··· ↵best.
---
No shitting way.
Never, no.
This cannot be happening to Sander mo - therfucking Cohen.
When, he begins to idle ironically because the massive wound on his gut is starting to bleed an ocean – when he gets out of this mess, he's going to have to kill that sunva'bitch. His hand is shaking now, though it's probably more nerves and blood loss than pure anger.
He had given him a Gene Tonic. He just didn't get it, never in a million years did he predict shotgun shells lodged up so far in his body it was hurting to even breathe. And luckily – luc – I – fucking – ly, he was able to slide out of the way for it to miss his heart completely, instantly recalling the sharp piercing pain from the gun wound.
It's not like he was coming back to finish him, nope, goddamn bastard had just left him stranded in front of the glass case, one hand gripping the lock and another hand holding his intestines inside. It hurt to stand – hell, it hurt to inhale. His eyes wandered off into the distance, the glowing stand partially blocked off by the grandiose stairs. At his masterpiece.
Yet – Cohen smiled gingerly now – he was staring at himself. His true artistic vision. His eye for beauty and careful visual structure.
He was a goddamn marvel.
His blood was seeping through his hand now, crimson flowing through the spaces between his fingers. He tried to stand, a whole show of groaning and moaning and then plop – right back down on the floor, palm digging deeper into his stained suit. He tries hard not to die, he really does. But he feels his organs starting to shift, inch, and crawl their way through his wound, the uncomfortable shifting of their positions haze his eyes and draw slow, raspy breaths from him.
That ass – hole.
The complete bastard for taking his treasure and telling him exactly where to shove it before wasting only one shell on his sorry ass. Meant to bleed and reduce to nothingness. Meant for him to die here, holding his legacy with one hand, his own self with the other, forced to watch his one true masterpiece in years on a never-end.
His eye twitched.
Sander Cohen smiled, pleasure and pain twisting and too-big-for-his-face;
It would be a beautiful death – a masterpiece.
He closed his eyes then.