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About Traditional Art / Hobbyist Core Member Douglas Wojtowicz46/Male/United States Groups :icondailysketchchallenge: DailySketchChallenge
 
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Cyera: Pinup excersize by Krinkels-R909

Great work with the lighting, but I see you did go with the conceit of the pants conforming to her muscular detail. Not that I complain...

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Lumion back 32616 by Skaramine


I was tagged by :iconbogmonster: so, I'll play. :)

Rules:


1.) Post the rules.

2.) Post 8 facts about your character.

3.) Tag 8 other characters.

4.) Post their names along with their creators avatars


Eight Facts about Lumion.


1) Lumion began in the 70's as Powerboy, and he drew a ton of inspiration from the Japanese Kaiju series Spectreman. Once upon a time, he even grew to enormous heights to deal with giant monsters. He was my secont original superhero after... Locker Boy.


2) Lumion's current identity is Winston Daryl Patton. Previous names were David White, Doug White, and Daryl Piarowski (my grandmother's maiden name). Mom did not care for me taking her mother's last name, so as kind of a "passive-aggressive fuck you, mom", I used my biological father's last name. Winner and I are both adopted.


3) Powerboy/Lumion's powers originally came from a "power glove" - a living organism capable of absorbing and storing enormous amounts of light energy, like Superman's cells. The creature was called the Ergocite. While I love the symbiot idea, and might even return to it, Winner is currently a "Frankenstein" - a young man who lost major portions of his body (his left arm which is his dominant arm, his eyes and suffered severe neurological damage). This means that he had donated materials from a grateful psychic, shapeshifting race (dragons in my main universe, the Martians in a DCU setting, and not quite certain about a Marvel version, but I'm leaning toward what the Brood did to Carol Danvers to make her Binary).


4) Lumion started young. In his life, he's been through a lot of peaks and valleys, including losing his wife and unborn child, as well as generally making complete wreckage out of his love life. One of his greatest weaknesses is he falls for women quickly and easily.


5) He's gone through FAR too many professional names too. Powerboy. The Luminator. Morningstar. Morning Knight. Power Glove. Lumion. He may change again.


6) One of Lumie's friends is an entity that calls itself Loki. Whether he's the real thing or not, he comes with his attendant meathead "family" - Thor being forty or fifty of those meatheads. Loki could be a shapeshifted dragon, he could be an "actual Asgardian" (or maybe a blend of those). Loki has also helped Lumie out, getting him to Hell to rescue the stolen soul of his deceased wife.


7) Lumie's brother-in-arms is the Avian Prince of an African Kingdom - Taloner, aka Terrence HiTower. Taloner is my take on what if Carter Hall was royalty like Namor. Hawkman and the Sub Mariner are shirtless dudes as tough as leather, if not tougher, and given to temper. Taloner doesn't have that same potential rage, and indeed, he is more the calming influence on his friend Lumie. Just because he isn't a hothead doesn't mean that his telekinetic claws won't wreck the hell out of you.


8) For all of his Martian/Spectreman/Superman analogies, and his Iceman-like Lightbridge, Lumie is still a more physical take on a Green Lantern. Where as most Lanterns use their hard light manipulation telekinetically, Lumie keeps his stuff tight in with his body. His costume is actually a "light skin" which also serves as a force field and life support system, and he can be caught off guard without the durability to keep him from breaking. He's "luminokinetic" which is either he can control hard light, or he just has really skiny and blatant telekinesis. His telepathic powers are nowhere near as powerful. He's got some decent "talking range" and up close and in person to prevent stray blasts and destruction, he can understand and speak even alien languages. A side effect of his nervous system allows Lumie to pick up and broadcast radio waves a la his telepathy. His dragon eyes are quite sensitive and powerful.

Now, let's see.

:iconbogmonster:'s Ladybug.
:iconvagabondx:'s Christian.
:iconstargamerworld:'s All-X.
:iconmutantcomix:'s Mick.
:iconkaedegirl:'s Asma Jensen.
:iconthecosmicbeholder:'s Captain Evening.
:iconlady-blackwings:'s Evelyna.
:iconryan91studio:'s Zooca.

Have fun.

  • Listening to: Dope
  • Reading: Whiskey Rebellion by Liliana Hart
  • Watching: time slip away
  • Playing: The Crew Wild Run
  • Eating: bitterness
  • Drinking: cold, black coffee
Lumion back 32616 by Skaramine
Lumion back 32616
Borrowed the pose of Thundra from the cover of Squadron Supreme.  My boy is back, and this was done for :iconlordwormm:'s OC Challenge. 
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Lovehammer Mourns Chyna IMG 0532 by Skaramine
Lovehammer Mourns Chyna IMG 0532

A quick sketch. Everyone is doing Prince art, but my Lovehammer, Maziah H'rrkoon, lost her inspiration, her "mommy" yesterday too.

Chyna was something that was "new" in wrestling. A woman who could stand shoulder to shoulder with male wrestlers. She'd started as a heel, but she made some good runs as a face, and had some legendary storylines with HHH and Chris Jericho.

I believed in a big, strong, heroic woman, the latest evolution of a 7 year old who fell instantly in love with a "captive princess" who started blazing out hate with a blaster rifle the moment she was given an opportunity to fight her herself.

Eventually, Chyna, Leia, and the concept of heroic Orcs/Trolls blended together, with some help from She Hulk, to birth the incredible Lovehammer.

Unabashedly stolen from Jim Aparo's seminal A Death In the Family artwork. Chyna was a tall, amazing woman, but Maziah is that much taller than her.

The world is short one wonder. And a lot of our hearts are broken.

