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Deceased [Revenant] Duke Westmay

IceandFire

The Alchemist
Staff member
Admin
Good
Pronouns
He/Him
icefire120
icefire120
Good
very cool! :)

looking forward to getting to know you... IC that is! lol! hehehe
 

FrostGuardian

Lord of Altera
Legend
FrostGuardian
FrostGuardian
Legend
The burly man leaned against the door of his cruiser, burping loudly at the passing traffic. He adjusted his belt, heaving up a hefty roll of fat around his waist, and patted his belly. His golden badge shimmered in the afternoon light as he thumbed off a stain with his grubby hand from its otherwise immaculate surface. Chuckling, his considerably skinnier partner popped off the top from another bottle, the two of them exchanging laughs.
“Hey Chuck,” said the skinnier one.
“What is it Darrel?” he bellowed, a drunken drawl seeping into his voice.
Darrel scratched the back of his head, and examined the ground. “You think it’s a good idea to be drinking on the job?” Shrugging, he didn’t wait much longer before taking a swig.
“The fuck is wrong with drinkin’?” he exclaimed. “It’s a God damn free country. Not like these youngsters-” his emphasis on youngsters was obnoxious “-are gonna follow the damn speed limit anyways.”
“I guess so,” Darrel conceded.

A silence descended between Chuck and Darrel as they contentedly sipped their cold beers, the cars becoming increasingly blurrier as they sped by at a highway pace. Fidgeting, Chuck fumbled to produce his speed gun from its holster. His breathing matched a gorilla’s and his perspiration increased sixfold during this small motion. When he finally had the speed gun in the hand that wasn’t holding beer, Chuck turned to Darrel, panting.
“Check this out,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Panting for good reason unlike Chuck, a jogger approached near. Pointing the speed gun at the jogger, Chuck snorted as he barely managed to contain his laughter and coma-inducing-alcohol-breath. The display of the device blinked before showing the number “12”. Being the dutiful cop that he is, Chuck wound up his arm for a pitch, and lobbed his bottle towards the innocent pedestrian. Darrel’s eyes slowly followed the parabolic trajectory of the empty beer receptacle, the glint in his pupils somewhat betraying a comprehension of their impending doom. The jogger pushed on unaware, until only a few moments later, a mass of brown glass shattered across the top of his skull. With a whimper just audible over the roaring of traffic, the jogger planted face first into the asphalt. He did not move.

“Uh…” began Darrel.
Chuck lugged his way over, giving a few kicks into the pedestrian’s ribcage to awaken him. Each kick shifted off more fragments of glass off of his bloodied scalp. Lurching forward, Chuck croaked, before releasing a torrent of vomit onto the incapacitated victim. Chuck groaned, and fell face first into the pile. Darrel stared in disbelief. “Oh shit, oh God damn it, oh shit.” He stood suspended in thought and motion.

It was at that moment he realized Chuck's ability to accurately throw an empty beer bottle, but only at the back of someone’s head while they are moving at precisely twelve miles per hour relative to himself. He could make a superpower outta that.

Chuck-man. Had a ring to it.
 
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