Shades couldn’t help but laugh as Nox talked up his game.
“Listen bud, sounds like you’ve been drinking your own koolaid for awhile.” He said, patting Nox on the shoulder.
“Hey, it happens! Roam from planet-to-planet as a death dealing god, and yeah, who wouldn’t get a lil ego on em? But rest assured, partner, you can drop the tough guy act with me. Or not. It’s actually quite adorable.”
Shades gave the masked man a wink.
“Now, let’s go make papa proud and kill shit. Spit roast style!”
When the undead horde reached the bottom of the hill, Shades leapt from his vantage point. The arc on his jump was so far that he landed all the way at the rear of the amassing force. The rifle in his hand suddenly reabsorbed itself back into his body, allowing for two war hammers to blossom from his palms. As the bulk of the undead along the rear flank turned to face Shades, he was already raining hammer blows on them. He moved with such force and speed that it looked like the undead were spontaneously combusting.
Meanwhile...
King Bob's disease-ridden eyes widened with disbelief. His giant hands clutched the armrests of his living throne as he hunched forward, straining to get a clearer view of the massacre.
"Salesman, have I finally lost the last piece of brain matter I had left, or am I really seeing two people tearing my army to shreds?" King Bob's voice was hoarse, guttural, and surprisingly articulate.
"If it makes you feel any better, he usually just sends
one to clean up worlds like this," said the man beside him. "Having to deal with two is a true testament to your... threat level."
King Bob clenched what remaining teeth he had left. The towering throne turned on its own. It coiled like a plagued viper, positioning King Bob face-to-face with the man.
The Salesman observed the King like he was some nightmarish mirror. While he sported a flawless tan, the King’s maggoty skin was like patches of dead farmland from a bird's eye view, eroding from sickly bone. Where The Salesman's hair was slicked back, combed and neat, the King's was thin and receding, held behind a rusting crown that burrowed into his scalp. The Salesman wore a dark blue tailored suit, white button up shirt, and black tie, while King Bob wore rusted heavy armor.
The sinewy hodgepodge of decaying bodies cracked and gurgled, pustules ripping open from the throne's strained motion. The nightmarish oddity that was King Bob and his Living Throne didn't scare the Salesman in the slightest. In fact, he was more irritated that his view of the battlefield was now obscured.
“Quit talking in riddles, Salesman. Who do they work for?”
"Why, death of course. Who else? Now move out of the way, I can't see!" The Salesman said, pushing the throne and King Bob aside as if they were fabric. King Bob grabbed ahold of the armrests as the throne swayed off balance. When it recovered its footing, the throne backed off like a startled animal.
“I’ve warned you about this before, but like most, you don’t listen. Your planet exists to undo the balance in all things. Like an ant hill disturbing a picnic, and you must understand, the Gods love picnics...”
King Bob spat, his acid saliva burning the ground below him.
“The Gods can kiss my mangled ass. If death thinks these armies are all I have, then his little cronies are in for a rude awakening...”
The Salesman rolled his eyes, sighing.