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It took me about a minute to manhandle the man in the suit, securing his wrists and ankles with zip ties tugged tight enough to break the skin.  Other than some laceration from his struggles, he wouldn't cause himself some serious arterial damage, though his fingers and toes would feel cold and numb by the time I got back to him.  
Outside, my boys and girl had been busy with clean up.  DASH's forces were devastated after  five minutes of gunfire and high explosive application, guided and informed by hours of surveillance.
Not decimated.  If you use the word decimate for wiped out brutally, I know that you are a complete fucking ignoramus.  I hate the misuse of a term which translates directly from the Latin as "one in ten dead." There are far too many idiots on television new who drop this term either to sound erudite or to impart an inflated view of terrible casualties in order to make you swallow their propaganda.  
It was Cabel who laid down cover fire with his RPD to reach enemy gunmen hidden behind hard cover while the others whipped down moving targets with lashes of carbine fire.  Neither Phteven nor Landra worried about a shortage of ammunition - DASH had far too many Pakistani and Afghan issue M-4's and M -16's with spare magazines to be in anything less than a cornucopia of battlefield resupply.  Han didn't encounter the same troubles I had with the FN P90.  
This was not strange because Han had not charged off alone like a fool into a building where corridors provided zero cover.  Han found places where concrete intercepted incoming fire to allow for leisurely reloads as he crouched.  
It's pretty amazing how well you can do if you don't pretend that you're the action star or a cockeyed hero.  The others only had scrapes and bruises, any shots minimized by body armor, and crashes to the ground cushioned by durable wool.  None of them had needed to use up their gelatinized coagulants and tape dressings to stop blood flow from wounds.  It's like they actually knew what they were doing, unlike, you know, me.  Old Doc Holliday's words "Take your time in a hurry" echoed in my mind as I realized that I broke several cardinal rules of combat in my rush to grab the guy in a suit.
"Are you done napping down there, boss?" Phteven asked. "Landra warned me of enemy chatter."
"I'm done napping," I answered.
"Did you grab any intel?" Han asked.
"I've picked up 180 pounds of Australian asshole, all trussed like a turkey," I told him.
The bound goon eye-fucked me as I went through all of his pockets, rough and not giving a damn if I made him squeal by pulling his wrists and ankles too tight against their unforgiving plastic bonds.  In the frisk down, I found he had a Heckler and Koch pistol, a pocket full of a fat wad of American bills in twenties and larger, and a cigarette case containing three more thumb drives.  
"I'd certainly hope so.  My ear's still ringing from your call out," Han added to my scolding.  Funny, I'd thought that when I got to be in charge, I'd be the one doing all the admonition.  Then I remembered... I'm not much of a CEO so much as a guy who leads from the front.  And that means, I'll end up with mistakes of my own.  
"If it helps, I've got about ten new holes in my fat ass," I offered as apology.
"You deserve it," Han said, but I could already hear the forgiveness in his voice.
He also hid a couple of knives on hand.  Looking at the spots of rust on their blade finish, I could tell that he'd used them for cutting into something alive, and he didn't give a damn about keeping the blade clean.  The inside of the knife pocket had crusted, blood, most dark and old, but there were a few damp droplets.  
After this examination I pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek, point aimed at his right eye. "We're going to talk about whose blood this is."
I reached the last of the gunmen I'd taken out and patted him down for for a closer look at what he had.  He had plenty of 9mm ammunition for his SMG and pistol, and I was not too proud to stuff the "free guns" and their spare magazines into the collapsing rucksack I had all of the team carry.  This was an easy way to pack gathered intelligence in all manners, from phones to laptop computers or hard drives.  The bodyguard's radio and personal cell phone joined the pile, each of them wrapped in their secure, armored pouches to protect any data within.  
The Aussie glared at me as I patted down the corpse for more sources of information.
"Oh, you want me to ask you questions?" I asked him.  His jammed mouth let out a garbled response.
"No.  I ain't going to trust you with giving me a straight answer," I said. "Not until you're strapped down, and your testicles are clenched in my fist.  Until then, we're going to need intel."
He moaned around his gag, a short, inquisitive question. "Why?"
It had that tone and pitch.
I grabbed him by the throat. "You're hanging out with DASH, bringing them fresh video equipment to record their rapes of villagers in high definition, and you're asking me why I'm going to make your final hours of existence excruciating?"
I involuntarily laughed, and fought him back down.  Now was not the time to allow my demon out to play.  I wanted to pick his brains, and my inner beast was not conductive to leaving much that could answer my questions.  That's how you get to be a member of the Dangerous Operations Group.  You have both discipline in action, but an unflinching rage in the face of injustice.  War is a horrible, gut wrenching thing, and one does things to their enemy that will haunt the survivors for years in many cases.  But when you have righteous anger bubbling in your soul, fury inspired by the atrocities committed by motherfuckers your country asks you to kill in particular, you can sleep a ton easier.  
That was where they found me.  I was someone who slept the sleep of the just after spraying the entrails of a baby-killer across a street with a .300 Winchester Magnum shot to the belly.  I had no nightmares after bringing down a tomahawk into the face of a woman who sought the murder of my friends.  
Zero Foxtrot Given.  Discipline and self control to keep that rage in check, to learn to focus it on only those who have truly called down the wrath of God, or whatever the fuck I'm the equivalent of, that was the tricky problem, but my ethics have been of a higher caliber than many so-called elite team members.  I've worked with other high-speed, low-drag, "we-don't-exist" teams before, and a good many of them are fuckers who should not exist.  Not to say that all the teams I a-Company-ed were worthy of a steady diet of #00 Buck, but I would be plenty happy to hand out free coupons for a face fuck with a hatchet to many.
Han finally showed up as my prisoner and I were halfway to the entrance after.   I kept my Ozzie in tow.  He had learned quickly not to lag behind, given that I provided incentive with an Iron Claw on his junk that Baron Von Raschke would have been proud of.  I didn't draw blood like the old wrestler would have in some of his classic matches, but I got my message through loud and clear.  Behave and keep up.
"Lil says that we've got a group on their way up the mountain," Han said. "She, Cabe and Phteven are handling things to slow them down when they get here."
"How long do we have?"
"Long enough for us to rip out a few more hard drives, load him onto a local ATV and get us back to the bikes," Han answered.
It made sense to grab some local wheels to make the trip back from the base easier and faster, as well as to transfer our scrounged intel and weapons to the bikes.  The Kawasakis had a known fuel quantity, which we could supplement with borrowed gasoline, and had containers which could safely and securely carry our recent ill-gotten gains.  
"Good job locating some wheels for us," I said out loud over the radio.  I might not be much of an organizer, but I sure as hell knew about positive reinforcement. "Got an ETA on those relief fighters, Lan?"
"They'll be up the mountain in about two hours, according to their reports," she told me. "But I'm checking to see if they're broadcasting disinformation.  Phteven's got a scope looking down on them to run a guesstimate on their progress too."
"Cabel?" I asked.
"I'm setting trips and traps for the visiting forces," the big Viking answered. "I'll have plenty done in half the time it takes them to get here, if they're overstepping their pace by double."
"Huh?" I asked.
"If they're actually saying two hours when it'll be one, I'll have a lot of death ready for them in a half hour, chief," Cabel said.
"Just in case they make it an even shorter gap," I added.
"Nobody's hoofing it up that side of the mountain in less than forty minutes," Cabel said.
"Groovy," I answered. "Han..."
"Did you just say groovy?" Cabel asked over the radio, interrupting me.
"Yes," I admitted.
Nothing else had to be said, but I could tell that my Viking heavy weapons platform was grinning from ear to ear.  I'd pay for that little slip later.  
Oh well.  Teams who work as closely as we do play grab-ass all the time.  
I handed Han the cigarette case. "Find what's on the flash drives in this."
