[hr][hr][center][h1][color=dimgray][b]The Scythe Descends[/b][/color][/h1][/center][hr][hr]

[center][u]Deadlight Distrct, Exterior, 4 a.m.[/u][/center]

	A moderately sized recreational vehicle in dire need of fresh paint and body work stops in the middle of the street. No traffic exists to serve as witness the rolling shitbox come to a sputtering stop, likewise no traffic exists to be held up by the vehicular roadblock. From inside, an argument rages in muffled, indistinct voices. The RV rocks back and forth a few times and an interior light clicks on simultaneously with the mechanical whirring of a small exhaust fan, the light visible only from a single, small window near the rear of the vehicle. The first clear words can be heard from outside, and though barely heard, the intonation is clear. 

	"Well. Gawd. [i]DAMNIT[/i]!" 

	The words were shout-slurred in a quagmire of a southern drawl, half annoyance and half alarm. All at once, the door to the recreational vehicle exploded open, slamming on the side of the RV and rebounding back to smack the man in egress, a hairy, beer-gutted individual sporting a pair of boxer shorts and flip-flops, tank tee and camouflage trucker's hat. Everything about this man seemed to scream, "Pass Me Another Beer". From the manner in which he descends the short two steps from his mobile fortress, it can be assumed that someone already had, and some several times. Wobbling a bit as he walked, the foul-seeming person made his way to the side of the RV and began pulling out a length of wide, compressible tubing. 

	The odious man extended the tubing to the side of the road, wherein a storm drain access point cleft the ground underneath the sidewalk. It seemed the perfect spot to unload his unloadables, thanks to a functional automatic pump and a lack of understanding concerning dumping laws. The pump whirred and sputtered to life, and soon, a torrent of chunky brown semi-liquids began oozing underneath the streets of Justice, California. 

	A similar accent, though with more feminine notes, sounded from the open doorway, [i]"Now, what in Sam Hill're you doin' out there, Sugarnuts? Y'all know that there's eee-legal, riiiiiight?"[/i] She was every bit the stereotype; big hair defiled by a poor peroxide job, smoking unfiltered cigarettes and either five months pregnant or just very comfortable with herself in sweatpants and a pink, midriff shirt.

	He spoke. Check that, he bellowed back, [b]"You shut yer [i]hole[/i], Boobalicious! Get back in th' ARRR VEE 'fore someone sees yer fat ass!"[/b]

		[i]"But, Randy..."[/i]

	[b]"I sed plug yer [i]whore mouth[/i] and shut th' fuckin' door!"[/b]

		[i]"But, Randy?"[/i]

	[b]"SHITTER'S FULL! Okay, hon? Th' SHITTER IS FULL! Now EVERYBODY knows! The Shitter's full an' I gotta blast a dook, like NOW. You give me m'space, woman!"[/b]

		[i]"Well, goddamnit..."[/i]

	The door to the RV shut, Sugarnuts on the outside, finishing up the dumping of some of his best handiwork, Boobalicious (Slavic name, maybe?) considering spiking his whiskey with drain cleaner. Beneath the street, perilous vapors started to accumulate...

[center][u]Deadlight District, Exterior, Present[/u][/center]

	The sushi didn't quite set right with Bartholomew. Something [i]had[/i] to have been off, considering the steadily growing cramps in his abdomen and the sudden feeling that things may begin to vacate, one direction or the other. Yeah, definitely the sushi. Perhaps the proprietor shouldn't have used his family's ancient and secretive recipe for Aged Mayonnaise in the dipping sauces. Perhaps he shouldn't have covered up the flavor of obviously suspect Yellowtail with lemon juice and diluted window cleaner. Maybe it shouldn't have been hot-held in the same rotary oven he kept his leftover haggis from the last time the Renaissance Faire blew through town, or maybe he should have washed it at some time over the course of the last three years rather than splattering the inside with ranch dressing and letting the neighborhood dogs lick it shiny-ish. It could have been any number of things. But suffice it to say, he suddenly didn't feel very well. 

	The cat sure as hell didn't. Since ingesting the scrap of tuna, kitty had been feeling none-too-well, himself. Point of fact, Lucky's faster metabolism allowed him to experience every color of the foodbourne illness spectrum, and he was giving serious consideration to [i]arfgarbling[/i] right on the spot. He paused to do precisely that, neck reflexively bobbing up and down in preparation of the epic [i]ralphsplatter[/i] to come. Bart - not doing much better. 

	[i]Meanwhile...[/i]

	Just up the road, there was a particularly uninteresting fellow by the name of Mr. Perkins, an average, non-descript motorist. Mr. Perkins, as his description suggested, was indeed particularly uninteresting, but his circumstances in that moment were not. Much as a single moose has no idea what role it plays in the ecosystem of the Canadian Rockies, he was fully unaware of what would transpire as he carefully drove his vehicle closer to our plucky protagonist, Bartholomew, his distressed and vomiting cat, Lucky, and multiple gallons of obscured human waste in a storm sewer. 

