Erron walked for a few more hours through dark alley ways and busy streets until he finally found out that he was lost.

In his day and age on Earthrealm, towns were composed of about three buildings and a couple of houses. This city was huge in comparison. Buildings and complexes going on for miles, big, metal vehicles everywhere, and so many freaking lights!

By now, he'd given up his search for Fourth; that ship had sailed far away from where he was shipwrecked. Now, he just wanted to find a place to sleep. Even in his wandering days, he never slept on the streets if there was an available inn nearby.

He just hoped there was an available inn nearby. He found ten bucks in the pocket of his new jacket,--Why'd he try to mug me if he had his own damn money?--so he could pay legally if he had to.

Or not, since he had no idea what prices were like nowadays.

He walked until it was dark, and the street lights lit up by themselves. At this point, though, he was hardly surprised by Earthrealm technology. Instead, he was busy focusing on something much more interesting.

Someone was following him.

You don't survive ten years in the Wild West and hundreds in the Outworld wilderness without keen instincts. He felt the presence of another a while back, but now, he was certain the person was following him. However, it wouldn't do to twirl around and shoot the stalker in the street, so he just kept walking but never let his guard down for a second.

A few minutes later, he found an inn. He was exhausted by then, and he didn't even bother looking at the name before dragging his tired body through the door. He pulled down his mask and walked over to the woman at the desk.

"How can I help you sir," she asked with a voice as tired as he felt.

"How much would a night cost here?" he asked, pulling out the ten.

"Depends," she responded, "Do you want a kitchen?"

Ooh. Extravagant, but expensive. "No thanks."

"Then that'll be fifty dollars."

Well then...

"Any chance you could... take pity on a weary traveller?" Worth a shot.

"Look, son," the woman began, "If you don't have the money, beat it." Shot and a miss.

Erron was never one to be affected by a little sass, but he wish it hadn't come to this. He had been saving this for a special occasion.

"Fine," he started, taking off his left boot. "You may want to wash it," he continued, reaching into the damp footwear, "but I'm sure it..." he placed a gold coin the size of his heel on the counter, "... checks out."

The woman's eyes nearly bulged out of her head in wonder. "Is that... real?"

Better be, seeing as I had shoot that giant ten times before he keeled over. By far, one of my least favorite bounty hunts. "Sure is," he replied with a grin, " and, y'know. I think I will take a room with a kitchen."

The woman quickly snatched the gold coin and gave Erron a small key. "Room 64, sir."

Erron smiled and took his key. Before he headed to his room, however, he told the woman that if any kind gents come looking for him, send them up.

______________________________________

The room was pretty nice. He gathered that much before passing out on the queen-size bed. It didn't even compare to his quarters in the palace, but he wasn't complaining at this point.

In his dream, he was back in Outworld with his friends. In all honesty, he really missed them, even D'Vorah.

Hell, especially D'Vorah.

He missed arguing with the Kytinn and explaining Earthrealm to her. He'll never forget the time she actually got drunk. She swore that if he ever were to recount that tale, she would lay eggs in his eyeballs. He doubted she could do that, but the threat was heeded.

He was just getting into a more detailed dream about his fifth wife,-- his favorite-- when he was awoken by a loud crash. Knowing what was next, he wrenched himself out of bed, grabbing his revolvers.

When he got to the kitchen, he first noticed the ugly design that the kitchen was laid out in. He secondly noticed the five men dressed in all black and armed with knives. "There you are," one of the bigger guys said.

"Evening, friend," Erron said, cracking his neck. He noticed the men's lack of guns.

"I'm guessing you know why we're here, cowboy?" he asked. The man was the only one with a red bandana. Must be the leader

"Yeah, I do," Black answered, "but you'll find it more difficult without a gun."

The leader's face turned into a frown at once. "We were told to, and I quote," he was obviously not thrilled by this quote, "'To give the man a fighting chance.' Lucky bastard, you are."

"Hmm, that's admirable," Erron stated, "In that case..." He then put his guns onto the kitchen counter. No one-- okay, some-- would call Erron Black lower than a gang member. "Let's do this. Who's first?" The gunless gunslinger cracked his knuckles and subtly checked his surroundings.

He was next to a big ice box; heavy, but could be tipped if needed. A few feet forward were drawers probably stocked full of knives and sharp cutlery...

Or spoons and whisks. It was a gamble at best.

There was a table with chairs and a vase, but not much in the way of conventional weaponry.

Looks like hell just have to open his mind to unconventional weaponry.

This oughta be fun.

The first guy to run at him raised his knife high and charged. Erron ducked out of the way of the downward stab and punched the guy in the hip and gut with a quick one-two. He then grabbed the attacker by the scruff of his neck and slammed his face into the icebox.

He slid under the next man to approach him, knocking his feet out from under him. Erron then quickly sprang to his feet, yanked open a drawer and pulled something out at random. By then, his second attacker had gotten to his feet and was preparing to stab Erron in the stomach. The Outworlder quickly swung whatever was in his hand into the gangster's face. Judging by the bloody ribbons that fell to the floor with a splat, his weapon was a cheese grater. The man stumbled back, screaming and clutching his bloodied face.

On the bright side, he'll have a pretty nice scar.

He blocked the third man's stab with the grater, sharp steel piercing the soft metal with ease. Using this situation to his benefit, he twisted the cheese grater and yanked the knife out of his enemy's hand. He tossed the now useless hunk of metal to the side and reached into another drawer, pulling out a frying pan.