He nodded, taking a knee and readying our laptop.  He'd keep an eye on the trussed prisoner while I moved around, tearing hard drives from mother boards and grabbing any storage media, including notebooks.  I filled my rucksack in about fifteen minutes, and came back for Han's.  His face was ashen.  Sick.
"That bad?" I asked.
His voice was soft. "Worse.  Keep me away from him."
"Store my intel on one of the ATV's," I told him.  I grabbed him tight for a quick hug.  I whispered a promise in his ear. "He won't be long for this world."
"It's too damn late for that," Han returned.  He hefted my bag, turned, and left the building, studiously not looking at the Australian.  
I knelt at the laptop and looked at its screen.  The need to vomit nagged at my gut as I watched two young Filipino women with a toddler on a table.  The video played without volume, so as not to distract us from potential danger, but I could see the child's face distorted, cheeks wet with tears.
The two young women had an ugly, black rubber object which no child should ever know about unless they went looking for toys in their mothers' underwear drawers.  
My prisoner whimpered in horror.  The Australian had seen him crawl onto my face.  
I saw where the two female monsters put the foot long rubber abomination, then closed the laptop and took out the flash drive.  Further viewing of this was not going to do anyone any good.  I cinched the notebook computer into its back and shouldered it before turning to the prisoner.  I realized that tears now dampened my face, and my knuckles ached from clenched fists.  I turned toward him, and felt the need to restrain every homicidal urge in my body.  The monster inside of me agreed, unbidden, in a loud thought.  
Cold calm swept over me, and my hand stroked his cheek in a loving manner.  He steered me now, and my lips brushed his ear.
"It's not that I lied that you are not long for this world.  I just did not know how much I will love playing with you," he whispered.  My tongue braced across my lips.  Usually, when he comes out to play, I am gripped in a red fury, my fight-or-flight instincts dialed up to twelve.  Nothing, not even a tremor or adrenalin shook my gentle grip on him.  He rose to his feet with my help, and I wondered what level of hell my demons truly originated from, because I heard a vow to make our travel to exfil as painless and gentle as possible.  No harm was to come to the Australian.  Not yet.
We had a date.  
Han watched me as I brought the Australian to the entrance.  He'd filled up a duffel, but there was yet more weight on him, his eyes shallow and sunken, even the usual bright, clear blue of them seemingly tinted and polluted by the poisonous darkness he'd observed.
Han is singularly one of the strongest men I have ever known, despite the whims of fate which had him born without the standard menswear birthday suit.  He's a man whose faith had carried him through some of the toughest training in the world, special operations qualifications which broke six foot bodybuilders dripping with testosterone, and weathered the storms that had me gasping for air and grunting to make one more stride.  
He's also a man whose Christian faith has not buckled, even with the "traditional" shunning of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender community.  Han's held his own in discussions against some of the most vehement atheist philosophers.  Like me, Han believes in the observed rules of science, how physics and geography prove that the Earth beneath our feet are four and a half billion years old, and that we are not a physical center of the universe, though God's own grace makes our acre of dirt in the galaxy a pretty decent hub of nobility and sentience.  With two very smart atheists on the team - Phteven and Landra - our discussions get lively, but a shit-ton of facts and knowledge gets shared, not insults thrown.  I'm still not sure if Cabel is an agnostic or a full-blown Asatru, a son of Thor.  
"You said that he wasn't long to walk the Earth," Han said softly.
"He's not going to walk.  He's going to be slung on the back of my bike," came the answer from my lips.  I was terrified, because that wasn't my voice, that wasn't me speaking.  It was something unholy and angry, and Han flinched from the look in my eyes. "What time he has left will not be joyful."
"For the love of God..."
"God's not here." The growl was fierce and immediate. "Now cuff this bitch."
I bit down hard on my lower lip and smashed my forehead against the nearest wall.  Blood bubbled and trickled down my chin, another trickle stung into my right eye.  I bit off my speech before the next words were allowed to escape, sharp, hateful words about castrating the prisoner, and giving Han the plumbing he felt he hadn't been born with.  I swallowed that poison back down, heart like a trip hammer as everything seethed and twisted just beneath the surface.  
"Peter?"
"Put him on my ATV," I whimpered. "Tie him securely.  I'll carry your duffels."
"Peter..."
I didn't want Han to see me unravel before him.
"Did I stutter, Marine!" I snapped. "Now!"
Han grabbed him roughly, then took off.  
"Don't got time for this," I growled. "We need to get out in thirty minutes."
I can't believe I went there.  I get mad, a lot, but to get so personal, so vile with someone I consider family...
I threw up, and watched the thick syrup pour from my lower lip atop partially digested rations.  I had encountered sex traffickers and snuff film makers, but the prisoner I had was a whole new level of evil that I had stumbled blindly into.  I knew that I suffered a psychic break, a fracturing of my personality that was literal, not fluffy, figurative language.  The creature that was brought into the light was not something pretty, nor did it give a fuck who it hurt when prey waited for it.
Cabel's massive bulk blocked the sun that streamed through the door.  Muscles tensed in my shoulders and hands, and I desperately sought control over my body.
"Boss, Han's worried about you," Cabel said.
"I'm fine.  I just saw some of the video the prisoner had on hand," I answered. "It took me a bit to pull myself back under control."
"We're not letting him off easy, are we?" Cabel asked.
"He is full of information, and he is full of sins against God and man."
"Boss, you don't ever get all fire and brimstone preacher," Cabel said.
"A baby," I said to Cabel. "Someone's infant was used by the prisoner.  Used and destroyed.  We're not letting him have death, no sweet release.  Even when he's dying, he'll scream loud and long until he finally slips off."
Cabel stiffened, then nodded.
"Nobody touches him.  No bullets end him.  Not until we pull everything from his skull to find who his customers are, who his protectors are, who looks the other way when he smuggles these videos past them.  I want the whole network, top to bottom.  We stumbled onto a gold mine.  It's rotten gold, shit that poisons all who touch it.  It poisoned me."
Cabel took a step forward, laid his huge hand on my shoulder, then tugged me in for a brotherly hug.  That, of I had just transformed into Jormungandr, the world serpent, and he had to choke me out.  Either way, he helped me vent my spleen in that crushing embrace.  
Out of breath, blood flowing naturally throughout my body once Cabel stopped crushing me, I felt a lot better mentally and emotionally. "How're we set up outside?"
"We're ready to run, and we've left a nice array of surprises for those contestants who did not make it to this closing round," Cabel said, affecting a game show announcer tone.
"Copies of our home game?" I asked.
"Especially if our home game is 'guess where the SLAM is hidden,'" Cabel concluded. "Landra also threw in a stack of infections for the DASH comm systems.  Their computer network will be fried for a while.  Their video transmissions will also be limited to Keeping Up with... you know who, 24/7."
I winced. "If DASH weren't fully psychotic before..."
Cabel smirked, his rusty mustache and beard's twitch and shift the only sign of facial movement, but his eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. "You can joke again."
"Distraction and near constriction to death work wonders," I answered.  Grim reality threatened to smother me again, but I fought the images I'd seen down, storing them away.
"We have enough ATV's to get us to our real rides?" I asked as we got outside.
Cabel motioned. "Right there."
The other three watched me, as if I were set to explode.  The Australian was trussed on the back of the one I would drive.  He'd passed out, or had been choked out in a headlock.  Either way, he would not be an issue.  
"Let's motor, motherfuckers.  DASH's supporters are on their way," I called out.  Phteven, Landra and Han all relaxed, and we got onto our borrowed machines. "Be careful, these things can roll over easily."
Nods answered me, and helmets were strapped on.  I'd be glad to be back to the bikes.  They had much more agility, and felt more natural to balance for me.  Plus, the mountain bikes were given the juice necessary to keep my team further ahead of hostile pursuit.  The muscle and maneuverability were further benefited by the run-quiet mufflers and exhaust systems.  We'd be harder to track by sound, as well as more difficult to keep up with.  
