Another One Bites the Dust

Forward:

As the name, and if you don't realize it by reading this short story, implies it's based off (and includes the lyrics) of the Queen song Another one Bites the dust.

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Steve walks warily down the street, brim pulled way down low. Ain't no sound, but the sound his feet, machine gun's ready to go.

He tossed his badge into the river. It wasn't worth it now; he was out for revenge, out for blood. He checked the drum magazine on his Thompson Machine-gun; it was locked and loaded. He slung it over his shoulder, ready to fire; donning his trench coat, it was time to go. Steve slammed shut the door to his Ford and turned back towards the city. It had rained the day before, the roads were slick and the city smelled of sewage, of crime. Now it was time to do justice; law meant nothing to him now.

Steve ran back into the city, mud from the shores of a bloated river coated his boots. He splashed through the shallow puddles of the alleyways. He knew where he was going and he knew what he was about to do. His life was meaningless now; he intended to die. The sky was overcast, the sun was up but the grey, heavy clouds obscured it entirely. This was the road; it was a dead-end, quite literally in this case. A row of warehouses lined the end of this street; a street that would soon be repaved with blood.

Steve flattened his back against the wall of the alleyway, peaking his head around the corner. Large black automobiles lined each side, leading down the street to the warehouses. He saw seven heavily armed men, four on the left side of the street, three on the other. They were dressed similarly as him, trench coats and wide-brimmed hats. There were two men nearest to him, on the left side of the street. He whispered to them, mockingly, cryptically.

"Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this? Are you hanging on to the edge of your seat?"

The one in front turned around to his companion, a confused look painted across his face, the final expression of his sad, short life. Crooked Cops deserved to die this way.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip, to the sound of the beat.

Steve rounded the corner nonchalantly, the look of confusion changed to bewilderment, then instantly to terror as Steve held the trigger down on his Thompson Machine-gun.

"Another one bites the dust. Another one bites the dust."

The two men fell, the third man on that side of the street instantly went to his feet, and the four others came from the other side of a large Ford parked at the end of the street. He whispered to himself as he shot, a beat in his head, his foot tapping and rhythm faintly emanated from the shallowest depths of his throat.

"Another one gone, and another one gone. Hey, I'm gonna get you too. Another one bites the dust."

The last of the seven men fell, cigarette butt still red-hot, fire-arms still had their safeties clicked on. Steve lit a cigarette of his own and continued to walk down the street, his boots sucking at the blood-soaked mud. He approached the first warehouse on the right, at the end of the street, he readied his Thompson and turned the knob. Cautiously he flattened his back against the wall outside the door and butted it open with his elbow.

Steve smelled sweet cigar smoke. It was him. He didn't even bother rounding the corner, he'd be chewed to pieces by the, no doubt, dozens of weapons pointed at the doorway. He merely spoke, his voice and intentions apparent and resolute with his tone.

"How do you think I'm going to get along without you, when your gone? You took me for everything I had and kicked me out of my own.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip, to the sound of the beat.

The sweet cigar smoke was gone, Steve knew he wouldn't be able to face him, but he was going to give him no other choice in the end. He waited for the gunfire to die down momentarily, and then he started again. The guttural humming, the tapping of his foot to the same beat that gunfire staccatoed to. He smirked and rounded the corner, it was a chant by now; he was untouchable.

"Another one bites the dust... Another bites the dust, and another one gone and another one gone. Another one bites the dust. Hey! I'm gonna get you too! Another one bites the dust."

Steve took cover behind a large crate, once inside the warehouse. Bullets ricocheted off steel walls and hard concrete floors. The wooden crate behind which he shielded himself was being torn apart, splinters flew and bullets went passed his head. But he wasn't about to give up. He began his chant again. Steve came up on the opposite side of the crate.

"Hey -- Another one bites the dust. Another one bites the dust Another one bites the dust. Another one bites the dust -- Ooh, shoot-out."

This skirmish was over before it began, the back door was open and Steve repeated his previous strategy. It seemed to be working well, not so much as a scratch. He smelled his Cigar smoke again. Steve spit the spent cigarette out of his mouth and cleared a jammed cartridge from the chamber. He spoke again; he knew it would be his last time.

"There are plenty of ways you can hurt a man, and bring him to the ground. You can beat him. You can cheat him. And you leave him when he's down. But I'm ready, yes, I'm ready for you. I'm standin' on my own two feet."

He rounded the corner, bullets tore into his flesh, like hot globes molten energy they passed right through him, he didn't feel a thing. In reality, he was dead, but he continued. He voice very faint, but his beat still strong. Steve would finish this ballad now.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip. Repeating to the sound of the beat.

Another one bites the dust -- Another one bites the dust. And another one gone and another one gone. Another one bites the dust. Hey! I'm gonna get you too. Another one bites the dust.

And then it was over. A group of men had fallen in a circle around him, his boot still squished in the pooling blood. His heart long stopped, but the beat continued to the tap of his foot and the melody still escaping his throat -- It was over.