Bloody Pulp: Assassin of the Strange and Unusual

By G.R.V. Stone

Welcome to Terra Ferna, where oceanic travel is against the law, an elfin king rules with an iron fist, and the human race is all but extinct. Or so it was believed. The dark wizard Archimedes has managed to locate a human female and he wants her for his own. Enter the monstrous assassin, Pulp who thought his days of bounty hunting were over, but the wizard’s offer is just too good to pass up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.R.V. Stone
• Release date: Aug 22, 2010

G.R.V. Stone

G.R.V. Stone is an elusive and secluded author that puts a limitless value on his privacy. Having his face horribly disfigured in an aerobics incident involving Richard Simmons, a bottle of Jack and a half smoked pack of Winstons, the author chooses instead to use any number of scarecrow photos as his public face.

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Bloody Pulp

Assassin of the Strange and Unusual

By

G.R.V. Stone

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 G.R.V. Stone. All rights reserved

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1

An Easy Mark

There was only one thing on Pulp’s mind.

The mark.

The desert sun beat down on him like a slave master’s angered stare, making him feel tired and thirsty. He wasn’t allergic to the sun by any stretch. Not like the bloodsuckers. But he sure as hell didn’t care to be out in it. Especially in heat like this. It left the big frame of the assassin hunched over in the saddle of the Clydesdale as the steed slowly stepped its way forward over the dry, rocky ground.

The brim of his hat was wide, torn, and chewed but it went far in covering the sensitive skin on his face and head from the ultraviolet rays of the sun. The heavy trench coat and padded gloves hid the rest. It all made things hotter than hell, but Pulp looked past all that. He looked ahead to the mark.

Travera Sol was just on the horizon now. In all of Terra Ferna it was the last town with legalized gambling and prostitution. This made it a town Pulp was often led to by some fuck stick or another. Today’s fuck stick was at Celia’s Tavern near the northern edge of town.

Horseshoes scuffed and scraped along the dry deadpan creating a dull crunching sound that reminded Pulp of the skulls in the streets of Gelbrick, crushed under the heavy treads of the Nexterian Army transports. One of a million memories he would gladly trade for one scrap of his early life. A life that he only sees in occasional flashes, as if he were trying to grasp the images of some long forgotten dream. A child’s fantasy that his adult mind could no longer comprehend.

Yet still his thoughts were on the mark.

Travera Sol wasn’t the small, two street, one horse shithole that was nearly every other town in the land. Nor was it a grand kingdom like Nexteria in the north or Hallprin in the west. No, Travera Sol was a happy medium. Too big to be considered a town and too small to be called a city. It was really just a vacation spot. A tourist attraction. A place to unwind, lay down some bets, and get some pussy.

He crossed the threshold into the town while the guardsmen at the front gate did their best to avoid making eye contact with him. The clay walls of the town’s buildings rose up around him with intricately carved trim around their edges. It was architecture that was by now considered ancient, a lost art form beaten to death by the modern spires of the big cities. Along the streets at regular intervals there grew tall palm trees that added to the towns resort feel.

When Pulp had gotten half way into town, he dismounted the horse and handed the reigns over to a stable hand.

She sure is a beautiful creature, mister, the man said. Pulp turned and looked at him, no emotion apparent on his face. The man appeared to be a troll, though he was smaller than the ones Pulp had come across in his travels. What’s her name? The man continued.

The assassin glanced back at the horse for a second, then looked at the stable hand and said in a dry raspy voice; Carl.

With that, Pulp turned and began walking down the wooden planks along the main street market allowing himself a slight chuckle, knowing full well the troll was now examining the horse’s genitals.

The streets were always crowded here. It didn’t make much difference. No matter where Pulp went he was recognized by everyone around him. Most of the time. At some point in his twelve year career (a path he had chosen after five years of bounty hunting) he had become known as The Assassin of the Strange and Unusual, though at this point, nearly every creature on this floating rock was strange and unusual. He couldn’t remember the last time he executed a hit on a regular human. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if there were any of those left in the world. None that hadn’t been mutated anyway. They had been declared extinct for nearly a decade now. His father may have been human. Though he couldn’t remember much about him-

(…bring him down! Quickly! Quickly!)

-it seemed like that much was true. All he had were the flashes, really, and those only came sporadically. Often when he least expected them.

He crossed the dusty road and climbed the stairs to Celia’s tavern. After one quick look up and down the street, he pushed the double swinging doors open and walked inside.

Pulp sniffed at the air. Though there were only two holes and a jagged protrusion of bone where his nose had once been, the smell of stale ale and old peanut shells was unmistakable. He did love the atmosphere of a good tavern.