The ATV's were off-market brands, and the shocks were hell on my back as we bumped and flopped over rocks and broken terrain.  The Australian rode "bitch" on the ATV, so every ounce of pain that rattled my back and ass was also pummeling him.  The 4x4 didn't react with the agility and satisfaction of our purpose-built motorcycles.  
The ride took about thirty minutes, but we made far better time than our DASH opposition.  We didn't hear anything from the relay station until we were almost done with the transfer of loot and our prisoner to the bikes.  The crackle of blasts in the distance brought a smile to our faces.  The world was now a little less packed with criminals who would slaughter children, then recored that atrocity for public sale.  I know there is the saying "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."
The trouble is, with nearly every one of those "freedom fighters" is that they are fighting for a means to take away the freedom of others.  Murder is the greatest theft of freedom imaginable, and Sharia law, Communist dictatorship or any of dozens of other forms of government fought for all turn out to be a means of applying absolute power, and absolute power is the most corrupting influence in the universe.  I know people have called Presidents of various administrations "tyrants" but the honest truth is that such "tyranny" is a delusion in the minds of said protestors.  
I've been to real tyrranies.  I've seen people murdered and slaughtered just because their neighbor said a single word of criticism, the corpses of all involved dragged through the streets as warning to any other who would dare to breathe a word contrary to the "holy writ" of the tyrant.  
The DASH fanatics would also be gifted with their ATV's back. Phteve and Cabel rigged them with more anti-personnel explosives, IEDs for the groups who had left IEDs for American soldiers in Afghanistan, injuring and traumatizing them brutally.  We had two sets of triggers for each, "cheating" so that the disconnect of one such trigger would set off the other.  They also left a two hour countdown timer on each, just in case they grew smart.  
Why play unfair with these chumps?  You might as well ask why you step on a wasp after it's stung you.  It's knee jerk reaction, and both punishment for pain inflicted, and meant to be a warning to others.  If DASH wanted their own tyrrany of fear, then the DOGs intended to rule them with the horror that there was someone out here, hunting them down with cruelty and vindictive bile.  
We didn't have to rule their world, we just had to keep them looking over their shoulders, jolting awake in a cold sweat at night when they heard a twig snap, imagination placing silent ninja commandos just out of the corner of their eyes, nonreflective knives ready to bite into tender flesh.  
Once we'd laid enough traps to leave DASH recruits armless, we took off on the bikes.  With specially designed tires giving us grip, and electric motors and run-silent mufflers for backup internal combustion engines, five ghosts raced through the hills, weaving around trees and boulders.  The bikes had billy-goat sure feet, and the only thing that slowed us down was the extra two hundred pounds of asshole on my bike.  Even then, my machine lost only about thirty miles an hour on a straightaway.  
By mid-day, we were back at a special forces post in "friendly" Afghanistan.
By evening, the identity of Paul Duchov, the formerly nameless Australian, was discovered, just in time to etch into a tiny tombstone.  He didn't survive interrogation.  But then, we weren't asking him too many questions seeking verbal answers.  Our methods were fingerprints, blood samples, stomach contents, and in depth trace evidence under his nails and in his hair, everywhere we could pry clues to where he had been and who he had been with.
We found the DNA of others on him.  He'd raped at least one person, judging by the samples smeared into his pubic hairs and the bruising and abrasions on his penis.  He'd just been in the Phillipines going by the smells and leftover spices in his fecal matter, evidence supporting the origins of his bodyguards.  
And back home, at the Dangerous Operations Executive, we found that Duchov had been travelling under the alias of Anderson.  The forgeries had their origins in Europe, giving us more information about his journeys than anything he could have said aloud.  
I didn't let Duchov off lightly.  I watched the movie he'd made again, all while sitting alone with him in the interrogation cell.  He'd been stripped naked, and was bound wrists and ankles.  Tears greased his cheeks, and snot ran down from his nose.  
I left him ungagged.  
"Please... all you have to do is ask me questions.  You don't have to do the rest of this..."
"Poke you in the ass?  Pull dirt and dust and hair from your hide with tape?  Scour your scalp for clues?  Oh yes we did," I told him.  I pulled my belt from the loops in my jeans, and gently draped it around his neck, letting the ends dangle down his chest.  He choked in breaths as I retrieved a set of thick, heavy gloves designed for handling concertina wire. "See, torture doesn't retrieve information easily.  But you know what does work quite well?  Forensics.  We scoured your skin and hair, every single inch.  We made you vomit, and collected scrapings of your shit.  We did everything necessary to find how much of a footprint the world made upon you, and we used your fingerprints and DNA to see who you really were."
Duchov bit his lower lip.
"Of course, you did help by bringing along your resume of evil," I told him, nodding to the laptop displaying the desolation of a child. "From setting cues, from other members of your "cast" we managed to figure out where you did this.  And we're looking up your friends."
Tears welled in my eyes.
"You were interrogated in a way you could never lie.  And as such, I owe you nothing."
I snapped the belt taut around his neck.  Veins and tendons snapped to full extention, radiating out from the hard cutting edge of stiff, unyielding leather.  I dug me knee deep into his gut, loosening just enough to make him cough out the last of the air in his lungs.  The belt creaked, twisted.  It deformed and cracked against his constricted throat, and Duchov's features deepened to an unhealthy purple.  His swollen tongue pressed through his lips, and my shoulders and arms ached from the pressure I threw on him.  
"I don't have a deal for you.  You were dead fucking meat the moment I found you.  I just didn't realize how badly you had to die until I saw what you made of a child."
My knuckles wanted to explode as I squeezed and tightened that belt around his throat.
"I don't owe you a thing for any answers you gave me.  But for giving me nightmares with your diseased filthy movies, I owe you my face as the last thing you see before you are dragged screaming down to hell.  And if there is naught but oblivion beyond this mortal veil, then I owe you my utter fucking hatred consuming your world as you fade."
I held the strangling garotte of my belt tight for a good ten minutes, long after he messed the chair, and blood seeped from around the lacerations torn in his neck.  I squeezed and crushed until I poured out every ounce of hatred that smothered me.  
When it was all done, I crashed to the floor, legs gone numb, arms useless for anything but dangling limp at my sides.  His chair toppled as well, the lump of rancid meat strewn out.  
I spent an hour crying on the floor before I got to my feet.  I knocked on the door, and Cabel was there to hand me a shotgun and a box of shells.  
The laptop which had displayed such abominable images disintegrated as I loaded and emptied the shotgun into it, reducing it to a smoldering pile of unusable silicone trash.  Cabel took the laptop and dumped it in a 55 gallon drum.  He doused it in lighter fluid and ignited it, melting whatever remained.  
I exercised a demon out of my soul, at least for the moment.  Now, I needed alcohol and the company of my small little chosen family.
In the morning, we would head to Kabul, and from there, fly to the Phillipines.
DOGZFG Chapter Three: Walk of Shame
A friend suggested I post a link to my chapters for sharing.  I think this is a good plan, and this DA account could use some fresh activity.
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When the DOGs hit a target, we do not fuck around.  We aim to fuck you up.
As my initial fanatic fell with my bullet leaving an escape route for his little-used brain, Han popped the skull of another.  Cabel, Landra and Phteven triggered their launchers at the same instant.  
Where Landra and Phteven's 40mm grenades were significant, peppering men with clouds of high velocity shrapnel that slashed veins and arteries, Cabel's thermobaric warhead really went off with the typical thunderclap you expect from bigger bombs.  Limbs were literally shorn from torsos.
While our grenadiers reloaded, Han and I engaged more targets with our SVDs, sweeping for people who either showed signs of adept calm in the face of a lightning artillery attack or who sought to form an anchor of leadership in response to our lightning strike.  M203s and RPGs don't reload as fast as they do when you have a film editor on your side, and without a propane jet, they don't bloom into magnificent fireballs on the silver screen.  What they do, in reality, is erupt in a burst of smoke and pulverized concrete or dirt, and release splinters of steel that cut through ballistic nylon and into skin and muscle.  
