Whims of Mortality - Part I

Arnold held the revolver's cold barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger. It misfired, but he knew that if it hadn't it wouldn't matter anyway. He passed the gun to his left and waited for the next guy to play his turn.

There were four of them, all sat around a square table in the darkest corner of this shanty bar, barren of any other patrons. Dale sat across from him, leaning back in his chair and brandishing a cocky grin across his unshaven face. He had the most fun with this game. The others all seemed to enjoy it, but Dale bordered on obsession.

Next around the table, to Arnold's right, was Sylvia. She had long auburn hair, a permanent snooty look on her face, and five empty whiskey glasses stacked around her. She hated the three of them, but there was no one else willing to play the game, so she put up with them.

To Arnold's left was a young man with blond hair-- the man he'd passed the revolver to. Arnold wasn't sure of his name, but could tell that he was barely 20. How this guy knew the game was safe for him, Arnold wasn't sure. He was definitely too young to be 100% on his nature matching the others around the table, but here he was, hand-wobbling his way through Russian roulette.

Arnold himself was only a few years older than the blond kid, but he had plenty of confirmation that he fit in with the others. The train wreck he'd been in two years ago, getting stabbed in an alley one year ago and walking home just fine, then, most recently, being strapped into an electric chair and getting away scratch-free.

Arnold definitely fit in with this crew. He just hoped Blondie did, too.

The kid glanced around the table at each of them, trying to put on a confident face, but his eyes were blazing with terror. Dale leaned in, excitedly waiting for his turn. Sylvia leaned back and downed another glass of whiskey. The kid pulled the gun up to his temple and flashed Arnold a quick smile, then he pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang-- a flash of light-- and the wall beside Dale was coated in blood and brains.

Arnold couldn't help flinching. Dale roared with laughter as the kid's body toppled over onto the floor. Sylvia just rolled her eyes.

"GUESS THE KID DOESN'T FIT IN AFTER ALL," Dale cackled, snatching the gun up and taking his turn, even though the only bullet had just been spent.

"Really, Dale, anyone could have called that," Syliva said, waving to the barkeep for another drink. "The kid was barely old enough to know whether he was truly immortal or not. You haven't won anything here. There's just a big mess to clean, now."

Dale's smile faded and he glowered at her, tossing the gun to the middle of the table. He sat, staring at her for a moment, and Arnold thought he may start a fight. But then Dale got up, muttering to himself, and headed for the door. He shouted at the barkeep about "A mess in the back" before slamming the bar door shut.

Sylvia looked at Arnold and shrugged, then went to retrieve her new drink, leaving him alone with the gun and the dead body. He stared at the gore-coated paneling, picking a splinter from the table. Someone would have to inform the kid's family, he decided. Neither Dale or Sylvia would be bothered to do so. It would have to be him.

He rose from the table and holstered the empty revolver, then approached the kid's body and checked his pockets. No wallet. That made things more complicated. He dug around in his own pockets, searching for some loose change, and left a couple gold coins on the table for the barkeep. Following Dale's footsteps, he walked to the door and headed outside.

The night air was cool and brisk, refreshing on his skin, which he now noticed was lightly slicked with sweat. He breathed deeply, sinuses filling with the odor of a lit cigarette somewhere down the street. He would find the kid's parents and inform them of what had happened to their son, but first he needed to sleep, so he decided to head home.

A lone taxicab happened to be drifting down the street in his direction, so he stepped to the curb and waved it down. He squinted against its headlights as the cab neared then lurched to a halt just before him. The driver-side window rolled down, Arnold's glassy reflection peeling away and revealing a round-faced man with circular spectacles and a classic cabbie hat on his curly-haired head.

"Where to, bucko?" the cabbie said, his voice a harsh barking in the silence of the night.

"Noble Lane," Arnold said, leaning towards the window.

The cabbie looked him up and down, then shrugged and nodded to the back as the door locks clicked open. "Climb in."

Arnold opened the back door and stooped into the cab, straightening his coat before buckling himself in.

"You got a specific address? A house or something?" the cabbie asked, watching him in the rear-view mirror.

"No, no. Noble Lane will do."

"Alright, suit yourself." He shfited the cab's gears into 'drive' and pulled away from the curb.

They drove for a while, twisting through the narrow streets of the city. Arnold watched as the buildings outside the window shifted from quaint and rundown little houses into larger department buildings, warehouses, and eventually what measely excuse for skyscrapers the city could provide.

"You mind if I ask a question of ya?" the cab driver said eventually, tearing open the silence.

"Go ahead," Arnold said, turning his attention from the window to the back of the man's head.

The cab driver suddenly swerved the vehicle down a narrow alleyway and slammed on the brakes. Arnold caught himself from flying into the front seat, but couldn't stop the man's fist as it flew back to meet his face.

"What the hell is going on?!" he cried, clutching his nose as he tried to get a grip on the door handle.

"You're not leaving yet!" the cab driver said, smashing his fist into the automatic lock button. "I haven't asked my question."

He ripped open the glove compartment and pulled out a handgun. It was sleek, plated with gold and silver, and, suddenly, its barrel was aimed right between Arnold's eyebrows.

"What are you doing?" Arnold asked slowly.

"You must think I'm stupid. I know what you are. And believe me, this baby?" he wiggled the gun. "This baby won't have any trouble dealing with you. So about my question..."

Arnold looked at him for a while, still clutching his nose. He was immortal, so he couldn't die, but he still felt pain. He was immortal, so guns left bullet wounds, but he wouldn't develop infections, and he somehow always managed to avoid bleeding out. He was immortal, and somehow this guy expected his fancy-looking gun to take him out.

"What's your question?" Arnold pressed, pushing himself up in his seat and pulling his hand from his face. There was a thin trickle of blood trailing from his nostril.

The cab driver's expression darkened. "Where's my son, immortal?"