Open Duel, come and get me.

How the hell do I do one of these?

It puzzles me; astounds me in a fashion perhaps unhealthy for my own blood to be writing one of these. Would you say I am mad? Perhaps. I mean, what healthy person writes about things that have never even happened, with such clarity, perhaps...devotion.... that I simply cannot convey to you, the simple reader. I would tell you a much happier version of life if I could: I would, mayhaps, tell you about Jake's wonderful children, his loving wife who provides for him in ways most satisfying, his supportive family.


But I can't, because I simply can't imagine something so far from the truth. Jake is fuckin' insane. He's a few sandwiches short of a picnic lunch. He's crazy as hell and nuttier then a bag full of chipmunk's assholes. How can I say this right? You, the humble reader, may wonder how I know this: I have been in the body of this man since I was negative five-hundred and three. You'll understand when you're dead.

He's tired of the city because that means more blood, and more blood means more screaming. See, he thinks everyone is covered in blood. "Wipe off your face, you bastard!" Ol Jake would scream, "You're covered in blood! Get away!" And so he killed the man.

He's in the country now, a runnin from the law. I, the poor old ghost, can only watch.

What the hell else am I supposed to do?

The only sounds the man gave off was the clicking in his dark ironclad boots. At first glance he seemed a young sort, black hair touching the shoulders of his leather duster. His deep, pale-yellow eyes spoke of experiences far exceeding appearances, and never once did a smile cross those thin lips. On his back were two katanas in finely crafted, crimson sheaths.

Walking over a barren gravel road facing a farmhouse some half a mile ahead he picked up his pace. It was a tranquil scene, bright yellow wheat fields on both sides, cardinal birds resting on the branches of great big apple trees. The sky was cloudless and the exuberant sun splashed a soothing warmth over everything. Perhaps this visit would be more enjoyable than he'd hoped. Or so he was thinking before a subtle sound from the rear stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see what it was.

Racing closer like a locomotive came a man more deranged in appearance than those at last visit to the psycho ward. Knowing full well he didn't come to have a nice chat, Nicholas Chigun made for his swords.

"Stop right there."

It astonished me at first. That a man, so clearly not insane, would order one to stop whom would never do so? But this is how things were to be. We are, and indeed, I was part of a depressed and desperate people. We're one of the six billion people who are living on a dieing planet. We are diseased in the mind, bodies, and if you like, souls. We are the collective asshole of the world.

So nothing surprises me. Not really, not anymore. Maybe I should get out of Jake every once in a while- his personality is starting to bleed into mine. It troubles me to write about a man who used to have it all, until a few dastardly chemicals in his big brain decided to go crazy... Jake was not surprised, either.

It was beyond hate; beyond contempt. It was fury past its prime: careless and unrelenting destruction. The blood that dripped down, down down... It wanted him to act. It was a crimson red river of all the things that pissed him off. It was his wife, his kids, his parents leaving him to rot. It was his time in jail and his failed boxing career. It was all the homeless people in the world who stared up at him with blank eyes and empty pockets. It was six billion people struggling to etch out a living on a rocky wasteland.

It had to go.

Let me remind you that I'm not controlling him. I'm just watching from the inside. Here is what I saw, humble reader:

I saw a man bent halfway to hell advance on a man after he spilled some words. The words do not matter; only the actions. And my man, well, he's a cryin and a cryin and wantin' his mother, but she's dead, dead, dead, and he's recalling his days in the ring, and he's walkin, walkin, walkin! And he's swingin, swingin, swingin...

Well, to put it in a roundabout way, he threw a haymaker straight at the little punk.

Nicholas' head twisted back from the blow, his entire body toppling over in a cloud of dust. Once the shock of this sudden move cleared, and the pain waned, he positioned his boots and hands; back flipping to proper footing. The young man's duster blew in a strong gust of wind form the north, his glowering eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His foe could not make for another attack before the impulsive Chigun had both his long, shimmering swords withdrawn and crossed together in an 'X'. To an outside observer the scene of a fight would seem funny indeed, given the tranquil scene of fluttering birds and swaying wheat.

Lurching forward with the speed of a missile Nicholas leapt into the air spinning around (swords extended) and acting as a human tornado. The ever-insane Jake pounced from from the assault narrowly and let out a snide laugh. Landing on his knees Nicholas frowned.

"Most people have motives for slugging someone. Did I do something to you? I will kill you if you keep this up."

Nicholas didn't need a response. The crazed cover over the eyes of the lunatic spoke volumes. Something else elicited curiosity. I sense a spirit nearby. Could he be possessed? Doubt it, less thinking, more action. Nicholas flashed forward and made to slice Jake right in two.

It was a stormy night when he escaped- it still is rather dreary. As I look- as Yarville does- to the left, there is a river. It is an old one, flowing with the grace of a fallen ruler, a once mighty king. But now it is polluted and dirty, dead.

I knew this river.

This was where I died.

And all in one moment, I realized- we realized- what I was here for. I was here for him, and for all the poor bastards who had nowhere to go. I died as I was, a slave to society, a poor farmer who had done nothing more then insult a ruler... I was a slave to my God, my father... And what have they done for me! In my years of death I have learned much. And this tyrant ahead of me- ahead of Jake!- had the blood of hundreds upon his sword.

And as we were cut- He screamed. The pain was intense, reaching into every bit of his soul, his being... It ached in the nether-regions of his self. It unlocked the bitter taste of horrid memories, dreams locked away in his inner concious, and he came closer... and closer... to death.


No.

I swept up the pain, into me. Pain has never meant much to me. I didn't care about the others I had possessed... But Jake. He had to live. Had to.

Jake and I stood. We tackled the bastard.