Erron sighed while the other two men started quietly giggling. Even his current opponent was laughing at him.

The skillet-wielder scoffed angrily before, with surprising speed, lifting the frying pan high and bringing it down on his attacker's head, knocking him out with a comical "Bang!"

"Next," Erron said smugly. However, surprisingly, he saw even more smug smiles on the other two gangsters' faces.

Before he could react, a thick arm wrapped around his throat, putting him in a tight headlock. Apparently, he didn't slam the first attacker hard enough; a mistake he was paying for at the moment.

As the oxygen was cut off from his body, Erron struggled to think of a way out of this predicament. Since pulling the man's arm off his neck seemed unlikely, he would have to come up with another plan.

C'mon Erron, you survived a drunken hug from the Kahn. (Another story he probably shouldn't recount) You can definitely take this.

Relying on nothing but pure luck, he shoved himself and his attacker near a drawer. Sputtering and suffocating, he struggled to get the drawer open. In the end, he barely managed to flick it open with his fingertips. Stretching his arm to the limit, he managed to reach in and pull out the first thing his hand grabbed.

He had no clue what it was,-- some sort of giant, two pronged fork-- but it was sharp enough to sink into the gangster's arm and force him to release his grip on the gunslinger's neck. Before his blue face was even back to its original hue, Erron twisted around and punched the man three times; gut, throat, and eye. This time, he was knocked quite out.

Erron had to catch his breath quickly since the next two challengers, the leader and his final lackey, attacked him simultaneously. He blocked a stab from the goon and ducked under a slash sent by the leader. While rising, he intentionally slammed his head into the lackey's jaw and his elbow into the leader's temple. His next punch, however, was blocked and countered by the leader with a slash of his knife that grazed Erron's brow. Blood quickly impaired the gunslinger's keen sight. However, one doesn't need sight to perform a full body tackle.

Erron charged into the leader's chest, hearing the knife clatter to the floor and shoving him into an open closet door. He quickly had to spin around to block another attack from the lackey. Grabbing the gangster's knife hand, he kicked him twice in the shin and kneed the goon in the gut. With surprising strength and perseverance, though, the gangster was able to grab Erron by the shoulders and throw him into the tiny bathroom. The gunslinger hit the linoleum wall with a grunt.

When the goon came to try to finish the job,-- this time with his and the leader's knife-- Erron realized he would have to block the knives with something; there not being enough room to dodge. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the nearby toilet seat and wrenched it of its hinge. He barely brought it up in time to block the dual blades.

With a triumphant smirk, Erron placed his foot on his opponent's chest and shoved him backwards into a wall, shattering a mounted mirror in his fall. When the fallen lackey looked up, he was most likely more than a little confused to see a Western cowboy knock him out with a toilet seat.

Before the exhausted Outworlder could relax, however, the leader of this unsuccessful assassination squad burst out of the closet he was in, armed with a broom handle.

Erron ducked under the first swing and blocked the second with the toilet seat, wondering how his day came to this. At the next strike, he hooked the wooden weapon with his pearly white one and kicked the gangster's hand, making him drop the makeshift weapon. Erron then completed the combo with a booted kick to the jaw. The man was finally incapacitated by a hard left hook to the cheek that sent two of his teeth flying out of his skull.

He had finally defeated all of them, but he still wasn't finished. He had a few things he needed to know.

He stormed over to the kitchen and retrieved his revolvers, kicking one gangster that tried to get back up. He then sped back to the leader and grabbed him by the collar of his black jacket. He pointed the gun right between the gangster's eyes and pulled back the hammer.

"Answer my question, and you and your posse might live." He didn't wait for confirmation before continuing. "You said you were ordered to kill me."

"Who sent you?"

______________________________________

The dark warehouse was hot, dusty, and damp, but there weren't many other secluded area to perform in. And besides, the warehouse had a criminal aesthetic that was impossible to resist. Especially for this eccentric gang leader.

"Hey, Jacob," the boss said to one of his men, standing in front of a mirror running a hand through his red hair before putting his hat back on. Today it was a blue fedora that conflicted with his hair color.

"Yes sir?" Jacob replied, snapping to attention. The leader of the Mambas was by no means an intimidating figure, but it made him no less scary, given his reputation.

"Tomorrow, during your rounds you might want to buy some aspirin." He turned away from the mirror and sat down at his new desk, brushing off the clean surface and pulling out a beaten, spiral notebook.

"Why sir?" Jacob questioned his boss.

"Because I am fairly certain that Ryan and his mean aren't gonna return from their mission successful, let alone without a scratch," he looked up from his notebook and stared at Jacob with a cheerful expression. "Might want to stock up on Band-Aids, as well. And get some sodas while you're at it."

"Yes sir." He was used to these requests by now. Even though Jacob assumed he was of age, the boss never drank alcohol, nor did he smoke or even swear. The man was strange. "Will that be all?"

"Yep, you can go now." He went back to writing in his notebook. God and a select few know what is actually in it, and that didn't look like changing.

"Thank you, sir." Jacob nodded his head and walked to the doorway. Before he left, though, he turned his head to say, "Good night. Mister Hunter."

Oh boy oh boy oh boy, it's been a while hasn't it?

Work and the like have been ganging up on me lately (ba dum tss) and I haven't had a lot of time nor energy to write, but now I'm back with this chapter and many more still to come. Btw, this kitchen fight scene has been in my head for a while and I'm pretty happy to finally be able to use it.

Next up is continuing Reptile's adventures in the South American jungle

Until later my gators