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*cricket chirps* *squishes it* MUAHAHAHAHAHAHHA stupid cricket!!!

Is this supposed to signify something 0.o its very deep. I like it. Everyones styles are very different, but I like this kind best.
Does this apply to your life? Very similar to mine 0.o. Anyways I'll stop babbling and get on with reviewing:

The language you use is very effective, makes mme imagine it vividly. The ending is nice, wrapping it up without anything loose, but it leaves you something to ponder..... An excellent poem. Post more of your work ^^

It sucks stare

It could be better, you only think it sucks because you wrote it.

Predator HTH: Prologue

Prologue


The man breathed heavily, his lungs bringing in as much air as possible as he ran his fastest to escape the devil hunting him. The man's normally well-kept hair was out of its tight ponytail and flying everywhere as his legs pumped like pistons, propelling him down the dark alley. His azure eyes darted left and right, looking for somewhere the devil wouldn't follow.

That place would never come.

The man slammed hard into a wall, the dead end of the alleyway. "Dead end..." He muttered to himself, as if he couldn't believe the reality of his situation. His hands felt thier way along the wet wall, still damp from the recent rains. The cold, unfeeling brick underneath his hands brought tears to his eyes. He did not want to die, not like this, not like prey to the devil hunting him. His wide eyes scanned the alleyway behind him, knowing well what would happen if he was caught. Maybe he should run back the other way?

Too late.

A thump was heard just down the alleyway. The prey's eyes scanned frantically, watching for the hunter and also looking for somewhere to go. There had to be somewhere! Somewhere away from here! Then he noticed a splash in a puddle about twenty feet from him, the water shooting up from the ground from some unseen force acted upon it. The water, however, caused a reaction on the force that moved it. A large being was walking towards the man, its stealth forgotten, and its prey only feet away. A low growl emitted from its throat, the hunter standing a good foot over its prey, its cold, uncaring eyes upon its mask glaring into the weeping mans soul.

"P-p-please... Don't kill ME!!" The man sobbed to his giant predator, as if trying to get some sort of sympathy from it.

There is no such thing given to prey.

"Dead end..." Came a cold, distorted imatation of the mans voice. Before he had time to say anything, the Devil's wristblades had found thier way into his body, near the top of the chest cavity. With one mighty pull, the beast pulled the man's head from his shoulders, his spine trailing out behind it in a bloody trail. The hunter let out a roar of triumph, kicking the spasming body of the dead man aside as it scaled the dead-end wall and started its journey back to its campsite.

Within its camping grounds, its home on this hunt, it got to work cleaning the head and spine of its most recent kill. Using arcane tools, it removed all flesh, gristle, muscle, and blood. The bones were spotless after hours of cleaning. The predator nodded to itself as it put the skull upon the rack of other prey it had hunted over the aeons of its life. Seeing its prized Xenomorph Queen skull, it couldn't help but smile to itself. Only a few of its kind had gone into a hive alone, and returned alive with the skulls it had, and it made the hunter proud to be alive. Next to the queen's skull, there was one of its children, below that, there was a rack of human skulls. Taken only from the best warriors of the times it had come hunting. It ran its large fingers over the skulls absent-mindedly, before turning on its heel towards the cockpit of its home. It would return to this planet in a decade or so, looking for another hunt. But nothing would ever be like the hunt it had had, nearly five hundred years ago, in the summer of 2010...

The sun beat down heavy blows of heat upon the barren plain. A lone rider was trotting along. He was a medium-sized man of tan skin. One blue eye beset his head, the other long gone. The man clad in brown rawhide leather sat high on his horse, despite the growing thirst. He had on a rawhide jacket, rawhide chaps over blue denim jeans, and a pair of rawhide leather gloves. Rawhide was a durable material that was more than suitable for the rough work he did. He had on a dark brown cowboy hat. They were handy things that blocked the sun and were designed in a shape that allowed for water to run off the back. His red button up shirt was purely for decoration. It didn't really serve a purpose other than to keep the jacket from rubbing his skin raw. A .45 caliber Peacemaker was holstered on his right hip connected to a belt full of bullets. His Winchester rifle holstered in his saddle. He had another belt of bullets at an angle over his shoulder, filled with bullets for this rifle. None of this was helping to keep the heat off him. The heavy leather insulated the sunlight well in this barren terrain. Arizona was part of the new frontier. It was where sickos were sent when Hell was too cold for them. Kindness came about as rarely as water. Rumor was a town was up ahead some two days ride from the Navajo village he had just left. His entrance actually went smoother than he thought it would. He remembered it clearly.

