Wine and Gun

In the end, even after he was arrested, there were still many ways to escape punishment. The nature of things is utilitarian and cruel: as long as you have enough money and power, there are many people willing to cheer for you and declare your innocence to the world.

Stryder thought he would stay this way until the day he realized he was the target of a Westland pianist.

In retrospect, most of his misfortune came from the Westland pianist.

Herstal Armalette, Westland's famed lawyer, the scrawny, single-parent little boy Will who played the piano in Kentucky's chapel, he couldn't tell him no matter what. The two images are linked together. It's like an absurd dream, "Why is a crow like a writing desk?", and someone who can ask that question might think he's funny, and he just feels crazy about it.

After many years, some people have learned to cover their beautiful faces with a hard steel mask, and have learned to use the muzzle of their guns at their enemies. But Slade doesn't even think it's his fault - seriously, with so many poor victims of all kinds in the world, how come you're the only one who's become a perverted murderer? Could this still be the responsibility of the person who violated him back then? Wasn't there a little boy named Taros or something that quietly committed suicide?

He really never understood Amarette. After all, most people would choose to put their experience 30 years ago behind them and start a new life, instead of ruining their future with everything like the Amalette meeting many years later. thing. Until a bullet passed through his head, he still didn't understand how the other party weighed which was more important.

This is the last bit of luck in the misfortune: Slade is not dead, he enters the nursing home and realizes that he should never be able to stand up and walk again, and probably will not be able to utter a meaningful word in full, but at least he still alive.

Amarette is finally in jail, and he's safe.

— at least, that's what he thought, before the nursing home nurse told him there was a visit and a stranger he didn't know pushed his wheelchair out of the house.

The stranger took him near the parking lot outside the nursing home, where a featureless SUV was parked, and Herstal Armalet was waiting for them, leaning against the door, pale but alive, with glowing eyes. Shines as always.

Most importantly, he is at large at this moment.

He didn't know if he really wanted to shout at that time, wanted to call for help, as if someone would really come to save him at this moment. But the meaning of that sound was strangled in his throat, and a string of meaningless murmurs poured from his lips, and a polite, distant smile froze at the corners of the Westland pianist's mouth. Calmly pushes his wheelchair towards the car.

So now he is here. And Amalette - the madman - was pressing another blond young man on top of the altar, leaning over and kissing him on the lips.

It was a rather focused and earnest kiss, the kind that looks when someone cuts the last red thread of a bomb, or when a surgeon carefully operates on a heart. When Amalet kissed her partner, it wasn't like she was facing a human being, but more like she was carefully exploring the surface of a dense machine with her lips. The core of this machine has its own mind, and just like many people's imaginations about artificial intelligence, no one knows whether it decides to help or destroy humans.

At this moment, Slade could still have such wild and weird thoughts in his heart. More incoherent words flew through his mind, some calls for help, crazy self-mockery, desperate wailing, and unquenchable wailing. One corner is weirdly thinking about God, he's really my type, both years ago and now.

He is a vortex of fear and madness in himself, and so is Amalet. This church is not just a church, it is a black water surging with frenzied undercurrents. The young man was stripped naked on the altar, like a burnt offering, a pale floating corpse on the water, and a lamb whose belly was ripped open.

Slade's mind was still a mess when Amalet fucked the young man out with a series of sloppy moans. His arms were aching and terrified, and the Westland pianist apparently thought it would be a good idea to have sex in such a situation—the sticky sound of water, the slightly quivering calf on the arm , a black garter belt stretched on the skin (the skin is extra white, black as a mockery), and Slade can only feel the heart beating violently, he can't even feel it How weird.

Of course he remembered the young man's face. With all the information he knew before, the young man should have died, at the hands of Herstal Armalite, a tragic footnote of the other party's desperate love... But in reality he apparently didn't. And if Slade is not mistaken, Albarino Bacchus may well have gotten a whole boatload of dead people here, by the way Albarino Bacchus slid the man on the strings of the piano.

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