The smirk on Blacke's face faltered when he noticed a smile light up the femme's.

"No, Blacke, or is it White? No matter, anyhow," her words were smooth, unhurried, calm. "I might not have bullets, but I still have Walter."

"Walter?" Blacke seemed genuinely confused, which he, in fact, genuinely was.

I thought I paid him out?

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Walter's fist came at Blacke's face, a cannon ball at the end of a tree. The chunk of flesh and bone connected with Blacke, and he imagined, though only momentarily, that the words Bif, Pow, and Sha-zaam! appeared before his widening eyes in comic-book hues. Again, he only imagined this momentarily, for there are no comic book hues when one, such as Blacke, blacks out. Or did White white out? Debatable, it would seem.


Where am I? And more importantly, where did my eye-candy get off to?

Blacke awoke in a dark room, of course. Himself sitting in a chair, arms tied behind his back, legs afixed to the matching set of the chair, and Walter standing across from him, foul grin slashed across his face, both illuminated by a single flickering light above them.

Can't remember ever waking up quite like this, but hey, it's a start to something, isn't it? Especially if she walks in right... about... now.

"Hello again, Blacke," a voice cooed from behind his left ear.

"Why hello there, my sweet," he replied, his own voice emanating lust.

"Shut-up, Blacke, you disgusting scoundrel," the reply was spat.

"Ooh, I like it when you talk dirty to me."

A hand whipped across the back of his head, an angry voice following the dull crack.

"We are getting nowhere, and blindingly fast!"

"I prefer to take it slow, babe."


A few stomps later, and Blacke was once again alone in the room, staring at the blank face of Walter.


The End

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