Disclaimer: John Clowder is the creator of Middens/Gingiva, as well as the talkative revolver Genie. Speaking of which, please go play Middens and Gingiva.
At one point in my life, before the Rift consumed I and I consumed the Rift, I was the accessory of a war.
I was carried as a sidearm, a backup, in case my carrier's right hand gun lost their purpose. Under the fireworks of a gunfight, I spied with my little eye targets for my host to fire upon, whispering to them; though, my core was frustrated, as they had little need for my assistance. I was drawn only a few times, my lips speaking encouragement and screaming harsh invectives at an encroaching opponent. However, a one-on-one fight is a coin flip, a war of few bullets: either my cohort won or was felled. On heads was a rush of enjoyment for me; tails spelled a brief swim in a pool of blood.
Whenever my handler was cut down, sliced apart by bullets or whatever weapon was suitable, I was picked up by the immediate victor as a prize or spoils of war for the champions of the overall scruffle. Not that I minded, though. I'm merely Karma's archangel, and Karma holds no preference for a side in a war, for all are equal under Her eye. In fact, I hardly remember the sides, nor why the conflict was waged - to me, the conflict was just an exchange of fire and I am just a trader of bullets.
However, one noteworthy incident occurred during the war:
I was once a party favor.
Five prisoners of war were once dragged into a shack upon a snowy mountain, overlooking a blighted land. At the time, I was bonded to a captain of many eyes, who boasted that he could see the possibilities of the future; it was nothing but grandiose lies, as he didn't ever expect the possibility of his vision to be blinded by a judgement light, his body swept up in the claws of a Throne. Until that fateful encounter, I saw more use out of him - as an instrument of torture, eager to be strung.
He and his soldiers prodded the captured along, locking them into the building, which used to be a sanctuary for lumberjacks and woodpeckers before the war swept them under the carpet. He spied at his targets maliciously, forcing them into the middle of the room in a pentagon like formation. To continue the ritual, he unholstered and fiddled with me, ejecting all but one of my bullets; I recognized what he wanted, and I was oh so simply ecstatic.
"You are all going to play a game," he said, his words invading their ears, injecting dread into their senses. "One winner walks away, from all sides, immune to whatever else this everlasting war has to offer. The rest of you shall become stars in our little snuff film. Do not fret: in war, you are just another casualty, another forgotten name; in a film, all can see you, all will remember you, and all will certainly be entertained by your deaths."
He grinned, making glances to his cohorts, armed with weaponry and camera phones. The prisoners refused to move; better that one person survives and the rest achieve stardom than all of them getting cut down like insignificant twigs.
"Let's start our game of Russian Roulette."
To me, Russian Roulette is a party game. I am the bottle at an adolescent gathering, spinning and going so fast like a merry-go-round, pointing at a youth to administer truth or dare or a kiss.
In this game, the bottle itself administers the kiss: the sweet sweet kiss of a bullet.
To me, it's simply the best game.
I was thrust into the hands of a nervous woman, experienced in war but a rookie in party games. She held me with shaky hands, glancing at our esteemed witnesses. She spun the barrel - a ticklish feeling - and held me up to her head
click
She relaxed. Now is not her time. She handed it to her cohort, a horned man bruised in his transport, like a damaged package.
He was slower in his actions and in his hesitation, pressing me against his head, I pressed back: I eavesdropped on his heartbeats, the frantic beating like that of a marathon runner - however, amid the beats, I can hear the truth.
The dead feelings inside a being, a being bored with their life.
Deep down, lower than any chasm, the man wanted to die. I have the precision, the eye to see these sorts of feelings.
He pulled the trigger. His subconscious wish did not come true.
The party game had to go on, of course. The spinning bottle must give the kiss of death to somebody, eventually.
The next player was a man without a face, no worries expressed on the surface, though everybody could smell it like a fine perfume. He gripped me quickly, wanting to see what Fate has in store for him-
Then Atropos cut his string. All his dreams and nightmares, his ambitions and fears, his future potential was all snuffed out, splattered across the room.
