He stared at rows of men standing in front of him, smoke of the cigar curling slowly upwards, wafting and billowing around his head. Men stared back at him, sweat beading over their foreheads, barrels of their guns shivering and swaying hesitantly.
Well, it was a good day to die. They had already taken everything from him. Brown and white splattered all over the place, soiled with ugly red smears.
There was something red and sticky stuck on the toe of his left boot. If he tilted his foot he could see the brown iris, frozen forever. He took a drag from the cigar, then leaned lower, slowly, holding his breath. Wiped the smear away, grinding it to the sand. That eye had seen too much already. He could hear them cocking their guns when he straightened his back and let out the smoky breath he had been holding.
Let them. He was in no hurry. It was a good cigar, probably the last Cuban on earth. It was a nice day, not too hot, but not chilly either. He was going to take his time with it. If they were stupid enough to wait for him to finish who was he to argue?
He turned his back on them. Poor fuckers. The ones on the first row seemed to be ready to wet their pants if he as much as sneezed. He scratched the back of his neck. Mosquitoes. Goddamned mosquitoes. Well, soon he wouldn’t have to worry about them.
Cigar was almost finished, short stub burning his fingers. He wished for a beer. One lousy Molson. Or a shot of good, aged whiskey.
“Can’t have everything now... Can we.”
When he turned the atmosphere electrified. He took one last drag from the cigar, studying the smoking stump for a while, then let it fall to the ground at his feet. Stared at it for a moment. Then straightened his back. Pulled back his shoulders and looked straight at them. Clapped his hands together.
“Let’s get this shit over with already.”
He felt the first bullets as they hit him, burning hot, drilling small burrows through him. Scent of blood only fuelled the thrill he got from the sight of it, how it flowed over his claws and knuckles. Taste of it? Pure bliss, even better than the Cuban earlier.
Half an hour later the field was littered with dead and dying. There was no one man standing. Solitary crow croaked nearby.
Small breeze picked up, rustling the dry leaves on the ground.
Then a shaky hand rose, balled to a tight fist. One finger, the middle one extended, pointing towards the open sky. Single razor-sharp metal claw grew slowly beside it to emphasize the gesture.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
A deranged bunny attacked, resulting this little ficlet. Contains mild religious issues, so if you have issues of your own with religion... You have been warned.