The sun beat down heavy blows of heat upon the barren plain. A day just like the one he would face miles from the next town. The horse was stalwart in it's determination to trot along instead of run when they spotted the huts. A dehydrated Jack Ellworth was slumped over the horse's large neck. He didn't care about living at this point. The saddle had shook abruptly. Unseen hands were ripping him out of the saddle. Then he opened his eyes and spotted Navajo youth stealing his horse from him at the edge of town. His parched mouth managed to release one word. "Stay..." He commanded just loud enough for the mule to hear him. Jack slumped back on to the ground, staring up at that same damn sky that held that same damn sun. He listened as the Navajo kids tried their hardest to get the mule to move. The little red mule stood his ground. Rowdy was a good name for the hardworking animal. The boys were about to find out why the mule was named such.

One of them, Jack couldn't make out which one, must've jerked back on the reins and forced the bit against Rowdy's jaw, or one of them raised a hand at him. Either way, the mule went into a frenzy. It bucked around, causing chaos to everyone that wasn't dehydrated and lying on the ground dying. Jack listened as a boy screamed incoherent banter in Navajo while another was flung from the back of the horse. He listened as footsteps made their getaway. Jack sat up slightly. His eyes squinted open to see some other riders come out, then there was the image of Rowdy's large nose leaning over to him and gripping the collar of Jack's shirt with his mouth. The mule then began to drag him toward the settlment. He knew that people had water and water was what both of them needed. Jack was in no position to refuse the gesture. He listened as other Navajo came riding up on Mustangs. Rowdy dropped him back on to the ground. His head hit hard. The squinty-eyed vision he had was now blurred. Everything seemed like it was coming to a close for him. The end of Jack Ellworth drew nearer by the second until an Indian broke him out of the sweet release. He felt his boots being taken away, then his gun belt be loosened. Rowdy could be heard bucking and causing the same chaos as before. Jack's hat was now missing. It wouldn't be long till he was left naked in the desert. Luckily for him, the desert had a different plan in store for him. All went quiet and he could no longer hear what was going on as he slipped into darkness.

He woke up on the floor of a Navajo hut. Wet spots around his neck were evidence that the people here had been forcing water down his throat. He felt his boots, gun and jacket were missing. He looked up at the ceiling for awhile before noticing the silhouette of a man sitting next to him. He looked over at the old Navajo man who he assumed was the chief. He noticed two other men standing at the entrance to the hut. The old man's figure was thick, yet he was feeble. His face showed years of life and his eyes showed many years of wisdom. This was a fitting appearance for a Navajo chieftan. The man smiled at Jack, then spoke in a deep voice of undying strength. "Hello." He said in English.
Jack cleared his throat. It was still a little dry, but he assumed that they only wanted to keep him alive until they found purpose for him. He sat up, crossing his legs like the old Indian across from him. "You know my language." He said in Navajo.
The man's eyes widened along with his smile. "And you know mine," He replied in Navajo. "How is this?"
"Long story," He took a drink of the water they left for him, then continued. "You would die of old age before it was done." He joked.
The chief chuckled a bit. "Then it is best I not know." He lifted up a medicine pouch. It was Jack's medicine pouch. The contents was the herbs his chief had left for him before he left. They were good herbs he sometime put in his pipe when he couldn't stand the world around him. "Please tell me how you got this."
"The same way I got this." He gestured to his missing eye. A black eyepatch was over the blind eye. "I lived with a Navajo family for most of my life."
"Then, you are the man they call One-Eyed Jack?" The old man rubbed his chin. Jack nodded in response and the chief continued. "Your trade is a dark one. But, in this world I suppose it is a useful one."
"I am a hunter, just like you." He replied, staring into the man's eyes with his one good, blue eye.
"You hunt people, my friend." The chief laughed.
"Only the bad ones. When a wolf kills a cattle, is it best to leave it alone so it can wrong again?" Jack asked.
The chief nodded. "That is a dark way to think, but effective for your work."
Jack gave a solemn nod. "Do intend to sway me, or do you have some purpose for me?"
The chief shook his head. "It pains me to ask..." He looked down at the medicine bag. "My people need a man like you. Bandits keep striking. They take cattle and kill my people. I hear stories that they plan to drive us out soon. We can pay you--"
"Your people have nothing I need." Jack interrupted.
The chief glared at him, then continued. "We ask that you do this, to pay back the debt owed to your people."
Jack glared back at the old man. He didn't think the man knew about his village. There was no point in confronting him about it. Jack's eye twitched slightly, then he nodded. "Let us smoke, as thanks for saving my life."
The chief nodded, then the rest of the night was a blur of laughter and passing stories. The next morning Jack awoke fully clothed. He couldn't quite place the time he put his equipment on, but he climbed on his mule nonetheless and headed out.