The raging piano in the corner fell silent when Pulp walked in. At eight feet tall, people took notice when he came into a room. Add to that the reputation that almost always preceded him and the result was a tavern full of nervous onlookers.

He ignored the stares and casually walked over to the bar.

Whisky, he growled to the bartender. The balding goblin slid the shot glass and the bottle in front of the assassin. Pulp poured the drink and slurped it down. The liquid was warm along his throat and into his belly.

With some hesitation, the piano player got the music going again and it wasn’t long before the tempo wound up to its former hectic speed. The crowd slowly went back to their drinks and revelry and Pulp sat at the bar and enjoyed his whisky.

Despite all of this, the assassin had no delusions that the patrons of the tavern were at ease with his presence there. On the contrary, all of them merely understood that the fray would not begin until Pulp was ready for it to begin.

Ten minutes later, a door on the upstairs landing swung open and Pulp’s non-existent nose picked up the swirl of sex that floated down from the room. A shrill cry of laughter poured from one of the whores inside. This was followed by a jovial voice that spoke up above the crowd noise below.

Back to the poker game my friends, said the young elf. My carrot has been dipped and I’m ready for another- the elf stopped half way down the stairs when his eyes fell upon Pulp, who was now leaning on the bar and staring up at his mark.

What the hell are you doing here? the elf asked.

Pulp grinned. What do you think, fuck stick?

Once again the tavern fell silent. The patrons that wanted no part of the fight swiftly abandoned their chairs and cleared out of the way. This made things that much easier for Pulp. Now, his enemies were out in the open and standing in front of him. All except the one at the end of the bar that had the false notion he had managed to go unnoticed by the assassin.

Pulp still stood, leaning casually against the bar. The rag tag collection of elves and mutated humans in front of him were tensed up and ready to defend a man that had befriended them. Made them feel special. Pulp didn’t care. The assholes were minor inconveniences that were set to be mowed down so that he could take care of the fuck stick. The mark. His mark.

Someone in the corner sneezed and that was all it took for one of the assholes to get jumpy. A gun came up to bare on the assassin and in a wave of blurred motion Pulp’s hands came up holding the heavy .50 caliber revolvers that hung loosely at his sides. Guns that were too massive for average sized hands to handle.

The first blast hit a mutant in the gut, sending him hurdling over a table with his innards painting the floor and the wall. The next shot tore the head off of an elf, sending bloody brain matter over his friends in a shower of gore.

His mark was busy moving up the stairs in an effort to escape while his friends kept the assassin occupied. Pulp wasn’t so easily evaded. He sent a searing slug in the elf’s direction and it buried itself in his hamstring, obliterating his kneecap upon exit. The mark fell, wailing in pain and trying desperately to keep his lower leg from falling off completely.

The orc from the bar was on the move. Pulp took out another elf in front of him that was pulling a little Derringer out. Then he turned toward the orc (who had a large knife held up over his head) and jammed the barrel of the left hand revolver in his throat. He pulled the trigger. The orc’s jugular disintegrated and he fell clutching at the fountain of blood that quickly formed a large puddle on the tavern floor.

With all of the henchmen dead, Pulp slipped the guns back in the holsters on his thighs. As he climbed the steps, his spurs were the only sound heard in the quiet saloon, like the faint jingle of The Reaper’s bells.

The elf just lied there, bleeding on the landing of the stairs.

Pulp pulled the ax that was strapped to his back. Looking into the elf’s face he said; It’s time to pay the piper, fuck stick. He raised the ax high and brought it down on the marks neck.

2

The Wizard’s Proposition

The tavern was now abandoned. No surprise there. Pulp had managed to clear out a few of them in his time. He walked out of the batwing doors and over to the feed bag that hung from the horse trough. With one gloved hand he ripped the bag away from its post, held it open and shoved the elf’s head inside. Before he could start walking back to his horse he heard the voice.

You do know who I am, don’t you?

Pulp opened the bag and peered in at the head. Yeah, I know who you are, he growled. Now shut up.

This is unacceptable, the elf head shouted. Unacceptable! Just wait until my father hears about this he’ll-

The rest was turned into muffled jabbering as the assassin closed the bag and sealed it with a rawhide string. All the way back down the street the decapitated head continued to bitch and moan from within the bag. Pulp could feel his aggravation threatening to boil over.

The stable hand must have seen Pulp coming; he had the horse out with the saddle fastened. Pulp flipped the troll a couple of one gil coins and slung the blabbering head over the horses back, fastening the bag around the pommel.

