Weeks progressed into months, and soon the Marxmen were rich. Filthy rich. Constantly on the run from the authorities and constantly outsmarting them. John had learnt to scowl less and smile more, Max had gotten unusually unstable at times and Carter? Well, he was the same old Carter. When everything was seemingly perfect, fate had some cruel ideas.
"What do we got here, boys?" Max remarked in a slightly convincing Southern accent.
"Looks like some sort of waffle maker," Carter hypothesized, "I think."
"Are you serious, Carter?" John interrupted with a concerned look.
Carter proudly proclaimed, "Yeah, I mean look at all the possibilities!"
John exhaled and relaxed his shoulders and corrected him, "It's an M134 Minigun, Carter, not a waffle maker."
Carter, though a crack shot and mechanical prodigy, lacked insight when it came to weaponry, all he knew were pistols and submachine guns. Seeing a gun of such high caliber was confusing and beyond his imagination.
The Marxmen's cheeky banter was rudely interrupted however, by a storm of bullets, shredding the walls like mozzarella cheese, and decimating their makeshift shanty house to ashes.
"I think it's to paniiiiiiiiiic!" John exclaimed before being interrupted by an unexpected explosion that sent him soaring through the air and left him bruised and battered when he hit the ground, "Urghh! Just my luck!"
"John! Are you alright, buddy?!" Max yelled over the sound of gunfire.
John hesitantly got up, his legs giving way to pain, causing him to collapse, "Can't really feel my legs, but other than that I'm fine!"
Carter ran as fast as his legs could carry him, dodging gunfire and missiles with precision and speed. He could smell the fuel burning, the incessant breeze of blades, and the sound of a thousand horses galloping behind him as he saw the terrifying shadow of the metal beast. A split-second margin of error could cost him his life but as he saw it, there was no way he wouldn't try it. Gracefully dashing through the dunes, he saw the opportunity to leap, and he acted on his instincts as time seemed to slow down as he felt the rush of air, the aroma of blood and the feel of rusted metal against his fingertips, as he drew his weapon, his trusty revolver and in mid-air rotated his body to face the jarring brute head-on, its weapons inclined to dispose of him and its master just as eager. Falling slowly, suspended in time, he pulled the harbinger of death, the trigger. The bullet whizzing through the air, its presence, intoxicating as it fragmented the windscreen, each crystallized shard piercing the pilot, delivering the discomfort of several smaller projectiles almost instantaneously. The lifeless entity slumped against the confines of its metal tomb, transforming the airborne nightmare into a startled creature, sending it whirling out of control; plummeting to its demise. Carter tumbling out of control on the dunes below, his bones barely withstanding the force inflicted upon him. His consciousness fading, as he groaned softly.
Max, tired out from hauling his almost limp, but fully conscious associate on his back, finally reached his other fallen comrade, and slapped his face multiple times until he awoke.
"What!? What the heck? Did we kill them?" Carter gasped.
Max let out a little smirk before announcing, "Yeah, thanks to you."
John opened his eyes and reassured him, "We would've been real screwed, man."
The three men laughed raucously until their throats began to hurt and their eyes watered. They looted the dead corpses for goodies and helped themselves to anything they found. Then, as if nothing happened they walked towards one of the black SUVs and drove away, the smoke piling up for miles, the air filled with death and the stench of the deceased.
Well, now I bet you though they were going to die, now didn't you? NOPE! These guys have unbelievably good luck and let's face it, they're pretty f&#$ing awesome! Have fun and don't forget,
The Marxmen will return for Chapter 5.