy took no time for rest; he simply leapt up to the next level and vaulted the railing. The eight shots quickly became naught from The Boy’s quick and lethal trigger finger. Lindsey’s entire entourage was dead before they hit the ground.

The McCarthy sister turned on a pivot with her scattergun raised the trigger half-pulled. At this range The Boy didn’t have a chance to dodge with his normal athleticism so instead he dove inwards brashly. The pellets roared past his head with but an inch between them turning The Boy’s head into a pulpy mess. He knocked the scattergun aside as to leave Lindsey defenceless. Before she could respond with more violence The Boy gripped her throat with his free hand while sheathing his blade.

Holding the sinner at arm’s length The Boy replaced the sword in his left hand with his revolver, seemingly lacking any acknowledgement to the McCarthy kicking his stomach with what strength she had left to muster.

“My name is not important as you will not live to remember it sinner.” The Boy said monotone as he pressed the barrel of the gun to Lindsey’s forehead. “I am the one who has come to reclaim what many do not deserve, call me a killer if you must but my goal remains righteous.” The hammer began to click backwards as The Boy’s thumb moved it slowly. “I am the Angel of Death, a messenger from hell itself; I will revoke life from all who do not deserve it.” The hammer finished its journey backwards and remained there for a brief but powerful time.

“Now pass from this world with grace, sinner.”

The hammer thundered forwards and the revolver screeched sending out a plume of heat and a single divine round destined to reduce Lindsey McCarthy’s face to nothingness. Bone, cartilage and blood painted the walls a brand new colour of sin as the smoking barrel cooled a small distance away from the warped husk that was once a fairly pretty face.

The Boy dropped the corpse and continued his mission.

*

Riley sat at Twilight’s side for a good ten minutes trying to consol her. The young lady was strangely distraught at the news she had been reading prior to Riley’s venture downstairs. Her main worries were that a killer was on the loose and he or she showed no signs of being caught easily, mainly because their actions were totally unpredictable. Riley laughed these claims off and made one thing clear to Twilight.

It was impossible that it was a single person doing these things, after all how would one man be able to wreak such havoc?

*

The Boy sprinted through the waterfall on bullets, each projectile missing him just so that it gave the illusion he was moving at lightning speeds. While it was true that he was exceptionally fast, it was mostly due to The Boy’s intelligence that he was unscathed. A simple flick of the head, a slight alteration of how bent his knees were. That was all it took to avoid most of the bullets coming towards him.

Leading the firing squad was the second of the McCarthy’s, Susan McCarthy.

She was clutching a rifle the size of a person while trying to hit The Boy making fast pace towards her position. She honed her senses and took aim, pulled the trigger and watched.

The Boy was hit.

The bullet shredded along his left arm and a spray of blood danced out of his veins as a clear sign he was indeed capable of being hit despite his extreme skill.

That meant this demon of a man was killable.

This almost phantom shred of information imbued the firing squad with new hope so they doubled their efforts to kill the attacker. Alas it was in vain. The Boy had in turn tripled his efforts to make it through the deluge of metal shards trying to slay him.

Hurdling over a display case The Boy launched himself off of the shoulder of a man reloading his firearm, revolver in hand. Putting on a dextrous display of daredevil mid-air spirals and spins The Boy took aim at the skull of Susan McCarthy and quickly recited the base part of his mantra.

“Pass from this world with grace, sinner.”

The revolver fired its divine payload directly through the head of the second McCarthy sister, her death cry something between an overconfident sneer and a stutter of disbelief at what her assailant had done. Switching between his revolver and sword with fine-tuned skill The Boy fell back to the ground driving his blade through the eye of an unlucky gangster.

The room this had all unfolded inside had formerly been a room celebrating the burial rites and rituals of an ancient people, after this event it had a new, rather fitting purpose to fulfil.

It was to become the tomb for this band of the McCarthy gang to reside within.

*

Twilight remained unconvinced at Riley’s reasoning. He was simply preaching about how they were lucky the people were dying at the hands of maybe more than a single man. What use was the number when innocent lives were at risk?

Once more the cloaked boy attempted to calm the panicked Unicorn female with something or the other. His argument this time was that the victims would hopefully have died with little pain or suffering, this was based on the wounds many sustained having been instantly fatal.

It was a strange thing to admit to but Twilight had to agree.

At the very least nobody had suffered for very long.

*

The Boy clucked his tongue impatiently as he twisted the blade deeper into the shoulder of his captive.

“Simply tell me where I can find Mary McCarthy and this will all be over.” He sighed in boredom.

“M-Monster! Evil and vile demon of a man!” The wreck beneath The Boy squealed as his body was racked with pain.

“That really didn't answer my question. Where is McCarthy you worm?”

“I am here monster!”

The Boy turned his head, ignoring the whimpering captive underneath him. Standing proudly in the east exit was Mary McCarthy, flanked by her two most loyal bodyguards the Andersons. The Andersons were humongous sacks of muscle and bones. They were a classic case of lacking brains but making up for it with more brawn than a pissed-off troll.

