October 11, 2013:

Back to the dirty streets of a modern city, to the decrepit buildings that crumble under the dirt of war. The Apocalyptic Pistol unleashed the horrors of an eternal war that will end the Earth…forever. The blood will taint the seas, and drip from the planet into the oblivion of a destroyed universe, where the stars have exploded, and only the sun remains. The other planets are empty rocks that float along a crooked path, between the debris of lost planets. They are cratered, airless asteroids. Venus is now the deformed, evil twin to Earth, and the rest are filled with holes so deep, they go through to the other side. It is almost a reality that the moon is made of cheese…

Saturn has frozen to its rings of ice, with long, thin bridges. Saturn appears to be stuck with its ring, in its unforgiving marriage to the void of space. Uranus is a blazing planet, consumed by blue fire. There is no explanation for it, but it still burns, with its twisted magic, and the planet itself, is a smoldering, black pile of ash. Mercury has been swallowed by the sun’s extending corona, and mars undergoes construction as highly advanced intellectuals prepare it for Earth’s human wrath. Jupiter and Neptune are Swiss cheese, like the moon, and Pluto was knocked into the blazing Uranus by crossing paths with Neptune. Space is blacker than ever, and civilization is dead. Destruction reigns, and the legend of the Apocalyptic Pistol was born. Its never-ending mountain of bullets takes us all, one by one, and slips us into our nightmares as our unforgiven souls plummet into Hell.

October 12, 2013

Missiles continue to collide as the legend of the Apocalyptic Pistol reaches authorities. The very ones who encourage and thicken the raging war, which consumes the entire planet. They bathe in innocent blood. They spill the blood of the innocents and unknown. Any man with the mark of the Rebels is immediately incinerated and crushed under their Soviet-like hammer. It is simply as I thought: the Nazis aren’t dead, Hitler is dead. The missiles become echoes of the twisted past, and mark the sound of what modern history is: an explosive reaction to fast-paced, advanced, and complicated living. Nothing is simple anymore, and shall never be again, because the men who twist the words of the people speak with the voice of obsession. It is always money that drives them forward to carry out the orders of doom. And doom is especially blood-starved in this century, with a bottomless lust.

The table shakes even now, and I write by the feeble, flickering light of an old lamp salvaged from a Cracker Barrel. They are all gone now, but their haunting ruins shall remain, until the vision is edited by another to suit his tastes. The oil is low, and the curtain glows continuously from the explosions beyond the fragile glass. I should probably imprison myself securely by sliding the iron doors across all entrances. Even the horrors of prison are like racing through flowery meadows, compared to this bloodbath of a war. The Earth shall never again be clean and washed of sin. Not when it marinates, slowly, in the sinful juices of our kind, like it always has.

Today, though, I had a difficult time trying to escape the Black Empire’s military. It was only a few soldiers, but they had been injected with the mysterious, mind-scattering virus. It was created to cure cancer, but it causes loss of memory, and brain dysfunctions. They were controlled by it. I dodged bullets launched continuously from machine guns that spit 2,000 rounds a minute. My pistol was hardly enough, but I dare not let go, for it speaks all too well. It is blackened around the tip of the barrel from an explosive shot which I fired long ago…when my daughter was 14. She was captured soon after her graduation from college, and the rest of her family’s whereabouts are unknown. I seem to be her only relative, but she doesn’t know that. She believes I bailed out on her long ago, or that I may be dead…but I escaped from the soldiers for her. It is because of her that I live to fight another day.

I will leave a few spots of blood on the corner of this page, to mark the first gunshot taken during this war with Hell. I’m sure it shall soak through to the other side, but the wound will still be red until the pages no longer show blood. Until then, I struggle to write. The bullet has pierced through my flesh, colliding with my bone, but it only did enough to wedge itself into a socket. My left arm throbs, and I can feel the lead when I roll my shoulder. Tomorrow, I will pull it out, and thread the sturdy needle that I keep taped on the inside of this book. All other needles have been confiscated, and reassigned to threading enemy flags and banners. They hoarded a group of women to keep at it until they drop dead at their work, or stab themselves out of being driven into oppressive madness.

I dropped my pen earlier today to help bring in a shipment of pistols. They are all the same model that mine is, and each rebel shall never walk about without one. They are nicely selected guns. Star M40 Firestars. It is a sleek, Spanish gun, noted in guides for an alteration in the internal design, which is credited for its stunning accuracy. I know, because mine gave a historic shot nearly six years ago. I shot down some leader of some country, and I am now considered an insult and danger to all mankind…or what’s left of it. That bullet had been selected for the job, and it was inscribed with a name. The name puzzles secret services to this day, and I remain innocent, apart from the suspected nature of my crime. I will rise tomorrow, however, and shoot down as many delusional, robotic-like soldiers as I can from being filled with a renewed inspiration. I will kill the Black Empire for their mistakes, and they will each fall to the blood-filled seas, and drift out until they plummet from the surface of the Earth. I will make pistols the passion of the people, and death to the enemy the national obsession. Eat my gun, and wash it down with a lead mine, because you will plead for death before you come face to face with the black barrel of my pistol.