	Another vehicle was passing by the scene, also oblivious to the Rube Goldberg situation developing, was just finishing off a smooth, refreshing Llama cigarette, and thought to flick the glowing, orange-red butt out into the street. He had just engaged his power window, one button access to a more ventilated car, and aimed solidly for the nearby sewer grate as he passed by. In hindsight, he probably should have just used an empty energy drink can. 

	The flash of blue and yellow flame could be seen easily by all parties nearby, halting business, stopping pedestrians in the middle of the crosswalks, and even causing a veteran meter maid to pause her ticket-writing and let out a lingering, "Daaaaaaaayum". Manhole covers from all around took to a spinning coin style liftoff, initiating with a series of hollow popping sounds and roaring columns of fecal fire. But it didn't stop there. The first metallic clang sounded like a funeral bell as a manhole cover slammed earthward, showering the area with sparks and tiny bits of blacktop. Poor Mr. Perkins tried like mad to pilot his airport-rented vehicle away from the series of falling steel disks of unimaginable discomfort, jerking the wheel this way and that, to-ing and fro-ing, weaving up onto the sidewalk to avoid getting lobotomized and/or crushed by the physical aftereffects of the impromptu shitfire (or as the Germans call it, "scheißfeuer"). His last wild attempt pointed him squarely in the direction of [i]Bart[/i]. 

	But dear readers, do not be alarmed! For you see, Mr. Perkins was not a [i]poor[/i], non-descript motorist. No, he was an [i]average[/i], non-descript motorist! Deftly, he used his Average Motoring Powers to divert the path of his vehicle yet again, narrowly missing the intestinally compromised Bartholomew, and instead clipping a nearby fire hydrant. Chaos all around him, but Bart remained solid, still standing hard against the very appearance of cataclysmic uncertainty. True, the hydrant was now precariously bent to the side, its moorings strained and poking from underneath the concrete of the sidewalk that had already been damaged by an explosion and the pounding of manhole covers, the water pressure building in that one spot to such a degree that the steel jacketed piping began to swell like a party balloon. But those things were built to last. 

	It wasn't until the undeniable sound of metal fatigue began to whine and shudder throughout the area that anyone thought anything else might be wrong, but by then it was far too late. Weakened support combined with intense water pressure caused the heavy hydrant up above ground to list heavily to one side, and with a crashing sound not unlike a washing machine hitting the pavement from twelve floors up, the device of city infrastructure ripped free of its metal safeguards and spun, as if knuckleballed by an angry giant, catching Bartholomew full-on in the face and torso. The resulting force blew him and the hydrant into the brick wall behind him, splitting his skull fully open from the face going back, and bisecting his sternum the way one might perform a vivisection with a stray steel girder.  People stood horrified, too shocked to move, speak, or breathe, as Bart's body refused to believe that it was dead, even as it was mostly a tangle of bone and syrup wrapped around a hunk of metal that read "Justice, CA Dept. of Water & Sanitation". Hands and arms reflexively tried to grasp forward even as legs shook, unable to execute a flight response no matter how much they desperately wanted to. 

	The last image burned into the retina of his one, barely functional eyeball as it hung limply there from its optic nerve, swaying lightly in the wind, was Lucky the Cat. He had walked up to the stain that used to be its master and provider, curious to the extreme. Bartholomew was not among the living long enough to witness gravity reassert control on the hydrant, pulling it away from his body with a wet sucking sound, and drop unceremoniously to the sidewalk, nor the apathy with which Lucky began to lick his paws at the whole ordeal.  

	Across the street, a dental hygienist from Poughkeepsie, NY dropped to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach upon the ground. He was joined by many others.   

	



[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]http://cdn.movieweb.com/img.news.tops/NEvyrxPbk7zLyD_2_b/Inmate-Number-1-Movie-Danny-Trejo-Documentary.jpg[/img][hr][b] [color=orangered]Location:[/color][/b] La Hacienda [hr][hr][/center]

	Yeah, that wasn't expected at all. He informs that he didn't want to be followed, so naturally, Maria decided that following him [i]must[/i] be the proper and wisest course of action in that moment. Her question merely echoed Caesar's statement, or rather the reciprocal of it. She wants to prolong the inevitable? Fine. Caesar would answer, even though it took precious seconds away from his mission. 

	Caesar stopped in his tracks. He turned around to see Maria looking at him in a manner that seemed both indignant and authoritative, her eyes bright with passionate intensity. He remembered why he married her in the first place, all those years ago. Maria was as strong willed as himself, with considerably better looks. Forcing himself not to smile, the venerable Mexican leaned in closely to her, cleared his throat, and answered, [color=orangered]"I am going to [i]apologize[/i]. If you follow behind me like you're [i]making[/i] me do it, it's not going to happen. ¿Esta bien contigo?"[/color]

[hider=Translations]
Is it okay with you?
[/hider]