The gore is not always external, mostly churned up under the punctured skin, and usually only when you're about five yards from a 40mm shell, ten for a thermobaric detonation from an RPG.  This was the kind of stuff that made for evening of the odds.  Even so, Cabel and the others continued their intensive hammering, a wave of artillery that had wrought panic and confusion as well as lifeless bodies.  By the time was done with my second SVD magazine, the RPG had, including the opening volley, spoken four thunderbolt words in its uniquely authoritative voice.  Phteven and Landra had, between them, emptied a dozen HEAT rounds into the compound.  There was still a lot of space where targets were merely wounded, and so far only twenty visible DASH gunmen had been ravaged by shrapnel.
Wounded DASHers screamed out in ragged, wet wails, thanks to tattered lungs or faces.  Killing the truly evil always brought me extreme satisfaction, but the process itself is ugly and grisly, the same sort of mess that makes watching sausage packing a turn-off to fine wursts and other delicacies.  Blood and gore and the stink of spilled organs, combined with the cacophany of suffering wails could still bring an edge of disgust to my heart.
That disgust was replaced with the image of a 12 year-old Pashtun villager who was made into a sexy toy for an uncountable number of DASH troopers, all of whom giggled and cackled with glee, even after her arms hung from her shoulders like limp noodles, and her purple and swollen face no longer flinched from the pain inflicted upon her.  My stomach churned inside of me, bile working its way to the back of my throat, and I was back to giving zero fucks about how badly the fanatics suffered.  Their cries and sobs became a balm to the searing heat that twisted in my minds eye as the poor girl's corpse was turned into a toilet for these sniveling scum.  
I also stopped going for head shots.  Destroying their brains ended their suffering, while a shattered pelvis or an obliterated abdomen meant they were too hurt to continue fighting.  If they still could lift a gun, I aimed for collar bones and shoulders, high on the body, making their trigger fingers useless.  
It was about this time that I noticed Han shooting cleanup for me.  My victims only got a small taste of suffering and torture before his precision marksmanship sliced through their brainstems and ended their existence in this world.  
As soon as the mad minute ended with the high explosives, Cabel transitioned to his Pakistani issued FN P90 - a nice little submachine gun holding fifty rounds of bullets only about 2/3's of the length and velocity of a standard M-4 rifle.  For him, it was enough to wade down into the melee.  Landra merely needed to change her grip on her own Pak rifle to engage in close quarter mayhem.
I maintained my elevated position over the compound, dropping big Russian thirties into faces and chests now that my ire had lessened.  Anyone whose gaze wandered toward the gate which my team approached took one hot pill ending their threat.  
Of the nearly fifty outside in the courtyard that my squad observed, about half of them were already down, leaking from fatal wounds and no longer doing so much as twitching.  Another dozen sported non-mortal, but fight stopping wounds, and the remainder sprayed their AK-47's and M-4 carbines high and wide, muzzle flashes making themselves fine targets.
That was the weakness of a lot of jyhadists.  They believed that Allah would guide their bullets on target, if not their own macho force of will.  Having a full magazine of 30 rounds reinforced the illusion that blazing away from the hip was somehow effective.
This egotistical pride wouldn't let them clamp the weapons to their shoulder and stabilize against recoil, minimizing spread while firing on full-auto.  To them, iron sights or optics were crutches.
Meanwhile, Han and I, firing one bullet per trigger pull, hit what we aimed at about two shots out of three as our targets scrambled for cover.  
Pheve closed in from his side entrance, equally under Han's overwatch.  Though his and Landra's rifles were both capable of full-auto, they pulled the trigger once for each bullet dispatched.  Even with this, neither left their target with less than two high velocity pills burning inside their organs.  At ranges under 100 yards, the 5.56mm NATO round could cut through many forms of body armor like a butcher knife through cardboard.  On entering the fluid mass of the human torso, those .22's would somersault, ass over teakettle, tearing apart flesh in their wake like a blunt-bladed circular saw.  The wound tracks were nothing less than horrific.  
The P90 which Cabel, Han and I chose for a lightweight backup to our heavier main guns behaved similarly, but with a third smaller charge and mass.  Even so, the bullets moved at 2000 feet per second, and in the little FN, spat out at 800 rounds per minute.  For fifty round magazines, that was enough of a match in close quarters with demonstrably less recoil than the M-4 on full-auto.  
Off in the distance, I heard Phteven take on a particularly troublesome target with his grenade launcher.  How did I know it was troublesome?  Because if you, as an experienced soldier, can't solve it with a controlled pair from a carbine, and you opt for High Explosive Anti-Personnel, you know it's a pain in your nethers.  The packet of ka-boom went into one Quonset window and the rusted old structure seemed to take a deep breath before all of its windows shattered.  Dazed and bloody men staggered out of its main doors, where Han and I split the new choice of targets.  These DASHers were in the middle of getting dressed, some in their underpants and holding an AK, others with their shirts half buttoned and dangling off of shrapnel bloodied chests.  
They were slow, easy targets, but if we'd given them the chance, they'd recover their wits and shoot any enemies in sight.  Each buck against my shoulder was another coffin lid slammed in repayment for a little girl lost.  There'd never be enough of these maniacs to be worth one young life ruined, let alone the trail horror they smeared across the Hindu Kush in blood, tears and semen.  But every one I killed here was another life that would be untouched by their vile predation.  Boys and girls would grow up in a world where rape and torture was not their "contribution" to the jyhad.  
They lumbered like zombies until the marksmanship of two Marine riflemen took the walking out of the walking dead.
Cabel paused long enough to smash a group huddled at the base of the DASH dish.  While the RPG-7 warhead didn't do much to the steel structure keeping it erect, the underside of the curved surface provided the shrapnel plenty of ways to bounce.  Fanatical gunman wailed from high velocity metal, at least until Landra popped anyone still standing with controlled pairs from her M-4.  Anyone else who menaced my fireteam was split open by the impact of one of my big Russian thirties.  I bought Cabel and Landra moments to reload their guns both large and small.
Cabel then turned his attention to a Quonset.  The shell sizzled through the front door, and rusted metal swelled as if it had inhaled, then shrunk under the violent forces of a thermobaric detonation.  Eroded holes in the metal shell ruptured and spewed blazing hot gasses.  DASH troops near those sudden vents of volcanic heat barely had a chance to howl before the vast temperatures seared their lungs into useless, shriveled sacks.
If your crimes bring the DOGs upon your misbegotten head, we'll bring the flames of Hell before we punch your tickets.  If there's nothing on the other side, well, at least we gave you a taste of what you truly deserved.  If there is a place where your damned soul resides, give Old Scratch my regards.
Cabel was right, at the rate this battle went, we'd need battlefield pickups to keep in the fight.  My SVD was nearly depleted of ammunition, which was just as well.  I hadn't developed an attachment yet to the big rifle, and it was twice the length of my little FN submachine gun, and a foot longer than an AK or an M-4 with their abbreviated 14-16 inch barrels.  The big Russian warhorse was not suited for close work.
I liked the FN, not because it was two feet long, buttstock to muzzle, or held fifty rounds, but because it was a bullpup that ejected straight downwards.  As a southpaw, it's hard to get a really compact fighting rifle that doesn't have a castrated barrel, like the M-4.  My favorite, the old AUG from Steyr could give me a full twenty inch barrel in only two and a half feet of gun.  But I had to decide which shoulder you would fire it from and set up the ejection port for that shoulder only, otherwise I'd get some hot brass upside my cheek.  
I put the FN to work.  Landra and Cabel gave me covering fire, but I still used my height advantage to good effect, triggering bursts in order to encourage DASH heads to stay down.  I finally slipped through the ragged gates.  Together with my fireteam, we dug deeper into the ex-Soviet Base.
