Janglin' Jack [Greed]
In the middle of this wretched town, down a side street, there's an old wooden two-story pub. Bar on the bottom and humble home on the top, from the looks of it. And on top of that, there's an odd glitter in the light. Little glints shining through the haze and drawing in the zombies. As they come close, loud reports from a shotgun send skull and brains scattering into the street.
"Bloody savages! Have off whot's mine, savvy? Keep to yer own rusted, useless mess."
Another shot echoes over the pavement and off of buildings. There's a soft jingle of collected shiny trinkets as Jack reloads both barrels. He stands from his lawn chair perch and makes his hourly circuit of his rooftop lookout. All of the collected shiny things of this place jingle in his pockets, dangling around his neck and wrists, tied in his hair. Even more of the glittery stuff is piled in the apartment below. Shining treasures and flattened golden frogs--he's eaten some of them. His treasures. He has also gathered nearly every drop of liquor in the town. Piled and horded in his keep. 'The Black Pearl' is the name fading on the pub's broken front glass. Jack drinks as he paces his roof and shoots at anything --anything-- that approaches his things.
"They want it all, Jackie. Can't let them take it. Course not. S'ours. We protect whot's ours. No one else bloody will, eh? Not t'be trusted, the bastards... Shooting first. Questions t'follow. Way of things in these times, is it not?"
The locker was terrible. This is worse. It may be hell, but he is king in it. A king unquestioned. He readies his rifle for anyone and anything that approaches.
God save the king.
"Bloody savages! Have off whot's mine, savvy? Keep to yer own rusted, useless mess."
Another shot echoes over the pavement and off of buildings. There's a soft jingle of collected shiny trinkets as Jack reloads both barrels. He stands from his lawn chair perch and makes his hourly circuit of his rooftop lookout. All of the collected shiny things of this place jingle in his pockets, dangling around his neck and wrists, tied in his hair. Even more of the glittery stuff is piled in the apartment below. Shining treasures and flattened golden frogs--he's eaten some of them. His treasures. He has also gathered nearly every drop of liquor in the town. Piled and horded in his keep. 'The Black Pearl' is the name fading on the pub's broken front glass. Jack drinks as he paces his roof and shoots at anything --anything-- that approaches his things.
"They want it all, Jackie. Can't let them take it. Course not. S'ours. We protect whot's ours. No one else bloody will, eh? Not t'be trusted, the bastards... Shooting first. Questions t'follow. Way of things in these times, is it not?"
The locker was terrible. This is worse. It may be hell, but he is king in it. A king unquestioned. He readies his rifle for anyone and anything that approaches.
God save the king.