:+: WIT'S END, NYC COMPOUND
:+: MENTIONS: @Shard
The fire inside Pickles would not subside until something or someone paid for the sin of frustration. The feeling of rage and embarrassment demanded all of Pickles' attention, sending the rest of the world into a blurry fog. Out of sight, out of mind. Nothing existed but the feeling and... what was that? In the distance there was something that wasn't hazy, wasn't blurred. In fact, it was crystal clear in his vision, despite its distorted surroundings. It was an infant in a high chair.
Through bloodshot eyes, Pickles took in the image of the tiny spawn. His anger went from a sporadic series of explosions to a laser guided rifle, zeroing in on the back of the baby's head. The clown began to salivate as it moved closer to the infant. If it had parents, he couldn't clearly see them. He couldn't clearly see anything
else. Currently, his world consisted of him, the high chair and the poor fool sitting atop it.
Pickles' breathing sounded as if it had become labored, coming out in a wheeze the closer he got. An empty chair stood in Pickles' path toward the infant. As the clown approached the blurry obstacle, he lifted his foot extraordinarily high and brought it down with a crash upon the chair, shattering it into splintered pieces without so much as a blink or a strain. It might as well have been made of paper. Once Pickles had an objective, it was nigh impossible to stop him by any conventional means. It wasn't long at all before he found himself towering over the little thing. The child looked at him and instantly started to cry, adding fuel to the already raging fire within.
Pickles hands curled into fists, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles went white as he raised them high into the air, intending to bring them back down with the full force of his internal hatred. What are you doing?
That voice. He loved and loathed it.
"NEVER you mind!
" Pickes shouted in a thunderous, low roll. No, really. What are you doing? You look like you're about to crush the countertop. We're going to get fired.
Pickles froze. He looked down upon the top of the infant's head, looking at it with high definition, seeing each individual strand. He turned his head uncomfortably slow toward the bar. It was blurry, but he could see its form.
"Are you insane, Jackie boy? I just want to PLAY with my new little friend HERE. Such a cute baby!
" He turned his sights back on the infant, his grimace softening as he readied his fists once more, the price for his embarrassment nearly paid. You're at the bar about to smash in the counter top
, the voice insisted. What are you talking about? Baby? They don't let babies in bars, Pickles.
Pickles suddenly hesitated. He knew the voice was right, but this must've been an exception. Afterall, his new pale friend looked like he was underage and made it into the pub alright. Jack was wrong this time. The clown opened his mouth, ready to delight in the pleasure and releif this would surely bring, and slammed his fists down upon the baby's skull. He felt the cracking upon the skin of his hands. He closed his eyes, anticipating the splash of blood. It was glorious. It was orgasmic. It was... wrong.
The blood splatter never came. Though he felt the skull cracking, surrendering to the force he had brought down upon it, it didn't feel
right. Pickles opened his eyes to discover his hands cratered into the bar's countertop. He was in the wrong place. He should have been over th-
The clown looked to the booth that had the baby in the highchair. The world was clear again. He could see everything. Everything except the baby. The highchair was gone, too. Pickles' mouth remained agape as he tried to process what just happened. Before he could form a conclusive thought, he heard the voice of the old bartender.
"Get your shit and get out,
" he said. Pickles turned his head to the man and found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.