We laid out a storm of fire amidst all of the enemy chaos.  Be it from grenades-shattered ear drums or shrapnel wounds, or just their stubborn insistence on shooting from the hip, they fired just to make noise while we aimed down sights and peppered every face that showed itself in the vicinity of a firearm.  No DASH member would walk out of this hell hole unless they played dead for a few days, then crawled out of the Hindu Kush on their belly.  It might sound racist, but not a single male Arabic face would remain untouched.  DASH was racist in their policy of who they allowed in, so there were no Persians/Iranians in the group, and it was rare to see Pashtun locals who abandoned their tribesmen to associate with these maniacs.  
DASH also showed no mercy to any of their victims, male or female, young or old, Muslim or Infidel.  They raped, murdered, tortured and left vast swaths of nations in terror due to their fanaticism.  
Thus, any adult male with a gun who was not immediate family - read that as one of the DOGs - was sentenced to death.
Yes, the Constitution and Bill of Rights guarantee freedom from guilt by association, but here in the mountains of the blurry border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, even in this remote location, the members of DASH knew who they allied with, and were incontrovertibly complacent in their crimes against humanity.  
That death sentence was delivered swiftly, and I personally didn't golf a foxtrot if some of my targets were left alive and groaning, which also violated the right to be free from cruel and unusual punishment.  
Somewhere in the chaos and mayhem, Cabel had located his favorite Soviet-style light machine gun, the drum fed RPD.  Now, my mountain of Viking redneck was a full on volcano.  Instead of lava flows and pyroclastic clouds, he erupted with controlled, short bursts of 7.62mm x 39mm COMBLOC fed from a 100 round belt contained in a snail-shell shaped drum.  He'd also located a sack of such drums, and he wore it around his neck like an amulet, but even with hundreds of rounds on hand, Cabel remained conservative with the firepower he had on hand.  Two-, three- or four-round bursts slashed into his targets, not the long, sloppy sprays from the hip you see so often in movies.  No, Cabel folded himself down over he sights of the gun, stabilized the stock to his shoulder and held on with both hands.  He would not waste a single round if he could help it.
Landra punched out another 40mm shell and the thunderclap of its detonation floored a group of DASH gunners that had attempted to flank us.  Two of the killers died instantly, and others fell, slashed bloody, faces tattered by shrapnel as sharp as razor blades.  Some died quickly, and others screams in pain.  Landra left them to their howls as more aggressive opposition surged into view.
I knew she wouldn't get back to them, but I saw one with enough arm strength left to reach for a handgun.  My P90 had already run dry by this time, so I went to another loaded gun.  My Pakistani-origin Beretta 92 seemed to hop into my hand on the fast draw.  Remember back when I said I am all about that Beretta life?  This is why.  The Beretta is fairly light, not heavy on the hip, but it feels good and weighty in the hand.  9mm rounds barely register as recoil for me, and this ensured a tight, controlled pair on the one who reached for his gun.  The crisp single action was so smooth, it was really no more effort to tap out four more shots to pop two other wounded guys.  
Whoops, I guess I do possess a few fucks about shredded masses of fanatical hamburger.
Or, maybe I just hated to hear the squeals of agony they bleated.
Gunfire rattled toward me, and once again, I was glad for the cultural egotism that lead to sloppy shooting habits.  I was safe from hot bullets in my guts, but rounds plucked my pant leg.  I didn't have time to reload my P90, so just kept doing work with the Beretta.  Controlled pairs popped into each of the three shooters who'd rushed me.  They stopped firing, but because they didn't fall fast enough, I ripped off another half dozen rounds.  With a 17 round magazine and one in the pipe, I'd accounted for eighteen shots, all on target, but now the Beretta sat in my hand empty.
The P90, with its oddly mounted magazine, takes a little over three seconds to eject and load a new one in optimal conditions.  Standing in the middle of a blazing firefight, that wasn't time I could afford.  My training and familiarity with the Beretta, however, let me instinctively rip out a spare mag for it from my holster pouch.  I stabbed the magazine release with my index finger to remove the empty box, gravity slipping it past the rising reload aimed right at the empty hole it once filled.
Bam!  
Seventeen more shots for the Beretta, and a trip of the slide release brings the gun out of battery, and feeds the top round in the magazine into the breech.  All of this is done in a shade under a second.  
Just in time, I saw a frantic figure escorted by a group of smaller men.  This guy was not dressed for battle, and his guards weren't wrapped in Afghan wool and battle harnesses, but black BDU's and heavy vests.  A bunch of folks, neither DOG nor DASH, drew my attention as they rushed to the shelter of the main concrete blockhouse.  They sought the protection of thick walls and steel doors.
"HAVIT!" I bellowed, temporarily forgetting that I was in hands free radio contact with my team.  Havit was shorthand for "High Value Target" and is a hell of a lot faster to say than HVT.  It let them know that I broke formation to pursue.  
The oddball's guards had ushered him into the blockhouse, and one remained behind to pull the heavy armored hatch shut.  My Beretta and I ended his use as anything other than a doorstop.  His torso landed to keep the door ajar, his face on the ground in a growing puddle of crimson and spongy mass.  
Another heard his teammate fall and turned to engage me.  His eyes were on me, but he was still in the process of bringing the muzzle of his weapon to bear as the rest of his body followed his gaze.  I put two pills through his face too, and he crashed down to his back.  I crawled over the two corpses and into the old communication base.  One more gunman was visible at the end of a corridor, and he opened fire.  Even though I moved quickly through the fatal funnel of the doorway, his bullets struck the steel hatch, shattered, and bounced off of my head and neck.
Needless to say, the moment I felt impacts, I dropped to my belly and played dead.  Blood flowed from where bullet fragments struck.
My ear hurt like hell, and I found out it was because of a petal of copper jacket stuck through the cartilage.  I found more splinters of lead and twisted jacket all along my neck and shoulder.  They were blunt, but they struck with sufficient force to cut through Afghan wool and into my skin.  The petal came out of my left ear, not without an inspired stream of tears down my cheeks, but the shallow lacerations on my back seeped thin blood.  I also had full range of motion with my left arm, so I'd live.  I also had a half dozen new souvenirs of my visit to the 'Stan.
I also had enough time to reload my hungry, empty SMG, and topped off my Beretta.
Finally on my feet once more, I took a look at the corpses of the bodyguards in their wannabe SWAT uniforms.  My Beretta didn't leave much of their faces to identify right now, but I had my digital camera with me.  The blood could be cleaned off in photoshop for better facial recognition.  I also plucked a couple of plastic storage bags from a pocket.  My tomahawk gave me the right index fingers and thumbs of both gunmen in hopes that they would show up on an AFIS search.  Each bag kept the fingers segregated from the other man's.  It would also work to store some DNA just in case.  
Criss-crossed with nicks and cuts from gunfire and shrapnel, and with bruises up and down my legs and ass from skidding down a slope, I was less than 100% for a solo hard pursuit.  However, I could still put one foot in front of the other, and my aim didn't look to be off or my grip trembly.  The sore thumb sticking out in the middle of nowhere spurred me on.  Men in black and a guy in a business suit jangled my Spidey senses to no end, so I rolled out in hot pursuit, balls out to pick up on him.  
A pocket full of digital photos and human fingers might give me some handle on who the oddball was, but the man himself would be a much more illuminating target, especially since the guys in black were hired professionals.  The guy who'd taken shots at me and bounced shrapnel into my neck was a clue to that.  The fragmented bullets were a big clue.  Most of these terrorists out here get cheap mil-spec FMJ ammunition, the kind of shit available off the back of Russian and Chinese army trucks disappearing from inventory.  The gunman who'd popped off at me used hollowpoints, which shatter on contact with steel, but when you smack a guy in an unarmored part of his body, they tear bigger, nastier wounds inside flesh and bone.  Pros like that level of "stopping power" edge, because bullets that don't deform leave small, neat holes as elastic flesh puckers back, even in the wake of a .45 caliber slug.  
But that was for pistols and submachine guns.  Meaning these bodyguards aren't packing heavier, which is bloody stupid for a visit to a mountain region.
