Nick leveled his gun on the banalampry’s cyclopean eye. He cocked the hammer and prayed to a god whom he was pretty sure had no pull in this madhouse world.
Our father who art in heaven, grant me some of that Knight’s Templar , warrior monk shit.
The banalampry found amusement in his failed attack. Its laugh was the clicking of cicadas.
If Nick had wielded a weapon of the real world the disappointing click would have been replaced with a satisfying bang, blam, or pop. But here in Nixworld weapons didn’t have names like Luger, Colt, or Glock. In Nixworld the tools of war had names unique unto themselves- Mind-Gnasher, Faun’s-Bane, Rusty Thomas. Along with these names came egos and personalities. Some weapons even had aspirations beyond their intended purpose. Nick’s revolver, Bob Ross, was one such weapon.
“We’re in a tough spot here, Bob. Need you to spit out some lead.”
“I tire of painting in red, Nick”, the pistol replied.