Gurkfel skidded around the corner and stopped. He panted in the breaths. Too much. Too much. What was she? Was she still out there? The grimy, rain sodden streets of Brussels were no match to her. Brushing aside the wet, manky fringe he wiped his brow. Still breathing deep. Was she still out there? He thought about her. The gormless eyes. The running make up. The pale skin. The ragged skirt. The mud stained white top. Snap out of it, Gurk, snap out. Snap... snap snap hatch cap mak. What was happening? I've got to get out of here.
He felt a kick in the back. What? He leapt forward and smashed his face into the cracked pavement. I'm young. I'm strong. I'm not dying yet. I'm not dying yet. He spun around. There she was again! There. There. A sword stabbed and clashed into the graffittied wall. It missed him by millimetres. He fought. He fought. He smashed her face in. Yeah. He smashed her face in. He smashed her pretty little face in. All black and bruised and she was dead. She was down. She was fading that girl with the sword. Not even death itself could beat him. Gurkel.
But there was somebody else. In the shadows. A stretched and ruined face, stiched and cut and black and red and white with a leering grin and a Gurkel gave a sudden gasp as his soul went flying. The shadowed man said;
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