October 13, 2013

It is hardly the early hours of another day, and I am restless from the pain that has kept me tossing in my sheets. I’ll be saving that bullet, and I’m glad I have that Altoids container from the last time civilization was still feebly crawling toward its grand destination. The Altoids are gone, but I hold various items within it to remind me of this past, and of the great pistol which started it all: the Apocalyptic Pistol. I am squirming in my chair now, I must pull out the bullet.

It is amazing how much time passes. I have not so much as laid a finger upon my pen since earlier. I spent another day dodging bullets, and I escaped them all. My blood remains safe, and I have killed 36 soldiers of the Black Empire. Not much of a record, compared to the time when I blew up a secret plant, killing thousands of them. It was a virus plant, and an awful disease had been in the making. It was a disease that burned the skin, peeling it back from the muscle. The muscle would become soft, and jello-like, bleeding all the while. I have seen it turn people almost literally inside-out. Their sensitive muscles cannot resist infection, and they have died like that, in a puddle of pus.

The pain in my shoulder has subsided. The blood-stained bullet is now buried with the other items I keep inside that small, metal tin. My shoulder was nearly popped from its socket as I pulled it out. I think I’ll throw out the tweezers tomorrow, into the acid sewers, and forget it ever happened. No need to remember pain that cannot be felt again.

I will awake to a bloody dawn tomorrow, and I am leaving this prison that I had lived in since this war started in 2008. The iron-plated walls give off a hollow ring from each sound that has ever been made outside. But I never knew what it was, because I actually never looked out the window once since I had lost myself in the sea of faces, hidden from the Black Empire’s view. I looked like any other, and they hoped each day that I would amount in the daily death toll, but I remained lost to their beam of blinding hatred. I also heard some news today, and the newspaper clipping shall stay fixed to this page. LEGEND OF THE APOCALYPTIC PISTOL:

Fact or Fiction

It ends there. No name, no pistol, and no man. The article is completely intact but it was interrupted, and printed anyway. The Black Empire knows something, but its mysteries shall remain the shadows of the day until the light of the truth is discovered. Of course, I know it too, but it isn’t safe to spend time over a diary until I move from this place.

It is a late night, and I have finally settled into another place. I picked up a few along the way, as we made our way to the safe haven. I’ll be staying here for only a short time, but on the 18^th, I’ll be moving to a large forest up the river to another plant. Once I have rid the world of another danger, I’m going to the Black Empire itself, and the pistol will become only blacker around the tip, and another name, another bullet, and another man will be added to the story. I can hear the sizzling acid outside, gnawing at the concrete tunnels, but the water leaps up to drive it away. I will explore the sewers tomorrow, and follow that acid-water river up to the plant. We shall have clean water again, and not thirst because of the Black Empire. The Empire shall thirst, and they will drink their own blood to satisfy their hunger. The bullet goes into the pistol.

October 26, 2013

The day began to quickly, and it shall end in a slow, painful vision. A bloody vision of Hell on Earth. We were awoken before dawn by the howls and snarls of bloodthirsty dogs. We hardly escaped as the Empire closed in behind us, but I managed to kill a few with the pistol. I killed them so that they mightn’t follow me down the sewers. Today, the sewers shall be a maze, and I have no chance for exploration. I must guess the tunnels, and follow the acrid breeze of death to its roost. The smell of acid is very strong from the north, and I follow it with caution.

So far, however, I have run into mutated rats. They are quite large in size; two feet from nose to tail, and a mouth full of pointed needles. Three inch incisors nearly gripped me by the throat, but again, my blood remains safe from poisons. They are all dead now, and I tossed them into the raging acid. They are no good to eat, because the mutation shall simply pass itself along until it destroys itself.

The tunnels down here are endless, and I have nearly tripped from the roots of trees. The walls are like the tiled tunnels that run temporarily underground, and any noise is certainly enhanced by their hard surfaces. The walls ooze and leak, and the pipes rattle as more rats scamper away from the glow of my flashlight. It is the only light I have, and the sewer is dark, dirty, and perilous. No man has been here since the war began, and no man shall return. Only the water remains the solitary visitor to keep the tunnel from misery. It is a wonder this place has not collapsed under the weight of the war machines yet, but it is old, and some older structures are sturdier, like my pistol.

Now, the bullet is loaded.