Brandish Brandish brandy in my cup I see no faces except the silhouette of terror. He carries his weapon of warfare, a simple but deadly stick. “Gun” he called it. “AK 47” my brain responded.
He’s mouth widened and his teeth showed pure power lust. AK 47 gave him that power. He gripped the butt tightly as he agitated, foaming at the mouth for not getting his wish. He raised AK 47. AK 47 cackled as it prepared to waste another soul. At the point it was difficult to tell who was the master. The silhouette or AK 47. Master or slave. A slave to circumstance. A slave to the tool placed in his hands.
Silhouette jerked as AK 47 spit its stone right into a head. Pow.