“You must be the one who killed all of my men.” Mary snarled in disgust.

The Boy stood up, slashing the crying man's neck open. “That would be me, the name is not important but I assure you I am here to kill you.”

“Such arrogance in the face of a superior force; I must admit I like you somewhat Mr Killer. Now would you kindly explain why you saw it as clever to kill my sisters?”

“They needed to die, as do you.”

Mary laughed hollowly. “Oh how the arrogant fall the quickest. Anderson brothers, kill him as painfully as you wish.” Mary turned around and walked away from The Boy as the hulking Anderson brothers lumbered their way towards him. The Boy rolled his eyes at just how thick-headed some people could be.

The first Anderson brother lunged pitifully in The Boy's direction, losing his head in the process. The second however showed a remarkable presence of skill. As The Boy hacked at his knee the Anderson jumped up and kicked out, knocking The Boy backwards with a bleeding nose. Trying to recover from that hit was like trying to keep chocolate solid in lava, impossible. Anderson grabbed his quarry by the throat and slammed it into the wall multiple times before slinging it across the room into another display. The Boy's blade skittered across the room, far out of reach to its owner.

The Boy got drunkenly to his feet with hands grabbed whatever felt stable enough to support him.  He seized a pole of some sorts only to have it give way and send him tumbling back to the ground. The Anderson lumbered over to his prey without a single shred of confidence becoming larger than needed; this was a fight that needed to be treated with delicate care. A lesson his now dead brother had failed to learn for the last time. He struck The Boy across the back with a powerful jab as the still dazed fighter tried to regain some sense. The Anderson gripped The Boy by the neck, lifted him into the air and began to tighten his hold.

The Boy started to gasp for air as his throat constricted under the intense pressure of the Anderson's grip. He couldn't give in, not after all of this.

The pole he had fallen on.

It was still clutched firmly in his hand.

Bringing his arm back with what energy remained in his dying body The Boy took unknowing aim and thrust the pole home. Instantly the Anderson roared in pain and released his grip from around The Boy's neck. As The Boy hit the floor with his lungs flooding themselves in delicious air the Anderson stumbled away trying to remove the thing stuck in his side. Threatening to be violently sick The Boy's body was on the verge of giving in after the brutal assault from the Anderson brother. The thick haze cleared from the eyes of the worse off combatant so he could take a look at the flailing Anderson.

The pole had been a ceremonial spear that had been on display in the case he had been thrown into. The Boy thanked all the stars in the sky for the luck he had been granted and groggily got to his feet. The spear was jammed into the Anderson's body just underneath the ribcage, a few more inches and it would puncture the heart.

The Boy had has method primed and ready.

Starting up a half-dead sprint The Boy crossed the distance between him and the Anderson brother. Reeling his foot far back for maximum effect; he punted what was left visible of the spear. The shaft ripped out of the neck of the Anderson shifting his cries of pain into garbled grunts that sloshed blood around his insides at every syllable. The hulking man remained in agonised life for another ten seconds before his body shut down and he fell like a great tree felled by the tiny lumberjack. The Boy limped across the room to where his sword laid, glinting 'welcome back master' to its beaten owner.

Taking his blade in hand The Boy willed his body onwards to the final stage of tonight's holy mission.

One shot remained to be fired.

Following the corridor that Mary McCarthy had walked down The Boy took some time to assess the damage. A reflective enough display case showed clear bruising around his neck, his left arm had been bleeding steadily since Susan had landed a shot on it and he had broken at least two ribs.

It was lucky he was still alive.

He had become sloppy, it had been far too long since he had flexed his talents like this and the lack of practice was starting to show. He needed to get out more. If only he has no obstructions outside of work it would be all too easy.

He eventually stumbled his way to the end of the corridor to a door marked 'manager'. He kicked the wooden barrier open to reveal Mary McCarthy waiting calmly behind the manager's desk with a revolver placed on the table.

“I presume the Anderson brothers failed in their task?” She asked.

“Correct.” The Boy responded.

“So they are dead?”

“Correct.”

Mary sighed solemnly to herself and gestured at the seat opposite her. The Boy carefully sat down.

“I know why you are here my boy.” She whispered. “You are the one who has been killing so many others like me.”

“You are correct.”

“Why do you do what you do?”

The Boy took a moment to think about this. “It is my purpose in life. I am alive to hunt those who do not deserve life themselves and revoke the privilege they have.”

“Who are you to say whether or not a person lives or dies? Is that not up to a higher force?”

“I am the higher force you speak of Ms McCarthy. I am the Angel of Death. I am here to revoke your life from you.”

Mary McCarthy looked down at the table, reaching out for her revolver.

The Boy reached for his.

They both took aim as quickly as they could.

Two shots, two hits, one more death in the family caused by the Angel of Death known simply as The Boy.

The Boy sat calmly opposite the faceless form of Mary McCarthy with his revolver smoking. He was unsure of what to do now, something about the last actions of that woman had shaken him. He pawed the burnt hole in his shoulder where Mary's last fired shot had gone and arose from the seat.

He had to be elsewhere come sunrise.