Die Writing

Hello, brother

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on May 5, 2011


Now, imagine this storyline, all the bits from “Guns of St. Michael,” as a comic book.


The young man stared into the coffee. The sun’s come up a couple of hours ago, and he’s been up too long. Sleep deprivation wrapped him in surreal detachment. He thought he was watching himself absent-mindedly stir the coffee. The prospect of a whole other day was annoying.

Someone dropped into the chair across the table suddenly. So suddenly, the stranger could as well have materialized in the chair. The stranger dusted his jacket, looked at the young man, and smiled.

“You are new here, aren’t you?”

“Uh… yeah. Never been in this place before.” Speaking took entirely too much concentration.

“Oh, I didn’t mean this joint.” He took a drag of a cigarette. Ice rattled in his whiskey glass. Did he have all of those things when he sat down? The young man couldn’t be sure. He focused on the man. Long, curly black hair. Work black jacket. Curious, intelligent eyes.

“What do you mean then?”

“I mean the world.” The stranger was staring at the young man, excited like he’d just figured out the world’s most precious puzzle. “You’re the new messiah, brother,” he said gleefully, leaning forward.

“Uh…” Was this real? “And who are you then?”

“Ah. Yes. Well. I’m Satan.” Another drag. Does he ever ash that smoke?



Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on May 2, 2011


No badass one-liners this time.


The Guardian Angel led the Young Man through the massive doors into the hallway. It was heavy and dark in here, like a permanent dusty twilight. Everything was cold marble and oppressively dark wood.

“Await,” said the angel. The deep voice echoed within his robes and armor plates. “The Arbiters will now come to their decision.” He turns around and moved back toward the doors.

“Wait, hold on, they don’t know everything. They can’t decide like that!”

The Guardian Angel paused, perplexed by the please.

“The Arbiters do know everything. All your deeds and experiences have been recorded. All your actions, thoughts, feelings, every last sensation are known.”

“But they weren’t there! How can they understand if they weren’t there?”

There was silence as the Angel froze in his stride, and rested his weighty gaze on the Young Man.

“I think I deserve a chance to explain myself. I am more than a bunch of records!”

“YOU WILL WAIT.” The words filled the hallway, compressed the air, more of a thud than a sentence. Like a violent blast of a hurricane, they left the hallway quieter, more silent than before.

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Can’t kill me

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on April 7, 2011

The Young Man stood, swaying. His right eye was swollen shot. The busted lips were caked with blood. Crushed bone and dirt ground on his teeth. He tried to focus on the demon in front of him. It wasn’t easy. He tried to spit, but couldn’t; he merely drooled bloody spittle on his chin.

“I was thinking…” The voice was hoarse. “During this little friendly exchange…” He grinned, baring his teeth in a painful grimace, had to pause to catch some breath. “Rage all you want, but you’re too much of a pussy to actually kill me.”

Simple works

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on March 24, 2011

“Why do you still use revolvers?” The young man asked. Laid out on the table in front of him was a pair of semi-automatics that were taken apart.

“Simple construction. Simple works,” St. Michael replied without looking up. He was methodically wiping down each gun, then loading the cylinders, one shell at a time.

“You got only six shots in each, though. I got fifteen bullets in each clip. That’s a lot of bullets, a lot of fire power.”

“Accurate also works.”

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Not feeling it

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on February 23, 2011

“I can smell your breath, Michael, you can’t hide!” Screamed the demon. He was strutting, toting an enormous weapon with both hands. His eyes were scanning the rubble through clouds of smoke and dust.

Rounding another pile, he finally came upon his foe. St. Michael was sprawled on a pile of what used to be a brick wall. His coat was torn up, his clothes bloodied. Every shallow breath made his chest shudder, aching with broken ribs. He was half-buried in the rubble; a thick slab of concrete was crushing his right shoulder.

“Why won’t you die, Michael, why won’t you just fucking die?” The demon shouldered the weapon and grinned.

“I don’t feel like it,” St. Michael spit up thick blood as he spoke.


The demon staggered and dropped. The bullet ripped a huge hole in his chest.

“And I’m a better shot.”


Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on November 20, 2010


The right music makes all the difference.


I raise my arms toward the sky, and am aflame. With drums, and blades, and guns, harroo, haroo, I march on with hell’s fires in my deathly wake.

I speak this last prayer, and am no more. I am vengeance.

Good and Evil

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on October 11, 2010

“What’s evil, then?” Asked the young man. He was leaning against the wall, wincing at the ringing in his ears. There was an acrid smell of gunpowder in the air, a thin cloud of smoke.

“Destruction,” answered St. Michael, standing in the middle of the cellar and methodically loading his gun. A few motionless bodies lay on the floor.

“And good?”

“Letting shit be.” The revolver’s drum was full, and the gun went back into its holster.

“Those don’t seem like opposites…” the young man said after a pause.

“Imagine that. The world ain’t made of straight lines.”

St. Michael’s guns

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on August 30, 2010


This might become another series.


“So… can you die?”

“Yeah. Not that I’m gonna make it easy for anyone.”


“Watch your mouth. Also, next time – actually shoot somebody.”