Execution Ground

A line of dead men and women with blood soaked burlap sacks are being dragged away by mercs while two mercenaries bring in one more for the firing line. Like the others he too had a heavy burlap sack drawn over his face, tied tightly around his neck to keep it from falling off. The man was wearing a brown jacket that looked rather worn out, and his hands are tied behind his back. He wears outdated camouflaged pants, and a really cheap pair of leather boots that were quickly falling apart. He pauses, halting the two hauling him as a body of a woman passes them by. Despite being completely blind from the bag, the prisoner clearly states in Serbian: ("What a waste"). The two men push the slightly taller man along, cursing and grunting at his remark.

Once they reach the execution area, a courtyard with a fountain and blood stains about. Men with RPD's and RPK's and AK47's and UZI's, Dragunov's are about in this field. In total, there are 8 who are already waiting for the three men to arrive. Four have their weapons laid out or against a small wooden table the four are currently playing cards on. The men laugh and are drinking vodka, apparently the winner gains a shot of vodka in this game.

Two of the remaining three who are not on break are patrolling with their RPK's and the last is sitting on the ledge of the fountain, sharpening a large Bowie Knife. The man with the knife looks up as the two haul the prisoner in the shade of the ruined building where dried blood stained the rubble covered ground, and forced the larger man to his knees. The man with the knife gets up, spinning his blade as he makes his way to the prisoner. He hunkers down beside the prisoner, playing with the knife. The two men who hauled him break off and join the other two patrolling; one of the men pulls out a thick cigar and lights it up before puffing on it.

The prisoner shifts his body slightly. The man with the knife looks up to the sack covered face. ("You know why you here? Comrade?") the man asks. The prisoner shifts a little again, and could be heard chuckling a little. ("Oh...I'm sure everyone goes through this routine when it's their birthday. I mean, I'm awaken by two of the most friendliest individuals who place a blind fold on me before personally escorting me to my surprise party. I'm really quite flattered you cared.") the prisoner replies sarcastically.

The man with the knife smiles, looking back down upon his knife. ("Your humor is amusing, but it will not save you from your fate. To humor you back, I shall answer for you why. You are not of our ranks...you were not with us six months ago. You must be a spy. If not, what else could you be?")

The prisoner laughs. ("Nah, my spy days are long since behind me. I'm not too fond of the ol' 'Cloak and Dagger' tactics these days. I am simply a man who's celebrating his birthday. I guess my surprise party is being postponed I take it?")

The man with the knife presses the blade against the burlap sack and forces it a little. ("Don't...fuck with me. We know who you are, and know that your existence among us is not for us to benefit. Since you've arrived we have lost countless more men and women, and you expect me to believe that you are not somehow involved Comrade? Do you think me to be a fucking moron?!") he exclaimed, pressing the knife right against the mans neck.

The prisoner sighs, seemingly unnerved by the mans threatening blade. ("I wouldn't dare to fuck with you. I might catch something I wouldn't be able to get rid of...") he starts then chuckles. ("Perhaps if you didn't kill everyone you suspected of treason, you would still have an army.") he adds when the knife is pulled away and the blunt side of the blade is smacked over the prisoner's head.

("Your smart remarks will lead you no where. You will die here and now for the treasonous acts you have committed.") he says in a declarative manner, the patrolling guards turn their heads and make their way over.

As they approach, the prisoner turns his head back to the man with the knife. ("Well, if that is the case, may I ask for a birthday request? Rather, consider it my final request?") he asks the man.

The man turns to the prisoner and chuckles. ("Heh, what would that be?")

The Prisoner lifts his head slightly. ("Oh, I'd like to have this bag removed, I'd like to have a last smoke.") he requests.

The man laughs, bringing his knife down to the prisoner's neck and cuts the cord off, pulling the bag off and tossing it aside.

Brown parted hair falls, and a man with blue eyes and reddish facial hair is revealed. A large scar runs up the left side of his cheek, just over his nose. One of the men with the RPK's aims the weapon behind the Prisoner's head, the weapon cocked and ready to be fired.




The man chuckles. ("Nice eyes there stranger, perhaps I'll cut them out when I place your bloody corpse on display for all to see, yes?") he chuckles again, and the others who are not goofing off join in.

