“I’ll give you hobos some credit.” His voice stuck out. Not because of the accent. But because it was the only thing that had not been fired out of a gun in the past hour. “You’re pretty tough. It’s almost a shame to put you down.” Another gunshot. “Almost.”
Carlos looked around the hobo’s makeshift throne room and frowned. His eyes stepped carefully through the garbage. Stopping every so often, as if something had went squish beneath their figurative feet. This place was disgusting. And he was a roach. He knew disgusting. “Muchachos. Once we are done here, I want this place removed. I want it gone. I want El Jefe to be able to look down upon this black mark and smirk. ‘Ha, I remember when there used to be a pile of shit, there.’”
The corporate soldiers nodded, gathering their explosives. That is, until they froze on the spot.
“We are not finished.” A voice. Weak? Kind of. Heavenly? Certainly. Alluring? Well it was kind of a attractive, in a non-homosexual way. But out of everything, it was mostly just surprising. Because Carlos thought the Hobo King was dead. Yet the sparkle toothed corpse in question was standing right there, his sword drawn and pointed at them.
“Hola, your hoboness. I thought I killed you. No matter. What’s a few more bullets, huh? You’ll be digging through trashcans in heaven with your amigos in no time.” Carlos raised his gun. And found several other, much bigger guns pointed at him from all sides.
“Muchachos. What are you doing?”
The corporate soldiers, their faces blank, had drawn their weapons on Carlos. Occasionally they would shoot furtive glances at the hobo king. And blush.
“They are captivated by us, Carlos. They will defend us. They will fight for us.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? He’s not even that good looking. Come on, Muchachos.” The roach sighed. “You haven’t lost your charming touch, I see. That is unfortunate.” He undid the straps on his holsters. “For them.” And filled the room with gunfire and smoke.
Killing the soldiers in rapid succession, Carlos’ arms (all four of them) fell once more toward the Hobo King. Their muzzled intent floated there in the air for a few, fleeting seconds. Before he squeezed the trigger and put an end to this shit show once and for all.
Only for the bullet to stop inches from the King’s pursed lips.
“Are…” Carlos lowered his arms. “Did you…” He could only stare, at this point. Stare, blink, and pinch the bridge of his nose. “Did you just glower my bullet into stopping? You handsome bastard.”
He shot again. The second bullet stopping just behind the first.
“I can’t fucking believe this. You’re going run out of smolder, eventually, amigo!”
A third, a forth, and a fifth formed a ballistic conga line that crawled toward the hobo king and his magazine cover gaze. Until the sixth, seventh, and eight dug it slowly into his forehead.
“It’s been a pleasure, Richard. A ridiculously good-looking pleasure. Adios. I’ll be sure to say hello to your little boy, Artanis for you.”
“You will not harm Artanis…We will not allow yo-”
Carlos ended it with the ninth.