The air reeked of vile vices and the sour smell of life long past due. Grilled meats sizzled, cigar smoke plumed into a hazy cloud hanging in the air, the smell of alcohol burned, and the floral scent of barmaids wafted on slight breezes through the saloon. All of it paled in comparison to the stench of these ever-living flesh bags holding onto dear life long past its due date, like rancid meat needing to be incinerated to keep disease from infecting those still wholesome.

  Rigor scanned the room. These filthy ingrates spat in the face of Necroth, tossing aside the natural order of death like a child done with a broken toy. Necroth was no toy. Necroth is the Lord of Death, Slayer of Stars, Chancellor of Bone, and as such, he is to be respected by all living things, giving their paltry lives meaning beyond engorging their insatiable appetites until the world ends.

  Rigor Mortis would bring that respect to each and every one of them.

  One death at a time.

  The saloon was filled with men at the tables, several barmaids, the barkeep, and a piano player all gazed wide-eyed at Rigor standing in a pool of glass, at first, not sure what to make of the unsightly interruption, until they recognized one of their own grasped by the throat, filled with bullet holes, dangling like a dead fish.

  One patron stood, pulling his sword from his belt, “Fuck, he’s got Hank by the throat!”

  Another shouted, “Fucking gut him!” The men ripped their swords from their belts and began to circle Rigor.

  The barkeep grabbed a double barrel shotgun off the wall behind him, aiming it at Rigor as men pushed in from their tables. Rigor chucked the dead man at him, toppling the barkeep to the floor, blasting off one round into the roof, wood and giant’s flesh trickled down on him.

  The piano player began playing a lively toon as the men rushed in to attack. One man stepped in first, showing his courage, slashing at the Death Knight’s head. Rigor stepped back and swiping his axe at the man’s gut, cutting through soft tissue, his axe lodged into his spine.

  Before any more guards could intervene, Rigor Mortis turned and kicked a table over, knocking back four men, sending booze and cards flying into the air, crashing down all around.

  Another goon rushed Rigor, trying to land a swipe at his knees. Rigor thrust his foot down on the blade, stomping on the sword, snapping it in two. The Death Knight used the man’s forward momentum and lifted him high in the air over his head. He slammed the goon down on the flipped table leg, impaling him on the wooden spike.

  The man screamed as he looked at the wooden leg that ripped through his chest. Rigor turned back to the man with his axe still embedded in him. With one tug, Rigor ripped the axe out and kicked the man into two more of his comrades.

  A barmaid tossed a bottle to a bearded goon, who smashed it down on Rigor’s head. Liquor dowsed the Death Knight, dripping from his black armor. Rigor turned and grabbed the man’s arm, still holding a broken bottle. Rigor smashed his elbow down, forcing it back into his neck, jamming in clean into his flesh. The man staggered backwards, choking on his own blood, gagging as he fell.

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  Mortis turned to the barmaid. She tried to run, screaming as he grabbed her by the hair. He held tight as she squirmed under his hand. Faster and faster, he twisted her around, holding her hair tight in his gauntlet. Her flailing body kept the other men at bay; they looked for an opening to jump in, fear creeping into their minds as they looked about their comrades writhing in agony, choking on their own blood, and laying lifeless on the saloon floor.

  The barmaid’s scalp began to tear as the force was separating her skin from her skull. The skin finally gave, ripping her scalp away as she flew into the wall of liquor, crashing into the booze, glass shards piercing her skin, alcohol burning her freshly shaven scalp. She shrieked, her hands trembling as she tried to stop the burning on her head.

  Bullets cut through the saloon, dozens penetrating the wood and crashing into the goons and Rigor alike. His armor sparked as bullets ricocheted off, splintering the wood around him.

  There was no time to think about the gunfire. He had to finish this fight first, then he would kill the one on the gun. He brandished his axe and jumped into the first goon nearby, crushing him into the wooden floor, his chest caving into a pulp of organs as they landed.

  Another patron pulled an old pistol out and fired a round. It pinged against Rigor’s helmet. The Death Knight’s head jerked up from the impact. His head slowly tilted back down, his milky white eyes burning into the man, sealing his fate. Rigor slashed upwards, chopping the man’s arm off. He snatched it from the air and turned it on the remaining men. Aiming for their knees, he squeezed the trigger of the gun.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  He fired until it was empty. Bullets burst through each of their knees, blowing out bone and cartilage, and severing tendons. The men dropped to their knees in pain. The glanced up at the black menace in front of them, its axe raised high, ready to strike.

  With one swing, Rigor cut three heads off in a row. The bodies toppled forward, their heads frozen with faces of horror and pain.

  The barkeep feebly stood, avoiding the screaming woman next to him. He pulled the shotgun up, hoping to get off one good shot, but Rigor was too fast for him. The killer grabbed the gun and bent it backwards, breaking the barkeep’s hand on the trigger, until the shotgun was under the barkeep’s chin.

  Rigor jerked down, pulling the trigger, and blowing the barkeep’s head into bits of gore that painted the saloon red.

  Bullets ripped through the walls, shattering liquor bottles all around. Booze began to flood around the saloon.

  The piano player kept playing, even as lead shred through his body. Rigor marched over to him, grabbing him by the back of his head, slamming him down into the piano with a crash of keys and broken stings.

  Rigor glanced down at his armor. Bullets were lodged into the metal, bulging out in an unsightly manner. He placed the blade of his axe on the top of his breastplate and drug it down with a quick jerk, breaking the lead away from his protection.

  Sparks erupted out, landing in a puddle of booze, igniting the liquid. The flames spread like dust in the wind, catching the saloon afire. The woman’s screams ceased as the flames overtook her, a small explosion rocked out from behind the bar.

  Fire spread quickly as more bullets erupted into the saloon. The front door was engulfed with flames as patrons burst out of the saloon alight with fire. Rigor looked around, heading to the back of the building. The outer wall here wasn’t wood like the rest of the building. He held his hand up, pressing against the substance. It was softer and squishy under his gauntlet.

  Flesh. The Giant’s flesh.

  He took his axe and swung it down on the fleshy substance as the flames began to rage out all around him, his armor catching fire.

  …

  Copperhead smirked as his bullets plowed into the saloon. A fire started out and was beginning to smoke out Giantown. There was no way the Death Knight could escape this mess. He would be filled with lead and burned to a crisp. Nothing could survive that.

  Could they?

  Copperhead yelled out for another magazine. He swallowed hard as he began to reload. Something at the back of his mind was eating away at him, but he pushed it aside. His empire would thrive. He would live decades longer. He hadn’t lost yet. He wouldn’t lose now.

  Would he?