The Prisoner chuckles as well. ("That's going to be an attractive sight.") he says and the man with the knife slides the blade back into his sheath. He kneels down, and reaches into the prisoner's coat, pulling out a large handgun revolver, heavy for even the heavy framed man to hold in one hand. He looks at it, and then back to the prisoner. ("Custom Revolver huh? 8 round capacity, long barrel with built in weights. Heavy duty caliber too. Such a waste.") he says sticking the weapon behind the waste band of his pants in the front. He reaches in again, and this time pulls out a large knife. He looks at it, and then stands up. ("You carry a machette and a revolver...interesting.")

The Prisoner laughs, but doesn't really answer. The man who holds the dagger turns to the Prisoner again and chuckles, before looking back at the sheathed blade. It looked cheap, a worn leather wrapped around grip with a crude curved pommel. He chuckles again, absently asking the prisoner in Serbian: ("So, how old are you today? 29? 30?" he says in an amused manner.

The Prisoner visibly smiles, the gun's barrel pressed behind his head now, he could feel it's cool metal grazing his skin. ("Well, if you truly wish to know; I am fifty-four years old today.") he says in an honest manner. The men laugh at the prisoner's remark, and the man who held the knife waves. ("A wise ass to the bitter end eh? Alright, give him his cigar and get this over with.") he orders, turning away from the prisoner. His attention solely transfixed by the blade, he slowly pulls back the buckle that secures the blade to the sheath.

A guard puts his cigar into the Prisoner's mouth, and the prisoner puffs. The man with RPK readies himself and the guard pulls his cigar out and backs away. The next moment a shot was fired...

The man who held the prisoner's blade finally pulls the long blade out, and is greeted with an engraved Spade upon the blade's face. He cocked an eyebrow, noticing the weapon was essentially a large Combat Styled Bowie Knife like he had just put away-and it looked rather sharp. He turns the blade slightly, and a reflection of his own face shined in the blade-he tilts it slightly and sees the Prisoner smiling behind him.

Eyes wide he turns around on the balls of his feet, the Prisoner was standing, a guard was on the ground holding his leg, while the other was slumped against the wall with his rifle. The man stands for a moment bewildered when the still bound prisoner brings in his face and stabs the lit cigar into the man's right eye. The man screams, recoiling in pain, one hand grabbing his damaged eye, the other swinging the long blade out at the prisoner in a flurry of swings. The prisoner leans back, evading the first swing; as the injured captor swings the blade again, the Prisoner performs a backflip, extending his bound arms slightly towards the blade as it is swung, and the ropes are cut, and the hands are pulled away. Landing back onto his feet, the prisoner reaches out and grabs the captor's knife hand's wrist in mid swing and grabbed the grip of his revolver that stuck out from his captor's pants with his left hand.

The Serbian's remaining eye is white with fear and tearing with pain. He couldn't pull away from this psycho who grappled him so easily as he had just escaped. Shaking the man screams: ("Who the fuck are you?!")

The Prisoner smiles. Pulling the trigger the man's pelvis explodes with blood and organs spilling out of his torn pants. The man went white, but was still alive long enough to hear the Prisoner state: "I'm the Ace of Spades, Jack the Black Spade Taylor." he says pushing the man's dead body back, drawing the revolver from the man's pants. He levels the once heavy weapon towards the two stunned guards that were still patrolling and within seconds drops them. The weapon recoiling in his left hand, the recoil aiding in leading up to the second shot. He turns to the four remaining, who stare up from their card game. He throws his revolver up, and tosses the blade that is in his right hand-switching weapon hands in time before someone got up and aimed their RPD at Jack. Jack, with amazing superhuman speed lunges towards the fountain as the bullets fly.

A few minutes and a handful of bullets later...

Jack steps out from the execution area, swinging the empty chambers of his revolver out and reloaded it. He looks into his spade engraved blade and grins at his reflection. "Yup. Still beautiful." he then chuckles and slides the blade back into it's sheath. He whistles, walking away and into the Edonia streets spinning the revolver back into his under coat holster; a mirror reflecting a red patch with 'The Ace of Spades" written upon it.