There was nothing pretty about this man. His face (and gods only knew what else) carved up by objects both blunt and sharp. Some scars were newer than others, you could tell by the color.
There was nothing friendly about this man. A highwayman who smelled as much of the road as he was a part of it. Men like him were for hire but couldn't be bought, men like him lived and died on the razor's edge.
His was the story of Lucifer; the story of the superior blade becoming the philosophically and morally inferior.
Ancient Japanese legends warn of katana swords forged by Muramasa. Any steel folded by his hammer cannot be sheathed before it draws blood; it warns that wielding such evil gripped you by the throat with the ice-cold hands of a dark insanity; peace found only when the madness claimed their very life. When his hands touched the possessed weapons they exacted the same price as the infamous swordsmith's creations...blood. What had kissed Muramasa and cursed the swords had yet to finish its work.
He stared down at the weapons splayed across his thighs, the pads of his gloved index fingers curled around modified triggers.
Were the siren-like voices from Devils? Angels? Or one of each? He didn't know, for the line between the two had been blurred long ago. The truth was that the shotguns were possessed. Forged with the same Hellfire from which they had been borne. Two demons. Identical twins whispering sweet nothings which mercilessly drowned everything but their desires and their machinations. This man had a Devil standing on both shoulders.
The brigand lifted one of the shotguns up and pressed the twin barrels up against the bottom of his chin with a hiss of breath and a wince because he'd seen the gruesome work they were capable of firsthand. Closing his eyes he somehow found serenity in the kiss of cold steel to his flesh.
It's not that he didn't have the guts to do it...
He was a pawn now. He'd die, of course he'd die (for he was mortal), just not by his own hand. It wasn't that easy. Nothing worthwile was easy.
The shotgun was eventually lowered back down to rejoin its twin upon his lap but it was just a matter of time now.
Hellfire shotguns, the bane of any man or beast. They were really quite beautiful, as many weapons oddly had the potential of being. Receivers of wrought iron with engraved with accents of unpolished ore were rounded out by mahogany grips and vertically stacked barrels.
The barrels themselves were wrapped in a valance of black metal which effectively hid them from sight save for the chrome-lipped muzzles protruding from the ends of the rectangular guards. The letters "RPNT" were stamped near the trigger guard of each weapon in pearl white. Custom made 8 gauge shotguns with barrels short enough to allow dual wielding for maximum spread. They were an unstoppable menace at close distances, holding four shots in each double barreled weapon. He peppered them with a slug but kept them mostly loaded with 000.
Thinking eight shots were too little was almost as big of a mistake as thinking he was done when the triggers on those dual-wielded Hellfires went 'click'.