Derpady

My mind is blank, empty and without a scrap of creativity. Also I'm lazy and tired. Double story tomorrow.

Paranoia

     'I'm telling you, Ulrich, my enemies are everywhere. Everything in here,' he jabbed Ulrich with a gloved finger. 'Literally every single thing in here, could be covered in poison.' 

     'I doubt that, Doc.'

     'Poison of the most lethal sort!' He insisted, grabbing a jar and brandishing it in Ulrich's face. 'Underdark Rattler extract!' He picked up a half-eaten chicken leg. 'Essence of beholder!' He grabbed a chair with both hands and lifted it over his head. 'CRIMSON DEATH POWDER!'

    'I think that Juniper girl made you paranoid.'

    'Paranoid?' he hissed. 'I'll show you paranoid!' 

    Ulrich sighed. 'I'd really rather you didn't.'

Poisoned

  

    His hands clawed desperately, snatching random vials and sending other crashing to the floor. He had to work fast. Faster than the poison coursing through his body. He banged his knee into the sharp metal edge of the table, but there was no stabbing lance of pain. He couldn't feel his legs. His arms were buzzing. His vision was almost gone. He was dying. He was outraged. No, he was beyond outraged. He was fucking furious.
    With gritted teeth, Blitzmann filled a syringe with six different kinds of adrenaline and pure liquid stubbornness and jabbed it straight into his struggling heart.
     

Leaving

    Juniper leaned forward, her face so close he could feel her breath. It smelled like roses.
    'Ready?' she whispered. Blitzmann didn't flinch as she planted a soft kiss on his thin lips.
    She smiled broadly, two rows of white teeth uncannily like those of a wolf's. She turned gracefully, black locks of hair caressing his face, and sauntered out the door. When it had shut after her, Blitzmann allowed himself to move. He put a hesitant finger to his lips. A smile crossed his usually rigid face. Perhaps he should go after her. Perha-
    His lips had gone numb.
    'What the fupoison.'

Assumptions

    Let us assume, for a moment, that everything we believe to be true is false. Assume that up is down, that light is dark, that good is bad. Assume that the very foundations we've built our world on are so corrupted and pitted with decay that they can hardly be called foundations at all.
    If you cannot do this, I ask that you stop reading. But if you can accept that things may not be as they seem – if you have the broadness of mind to listen and learn – I urge you to read on.
    Ready? Good, then let us begin.

Explosion

  

    Juniper had expected violence. She had expected blood and a lost limb. She had not expected this. The axe bit into the drow's gut with a wet thud who took a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth. She cringed and braced herself.
    'Wha-,' she began. Then the drow exploded with enough force to send Bloodfist crashing through the wall. Had it not been for the two-inch-thick barrier of solid steel between them, no doubt it would have done the same to her. Even so, the force of the explosion was horrifying. With a deafening roar, chunks of wood, iron and flesh rocketed across the room, painting the walls red. A piece of thigh landed between her and Blitzmann, spattering the doctor's white robes with blood. He didn't notice. Juniper turned her head and vomited violently.

*

    Blitzmann was a little disappointed. The explosion itself had been perfect. The subject was dead as could be. His assistant was being sick in the corner. All good, true, but the demon that stood before him was pathetic. He frowned down at the small, fat creature that was currently busy scratching its behind with a short, white claw.
    'You're pathetic,' he said.
    'Yeah,' it muttered.

Bloodfist

Image courtesy of Wizards of the Coast

    'Now, Mr. Fist,' Blitzmann called from behind the protective barrier, hands cupped around his mouth. 'I'd like you to pick up the axe.' 

    Bloodfist did so. The axe, though by no means small, looked positively tiny in his massive, dirty fist. He gurgled laughter. 'Y'call this lil' thing an axe?'

    Blitzmann frowned. 'I don't pay you to talk, Mr. Fist. I pay you to throw axes at assassins. Now...' He made an inviting gesture. 'Please do so.'

    'Whatever y'say, bossman.' He raised the axe over his head. 'Alley-oop!'

    Blitzmann turned to Jupiter. 'Now watch carefully, my dear,' he said, grinning broadly.