Statistically, depending on what end of the barrel they're on, one can only 'win' Russian Roulette so many times. "Luck," allegedly, is said to contribute to one's success rate in that particular game as well, but Vicious can't remember the last time he'd curried luck's favor. If he'd had any sort of luck before, it's most certainly run out. Which is why he's not at all surprised to wake up with a mouth full of dirt at the bottom of a pit, six feet deep. It did offend him, however, once he came to and realized that, damn her, she didn't even have the decency to put him in his own family's crypt! The absolute madwoman had just tossed him in some bloody hole, somewhere!
Hell, she didn't even have the decency to make sure he was actually dead first!
Sputtering dirt and something distinctly iron-flavored --could be the soil, could be blood-- Vicious snaps upright in his little pit of despair, swiping mud and clumps of dirt from his hair, face scrunched in immense displeasure. Surveying his body for injury, he notes that aside from the two bullet wounds he's sustained, his loving wife hadn't even bothered to dress him for his funeral; he's in the same clothes she tortured him in. How kind of her. Upon his observation, however, he notes that some of the dirt is... wiggling?
What is that? Oh, Jesus is that a worm?! Since when do bugs live in Martian soil!?
He stands abruptly, ignoring the stabbing pains in his legs and back to frantically brush the remainder of the earth and vermin from his body, internally grateful that he's able to pitch this pit fit in private.]
Unbelievable--!
[FWUMP! A mix of dirt, mud and those wiggling creatures rain upon him, once again entering his mouth and leaving him near blind for a few seconds. He roars, beyond irate, wiping the mud from his eyes before making quick work of scaling the grave's wall to confront whoever is responsible for this. Brushing his hands off on his pantlegs, he continues to wipe at his face as he rounds the pit to berate and/or threaten the grave-digger, completely blind to the monstrous form before him.
Before he can utter a single coherent gripe, however, Vicious is interrupted by the familiar woosh of a weapon cutting through the air towards his head. Instinct kicks in just in time to duck, and he forces his eyes open through the burning to take note of the massive form looming over him.]
Ah. [Maybe he should have stayed in the hole.]
[Once upon a time, a friend told him that the big guys weren't always worth it. Sometimes it was okay to just run. Unfortunately for Vicious, he is like a deer in headlights, frozen in place, trying to wrap his mind around something he can't quite understand. Since when are humans that big? Why can't he make sense of his face? Is this a nightmare? A hallucination brought on by starvation and sleep-deprivation? Hell, maybe?
If something doesn't snap him out of it, he might end up in the pit again with a few new holes. That pitchfork looks about as unfriendly as the monster wielding it.]
Vicious | Netflix's Cowboy Bebop
[She won.
Statistically, depending on what end of the barrel they're on, one can only 'win' Russian Roulette so many times. "Luck," allegedly, is said to contribute to one's success rate in that particular game as well, but Vicious can't remember the last time he'd curried luck's favor. If he'd had any sort of luck before, it's most certainly run out. Which is why he's not at all surprised to wake up with a mouth full of dirt at the bottom of a pit, six feet deep. It did offend him, however, once he came to and realized that, damn her, she didn't even have the decency to put him in his own family's crypt! The absolute madwoman had just tossed him in some bloody hole, somewhere!
Hell, she didn't even have the decency to make sure he was actually dead first!
Sputtering dirt and something distinctly iron-flavored --could be the soil, could be blood-- Vicious snaps upright in his little pit of despair, swiping mud and clumps of dirt from his hair, face scrunched in immense displeasure. Surveying his body for injury, he notes that aside from the two bullet wounds he's sustained, his loving wife hadn't even bothered to dress him for his funeral; he's in the same clothes she tortured him in. How kind of her. Upon his observation, however, he notes that some of the dirt is... wiggling?
What is that? Oh, Jesus is that a worm?! Since when do bugs live in Martian soil!?
He stands abruptly, ignoring the stabbing pains in his legs and back to frantically brush the remainder of the earth and vermin from his body, internally grateful that he's able to pitch this pit fit in private.]
Unbelievable--!
[FWUMP! A mix of dirt, mud and those wiggling creatures rain upon him, once again entering his mouth and leaving him near blind for a few seconds. He roars, beyond irate, wiping the mud from his eyes before making quick work of scaling the grave's wall to confront whoever is responsible for this. Brushing his hands off on his pantlegs, he continues to wipe at his face as he rounds the pit to berate and/or threaten the grave-digger, completely blind to the monstrous form before him.
Before he can utter a single coherent gripe, however, Vicious is interrupted by the familiar woosh of a weapon cutting through the air towards his head. Instinct kicks in just in time to duck, and he forces his eyes open through the burning to take note of the massive form looming over him.]
Ah. [Maybe he should have stayed in the hole.]
[Once upon a time, a friend told him that the big guys weren't always worth it. Sometimes it was okay to just run. Unfortunately for Vicious, he is like a deer in headlights, frozen in place, trying to wrap his mind around something he can't quite understand. Since when are humans that big? Why can't he make sense of his face? Is this a nightmare? A hallucination brought on by starvation and sleep-deprivation? Hell, maybe?
If something doesn't snap him out of it, he might end up in the pit again with a few new holes. That pitchfork looks about as unfriendly as the monster wielding it.]