The participants screamed, a cheer to my senses - enthusiasm like this is what fuels a festive game. ^_^
One soldier pried me from the hands of the dead man and placed another bullet inside, thrusting it in before palming me off to the next in line to the gates of the afterlife.
The man, with messy hair and yellow eyes staring out from the mess, held me calmly. I heard his heart and it beat steady, casually taking it in. I can read his tells and I saw that his subconscious desire had been moved up to his consciousness, submerging up the glacier: he wanted to die.
Suicide is an amusing, yet cowardly thing. While funny, I find it a bit of a bother; I prefer my wielders to observe the scissors cutting at their lifeline rather than using my bullet on themselves without my consent.
The yellow-eyed player didn't follow the rules. He blatantly cheated: he pulled and pulled until I achieved release - a dissatisfying one at that.
Though the soldiers of my current side of the war were amused by it. Must be a cultural difference.
The captain picked me back up and handed me to another. It was another female species wielding me this time, holding me with a mechanical limb, the cold steel touch of the fingers feeling unwieldy to me. The woman relaxed, perhaps embracing her subconscious desire…
...But then, she did something interesting, an unexpected chess maneuver, a twist to the game of life: she pointed me to the nearest soldier. Really, the look on their face was a sight to behold, a player that wasn't supposed to be in the game. My handicapped wielder mimicked the coward from before, this time, putting his strategy to practical use, pointing me at the surprised expression and pulling until the surprise became a smear on the wall. (I went along with it, of course - I have no true loyalties except the order of death that governs us all.)
"Luchar!" she screeched at her comrades, pulling the soldier's side arm and dual wielded it (a duet for me), firing at other soldiers before bullets swiss cheesed her body. She fell, laying in her own blood, "Cabezas de merde…" I sensed that she was satisfied: either because she fulfilled her death and/or because she went out on her own terms, a person who successfully negotiated her contract with the reaper. As for her dying words, I have not an idea what they mean, but I'm sure that in her culture, they are beautiful words.
One died to the luck of the draw, another to cowardice, and another to heroism, leaving only the first two players playing.
It was nerve wracking, getting passed between them, a strange sort of threesome. The excitement built up inside of me with each pull, and the players got more and more anxious. I saw them looking into each other's eyes. What were they? Friends? Mates? Enemies? Foes that shared a bed? Who knows? All that I knew at the time was that one of them was going to bite my bullet; otherwise, both will become victim to the watching soldiers.
Then
Finally
The woman held me up to her head
We both wanted a release, from the world and the growing agitation…
Then
Everything exploded.
When I was back to lucidity, I was in the hands of a dead woman, in a state of ecstasy. Really, the whole waiting and teasing was worth it in the end. I laid there, basking in the afterglow of a fresh death.
Meanwhile, the captain confronted the last player, the survivor of the party, the man, who had a glazed over look in his eyes, positive feelings shattered as if the soldiers had picked up a glass vase and thrown it. Despite the cruelties of the captain, he was an honest man, presenting the horned man with a multitude of papers: withdrawal notes, visas, entertainer ID's, all to pursue a life outside of the war.
I didn't see the man again after that. He walked out into the world in a daze, not wanting to look at the deceased, a slouch in his walk. Perhaps he found a safe place, presumably living his days as an ideal rancher; perhaps he took the road of a coward and hung himself, ill with emotional trauma - I don't know.
The captain picked me up, not bothering to wipe the blood that dirtied my body. My eyes scanned the room afterward, taking in the bodies, the blood: the game's leftover mess. It's like how a wild party ends with a mess come the sun rises.
Russian Roulette is a rare occurrence for me, a game that I only really get to play after several moon cycles. To me, they're memorable parties, which I hold close in my lobes.
The rest of my stint was fairly insignificant. Aside from one moment when I acted as an interrogator and shot a prisoner in the kneecaps for not cooperating with the forced conversation, the rest of my days with the captain was dull, so so dull.
…
…
?_?
Say…
Would you like to play a party game?