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57
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The girl and Mort marched down the hall obediently to the man's command. After some minutes, they reached the end of the hallway and stood before a heavy oak door. "Open the door," The man ordered.
Reluctantly, the girl opened the door and they began to descend a staircase. Mort shook his head to himself. This was not how it was all going to end. He had a job to finish.
As they walked further down the flight, Mort shouted out, "Watch out!" to the girl as he pulled the man and he went toppling down the stairs. The gun which he had held fell to the floor and slid across to the wall. The girl bent down and picked it up.
Meanwhile, Mort crouched, hunched over the man, and hammered away on his face with his own shoe; A passionate act of fury and anger. The man's face became swollen, bloody and broken after the first few blows.
Disheveled, sweating, and out of breath, Mort finally stopped. He looked up at the girl, his hair out of place, and his face covered in perspiration.
"I didn't know you had it in you," the girl commented, admiringly. Mort simply looked at her.
When he looked back down at the battered man under him, he let out a shriek of horror and fell back against the wall. He stared at the man's face for a few moments, clutching his chest and breathing heavily. It was John Shooter! The man had been John Shooter all along!
Mort closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of this horrible nightmare. Perhaps when he opened them again, he'd be in his hotel room, lying on the couch feeling Chico licking his hand that he'd carelessly left hanging over the edge.
Mort opened his eyes but he was not on the couch like he wanted to be. Instead, he was still in the dank little basement in his ex-wife's secret chateau. Nothing had changed. He was still screwed.
But.. something had changed.
Mort slowly placed his gaze back on the unconscious body that lay on the floor. It was John Shooter, it was John Shooter, it was JOHN SHOOTER! IT WAS-- not John Shooter. Just Mort's lovely mind playing oh so nice of a trick on him, yet again.
"What? What is it?" The girl asked, nervously.
Mort swallowed hard and looked at her. "N-Nothing.. Just my mind playing tricks on me," Mort replied. After a moment, he raised away from the wall and cautiously approached the man on the ground. He stared down at him confusedly, then spoke. "Hey, give me a hand. I want his gear," Mort said to the girl, deciding to put everything behind him now for the time being.
The girl came over to him and they began to strip the man's clothing from his body.
Mort and the girl cautiously retraced their steps along the hall. Mort, now porting the famous robe and pentacle of the fake John Shooter over his clothes, with his shoes and trouser bottoms visible below the hem of the gown.
They passed the stairs they had descended and continued on their way. After, they turned a corner. As they did so, they heard a faint noise nearby. They paused to listen, then walked on.
The sound grew louder and more distinct: somewhere in the chateau, voices were chanting in unison. As if... as if some sort of meeting was taking place...
Turning another corner, they found themselves in an room that ended off in two massive double doors. The chanting was clearly coming from the other side of them. To the side was a stairway that, most likely, led up to a balcony. Mort walked over to the doors with the girl at his heels, and grasped the handle.
"No. Up to the balcony," The girl insisted.