The suit himself stunk of money, and not legit cash either.  His wealth came straight from the sewers, either from dope or human trafficking pipelines, or worse.  It didn't escape my notice that the camera we found with the DASH patrol was a brand-new high definition professional grade model.
New video equipment for a rape and intimidation patrol and these strangers here meant that someone other than DASH profited from live gang-bangs and murders.  Sure, the thugs who do it get the monstrous pleasure of destroying a young girl against her will, but the deep web price of $8000 per video and the number of perverts who take advantage of it added up to suit-boy and his rent-a-SWAT team as representatives of the distributors.  
He felt that was to me, and just the sight of him turned his sick vibes into spiders crawling up and down my arms.  
I'm no psychic, but I've been a DOG for a decade and both a Marine scout and a Chicago cop before that.  Years of investigations and operations helped me string the facts together.  You simply do not climb into the Hindu Kush without a desperate need for big money.  There were few products here worth a bullet in the brain and bones picked over by vultures.  Goats and their wool made for comfortable clothing, but this bum wasn't Tommy Hill-fucker.  Poppy fields stretched all across Afghanistan and the opiates within could be picked up in the larger cities with Pashtun in-betweeners.  
Picking up your very own army of terrorists in Afghanistan itself was idiotic.  All you had to do was to visit a city with major slums and a population of broke, hopeless young men.  That's how the Crips and Bloods could assemble armies in the hundreds of thousands from LA to New York.  
No, these guys showed up in the asshole of the planet with brand new camera equipment, and not a single one of the DASH troopers paid attention to their retreat.  People do not come here with guns without a nefarious purpose.  I mean, fuck, the DOGs and I were here in a wholly illegal incursion into a sovreign nation with intent to murder "citizens," not just Afghan, but Pakistani supporters.
Hanging out with DASH terrorists was the shit icing on an enormous stinking turd cake.  I had plenty of questions, and to get my answers, I had to smash my path through the remnants of his rental army.  
The gunman who'd fired at me, peppering my hide with bullet fragments was back ahead of me.  He fired again.  He cut loose with what sounded like a pistol-caliber submachine gun by the sound of it.  His burst was short and focused, and sizzled through air I'd occupied only fractions of a second earlier.  I dove barely ahead of his attack, and from the way he recovered from the recoil of his first salvo, I knew he was a professional.  This time, however, I went to my belly with my P90 extended in front of me, firing before he could.  In my haste, I mashed the trigger, and five-seven vomited out of the barrel at 900 rounds per minute, give or take a few, and the gunfire went on for far longer than a professional's return fire should have.  I was in a hurry, because this guy was fast.  The spray was sloppy and unfocused, but luckily for me, enough of them crashed into his knees and shins to drop him to the floor.  He crashed and lost control of his gun, his face smacking the floor we now shared.  
I pulled the trigger again and watched the lower third of his face disappear, this burst tighter and much more controlled.  He ate my bullets, but they must not have agreed with him, as his arms flailed and clawed at the tiles.  Blood puked through shattered lips, clogging any attempt to scream.  I'd likely missed his brains and spine, but my swarm of five-seven had cut through into his lungs.  Any attempt to speak would be useless as air sacs are deflated by hydrostatic pressure, and brachial arteries flooded the inside of his rib cage.
That kind of death was not pretty at all.
Hell, most of the death I've dished out is ugly and nasty, not the clean, clinical bullshit you see on TV.  At least I had a chance to stop his spastic gropes, my last burst turning the top of his skull into a pop-open hatch.
I stayed low, crawling on my knees to see if there was anything of salvage to identify the goon I'd just killed, but all the bullets I'd punched into his face didn't leave anything identifiable.  Even dental records were shot as his lower jaw had exploded, many of his teeth cracked out of place.
I heard a stream of uninteligible hatred spew from the lips of another pseudo-SWAT moments before I reflexively threw myself up against a wall, still prone.  Bullets smashed the tiles where I'd laid, and I hit the wall with a grunt.  Some piece of kit banged right into my lower spine and kidney hard, and reflex once more took over.  The P90 splashed the last of its load in the direction of my enemy, and I suddenly wondered if my assessment of my shooting skills was still valid.
This was the second time in about four minutes that I was stuck with an empty gun in my paws, which was about as good a paperweight as any, but not much more than that.  As it was hooked onto a sling, it wasn't even good to throw at someone as distraction.  
One advantage I had was that the twenty or so I'd ripped off sent the last gunman into retreat.  I swung the P90 around my back on its sling and dropped back down to my Beretta.  This will teach me to go with something easier and faster to reload, like an Uzi or a Brugger and Thomet or an M-16 platform.  
In the end, it doesn't really matter how someone trying to kill me dies, but it's a damned inconvenience.  A couple of more bullets got real close to my center mass, my thigh searing hot as a bullet goes through and through the outside, and my ribs jangled as my harness' Kevlar vest component turns a thoracic wound into a nasty fucking bruise.  I have no breath in my lungs from that hit or hits, but the Beretta 92 is an extension of my left arm.  
My foe takes three rapid fire to his chest, and his black SWAT armor saves him for a moment.  I let my aim rise, and my fourth shot slashes across the corner of his jaw, just under his ear.  The guy snarls and twists away from me.
He puts another burst out, and I take two more in my chest, this time a trauma plate neutralizing the impacts even better and much less painfully.  I pushed my gun's muzzle down and hammered him in the groin and thighs, firing the handgun so fast, my finger got tired and a small pile of brass formed before rolling flat.  Deprived of his legs, he still managed to catch himself on one forearm, all the while, he fired his weapon with his free hand.  Granted, his aim was shit, which only hurt me more as my right arm stung from another "near miss" that split skin.  
I got tired of this bullshit with him and ripped my tomahawk from its sheath.  Kevlar is great at dispersing the force of a bullet impact, but against a chopping edge moving at around seventy miles an hour, it was just cloth.  The head wedged into his shoulder where it met the neck, and only contact with spinal bone stopped its advance.  I ripped the hawk free, and ended up in a shower of bright arterial blood.  He was fucked good and royal, but I brought the tomahawk down once more, crushing his collar bone as I put all of my weight into it.  He was done, and I looked down at a face which, while splashed all crimson, didn't have any bullet holes in the middle.
I pulled my digital camera once more, recorded that dead mug, and looked at what he had.  I hadn't used all the ammo for my FN yet, but it was time for a battlefield pickup.  I was just too damned clumsy.  He had something that looked like an MP-5, except all of its controls were laid out like a miniature M-16.  Some local variant on the model?  Didn't really matter, as the safeties and magazine ejects worked like the M-16 I cut my teeth on as a Marine way back when.   Old school, and in use in more damned countries than I cared to count.  It worked, and it loaded faster than my FN.  And honestly, I sort of liked its feel.  It was familiar to me.  I tore off my P90 and the pouches for its magazines, replacing them with the German chatterbox using snap hooks to mount them on my harness.  The whole process took a half of a minute, and in that time, no one came looking for the latest of the SWAT gunmen I killed.  Either the last guy was smart and hung with the principal, or he was scared and looking for the back door.  
I unhooked a mini-mirror from a pocket and checked around the corner.  It was clear, and I pushed forward once more.  I noticed there were no doors down the corridor where the last killer had burst.  There was a stairway down, and I edged to the top of the steps, and saw the man in the suit, all alone.  He hammered on a closed steel door so badly his knuckles were split and bloody.  His hair was a sweaty mess, and when he heard me clear my throat.  
Blue eyes stared up to me from a face slathered in a patina of terror.  
"Oh God..."
"God?" I asked. "No.  He doesn't dirty his hands with shit like you."
I fumbled a flash card from a pocket.  It was empty, but I wanted to know his reaction as I threw it at his feet.
"No.  When it comes to people who want movies like yours, He sends me."
The suit went pale, then threw up on the floor.
Bingo.