Hey, mister, the troll said with a playful grin. Don’t you even know the gender of your horse?

Pulp climbed up in the saddle and looked down at the troll. No, I never bothered to look.

The troll seemed confused by this. Why not?

I respect its privacy, Pulp grumbled. I wouldn’t want anybody staring and poking around at my giblets. Would you?

The troll thought about it a moment, then said; No, I don’t suppose I would.

Yep, Pulp agreed. He dug the spurs into the horse’s sides and rode out of Travera Sol, back into the maw of the steaming desert.

Few things ever got under Pulp’s skin, but the incessant nagging of the elf head was quickly setting his nerves on edge. As the sun dropped behind the Salation Mountains in the east, the temperature in the desert swiftly fell with it and the assassin decided it was time for a rest.

There was a cluster of yellow cactus trees growing near what would be the very center of the desert if one were to locate it on a map. Pulp weaved the big horse in between the trees and came to a stop near one of the larger ones. Tying the reigns to one low hung branch, he pulled the feed bag off of the saddle and peered inside. The elf stared back with a defiant look on his face.

I’ll let you out for some air if you can promise to calm down, Pulp offered.

Agreed, the head reluctantly replied.

Pulp pulled the head out and propped it up on a set of blankets he pulled from his supplies. Then, going back to the neatly packed supplies, he pulled a small round pan and the ax that had removed the elf’s head from his body.

What are you doing? the elf said nervously when he caught sight of the ax.

Calm down, Pulp said. Is there really much more damage I could do to you?

The elf didn’t reply and Pulp went about his task. The ax came down with a thunk on the base of a small cactus plant. Water spilled out and into the plate and Pulp carried it over to his horse and sat it down. The horse lapped it up enjoyably.

With that done, the assassin grabbed his travel bag and bed roll and leaned them against a large rock. He then took off his hat, gloves, coat and shirt, and let the cool air hug him closely like the embrace a child so longs for after reuniting with its parent. He sat down and rubbed his hands across the thick scars that wrapped around his arms and the rest of his body. A constant reminder of another lifetime. Of days he had long forgotten and may never remember again. It felt good to be out of the stuffy clothes.

Uhg, said the elf. You are positively revolting. Where does a creature like you come from?

There are no other creatures like me, so I wouldn’t know.

He pulled a piece of dried meat from his travel bag, then leaned back against the bed roll and bit into it. An angry howl cut through the night. Somewhere in the distance, a growler wolf was in the mood for a fight. Pulp finished the meat and laid his head on the rock, placing his hat over his face.

What are you doing? the elf asked.

Pulp released an aggravated sigh. What does it look like I’m doing? he asked without removing the hat.

There are dangerous night creatures in the desert.

Don’t worry about them, Pulp insured. They won’t mess with me. They know better than that.

Aren’t you even going to make a fire? the elf asked exasperated. It’s freezing out here.

I don’t like fire.

What do you like?

Pulp smile under his hat. I like silence.

There was a pause. Then, the elf said Real funny. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. I know you’ve worked for my father before. So make jokes while you still can. When he hears about what you’ve done he’s going to- the elf stopped abruptly when Pulp sat up to look at him.

Who do you think hired me for this job, fuck stick? the assassin asked.

Even in the dark, Pulp could see the look that washed over the elf’s face. An excruciating twist of hurt and horrified realization.

The way you been running around and acting out Pulp said without sympathy. It makes him look bad in the public view. If you know your father the way I do, you had to have seen this coming.

The elf said nothing.

Pulp laid back on the ground and replaced the hat on his face.

The dawning sun colored the early morning sky a deep hue of purple. Pulp had been up for about an hour and, with the elf’s head safely fastened to the saddle once again, the assassin led the big horse across the desert wastes.

Thirty minutes later, the heat was beginning to crawl back up to its daylight sizzle and Pulp could no longer avoid putting on his heavy coat and gloves. When the sun was up, he figured the horse had had plenty of rest and he picked up the pace. He wanted to get across the barren land as quickly as possible.

Thankfully, the elf had remained quiet since learning of his father’s betrayal. Instead of running his mouth he had decided to pout and wallow in his misfortune. That was just fine with Pulp, as long as he kept his trap shut.

Soon, Pulp could see the towering spires of Nexteria approaching on the horizon. The kingdom was the reigning power in the land. After its invasion and subsequent total destruction of Gelbrick in the south, the other kingdoms, provinces, and towns quickly fell in line behind the elfin king. For the most part, Nextaria was an alright place, a bastion for high technology where a wide variety of races and species co-existed in relative harmony. Though, it was far too hot for