Now two days later at what felt the same hour of day, he spotted a small group of black figures off in the distance. Jack tipped his brown hat at them and one of them returned the gesture. Bandits? This far from town? There must be a railroad nearby. Maybe he had caught them on their way to the Navajo village. No, there was only six of them. The Navajo village had much more than that. He looked over at the handle of his Winchester rifle that stuck out of the holster in the saddle. He felt for his Peacemaker's handle. There were six afterall. No, he couldn't take them on with the revolver like this. He was slightly dehydrated and the sun was shining in his one eye.

He sat there looking at them for a few minutes. Then, the bandits broke into a sprint towards him. Jack grabbed out his rifle and shouldered it. He leveled the barrel with the one in the middle. The one he assumed was their leader. The sun was still shining in his eye, but he could barely make out the figure. He pulled the trigger and watched as the man in the middle fell. He expected them to stop in their tracks. Picking someone off from that far away was a considerable feat, but the only response he got was a hail of gunfire. They were poor aims. Jack loaded another bullet into the chamber and shot the man to the left of his initial kill. There were four left and they were drawing closer by the second. He holstered the rifle. Rowdy took off toward them. Jack guieded the horse with his knees. He fired another round at a rider. The bullet hit the rider in the shoulder. It disabled any further attacks and forced the rider to turn back. The other man ducked down behind the neck of his horse firing a bullet from his revolver at Jack. At forty feet away, it was hard to miss. The bullet hit Jack's left arm. His arm fell limp, the full weight of the rifle was on his right arm. He didn't have a clear target at the rider, unless he waited for him to pass and risk a more lethal shot from him. Jack aimed the muzzle as best he could, shooting off a bullet into the horse. It connected with the front left shoulder. The horse went cartwheeling forward. When it stopped, the rider was pinned to the ground screaming.

Jack holstered the rifle. The fight was over. The one that got away was going to warn the others of him. There would probably be a few gunmen waiting for him at the town. He walked his horse over to the downed bandit. After that wreck, it was very likely his leg was broken. The bandit was frantic in his movements. He tried to free himself, glancing up at Jack to measure distance from them. Jack stopped the horse ten feet short of the man. He shook his head laughing. The man scrambled for his pistol in vain. Jack was much faster with his own revolver and shot the opposing weapon away. "Don't try that again." He ordered, aiming the gun at the bandit's head.
The bandit raised up his hands. "Don't shoot."
Jack smirked. "Give me a good reason not to, boy." He cocked back the hammer.
The bandit's voice came more frantic this time. "I'm mayor Weston's nephew." He pleaded.
Jack quirked a brow. He tilted his head slightly, but the gun remained stalwart. This was an odd twist. He had suspected some level of corruption in this next town, but the mayor's own relatives being bandits? "Interesting... what's your name?"
"R-Rob Weston." He stammered, careful not to shift around. He was deathly afraid of this death dealer on horseback. The dead horse on his most likely broken leg was the only thing stopping him from killing this man.
Jack chuckled to himself. He was in control of this situation. It was some bizarre twist of fate that of all the riders, he'd end up not killing this one... immediately. "Who was the man in the middle of your group?" Jack's questions might have seemed random, but he needed all sorts of miscellaneous information in this unknown area.
"My brother," Rob took a breath. His leg was throbbing now. "Ricky. The other riders were our friends."
Jack shook his head. This job was going to be easier than he thought. This mayor was sending kids to do his dirty work. "What's your father's name?"
"Richard Weston, brother of Earl Weston." He replied, then shifted uneasily from the pain.
"Rob, Ricky, Richard; your family got something with R's?" He smirked.
"Is there a point to this?" Rob didn't want to spend anymore time trapped under the horse.
"Humor me so I don't get bored and see how long it takes you to die with a hunting knife in your chest." Jack smiled back at the boy.

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