#
DOGZFG Chapter Two: Now It's A Party
A friend suggested I post a link to my chapters for sharing.  I think this is a good plan, and this DA account could use some fresh activity.
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Lumion back 32616 by Skaramine


I was tagged by :iconbogmonster: so, I'll play. :)

Rules:


1.) Post the rules.

2.) Post 8 facts about your character.

3.) Tag 8 other characters.

4.) Post their names along with their creators avatars


Eight Facts about Lumion.


1) Lumion began in the 70's as Powerboy, and he drew a ton of inspiration from the Japanese Kaiju series Spectreman. Once upon a time, he even grew to enormous heights to deal with giant monsters. He was my secont original superhero after... Locker Boy.


2) Lumion's current identity is Winston Daryl Patton. Previous names were David White, Doug White, and Daryl Piarowski (my grandmother's maiden name). Mom did not care for me taking her mother's last name, so as kind of a "passive-aggressive fuck you, mom", I used my biological father's last name. Winner and I are both adopted.


3) Powerboy/Lumion's powers originally came from a "power glove" - a living organism capable of absorbing and storing enormous amounts of light energy, like Superman's cells. The creature was called the Ergocite. While I love the symbiot idea, and might even return to it, Winner is currently a "Frankenstein" - a young man who lost major portions of his body (his left arm which is his dominant arm, his eyes and suffered severe neurological damage). This means that he had donated materials from a grateful psychic, shapeshifting race (dragons in my main universe, the Martians in a DCU setting, and not quite certain about a Marvel version, but I'm leaning toward what the Brood did to Carol Danvers to make her Binary).


4) Lumion started young. In his life, he's been through a lot of peaks and valleys, including losing his wife and unborn child, as well as generally making complete wreckage out of his love life. One of his greatest weaknesses is he falls for women quickly and easily.


5) He's gone through FAR too many professional names too. Powerboy. The Luminator. Morningstar. Morning Knight. Power Glove. Lumion. He may change again.


6) One of Lumie's friends is an entity that calls itself Loki. Whether he's the real thing or not, he comes with his attendant meathead "family" - Thor being forty or fifty of those meatheads. Loki could be a shapeshifted dragon, he could be an "actual Asgardian" (or maybe a blend of those). Loki has also helped Lumie out, getting him to Hell to rescue the stolen soul of his deceased wife.


7) Lumie's brother-in-arms is the Avian Prince of an African Kingdom - Taloner, aka Terrence HiTower. Taloner is my take on what if Carter Hall was royalty like Namor. Hawkman and the Sub Mariner are shirtless dudes as tough as leather, if not tougher, and given to temper. Taloner doesn't have that same potential rage, and indeed, he is more the calming influence on his friend Lumie. Just because he isn't a hothead doesn't mean that his telekinetic claws won't wreck the hell out of you.


8) For all of his Martian/Spectreman/Superman analogies, and his Iceman-like Lightbridge, Lumie is still a more physical take on a Green Lantern. Where as most Lanterns use their hard light manipulation telekinetically, Lumie keeps his stuff tight in with his body. His costume is actually a "light skin" which also serves as a force field and life support system, and he can be caught off guard without the durability to keep him from breaking. He's "luminokinetic" which is either he can control hard light, or he just has really skiny and blatant telekinesis. His telepathic powers are nowhere near as powerful. He's got some decent "talking range" and up close and in person to prevent stray blasts and destruction, he can understand and speak even alien languages. A side effect of his nervous system allows Lumie to pick up and broadcast radio waves a la his telepathy. His dragon eyes are quite sensitive and powerful.

Now, let's see.

:iconbogmonster:'s Ladybug.
:iconvagabondx:'s Christian.
:iconstargamerworld:'s All-X.
:iconmutantcomix:'s Mick.
:iconkaedegirl:'s Asma Jensen.
:iconthecosmicbeholder:'s Captain Evening.
:iconlady-blackwings:'s Evelyna.
:iconryan91studio:'s Zooca.

Have fun.

  • Listening to: Dope
  • Reading: Whiskey Rebellion by Liliana Hart
  • Watching: time slip away
  • Playing: The Crew Wild Run
  • Eating: bitterness
  • Drinking: cold, black coffee

deviantID

Skaramine
Douglas Wojtowicz
Artist | Hobbyist | Traditional Art
United States
I'm a professional author who toys around with various mediums as I enjoy designing characters for comic books.

Current Residence: Chicagoland
Favourite genre of music: Any
Favourite style of art: comic book
Operating System: Windows XP
Interests

Comments


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:icontygerwolfe:
tygerwolfe Featured By Owner 15 hours ago  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the +fav! :D
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:iconkatrinamacbeth:
KatrinaMacbeth Featured By Owner Edited 6 days ago
Thanks for the watch :) And all the faves :) SQUISHES
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:iconskaramine:
Skaramine Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Truly a pleasure.
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:iconsimonpark81:
simonpark81 Featured By Owner Jun 21, 2016  Professional Traditional Artist
hey buddy! hows it hangin? not heard from you in a long while, thought i would check in!
:salute: :highfive:
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:iconskaramine:
Skaramine Featured By Owner Jun 23, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
First came joblessness and Facebook addiction. Now, I have a job.
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:iconsimonpark81:
simonpark81 Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Professional Traditional Artist
ah, i take it thats good news then ;-)
great to hear, hope life is treating you fairly my friend :nod:
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:iconglennroyal:
GlennRoyal Featured By Owner Jun 18, 2016  Hobbyist
Thanx 4 the Fave ;-)
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:iconskaramine:
Skaramine Featured By Owner Jun 23, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Always!
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:iconstargamerworld:
StarGamerWorld Featured By Owner Jun 16, 2016
Heya! Thanks for the favorite! :D Glad to hear from you again.
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:iconskaramine:
Skaramine Featured By Owner Jun 17, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Excellent inking job.
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