“Imrich! What the actual fuck man!?” Cried Dimir, Imrichs Neighbor. “You better not fucking try this man.” His Local Cherna-Russian Accent shrieking though his grinding teeth. He attempts to stand in the way of the Rifle cabinet but to no avail as he abruptly moves away from Imrich. “Dude, this is stupid, this isn't like Cowboy America! They will kill you for this!” Dimir pleads to the muscular man, his neighbor who was always such a kind and loving man turned quite and flaming with hot rage as he throws the Cabinet door open. “They are going to need to find me afterwards. "Im not letting that Fucking Rapist go free, not from, Me.” Imrich speaks in a slightly less thick Accent as he has been taking English translations classes. Imrich grips his family's heirloom with a firm grip, inspecting the engraving on the side of the bolt. He smiles, he came from a long line of Hunters. His father was a boar hunter and his father before him hunted Elk to feed the communists, he is surely no stranger to a rifle. Dimir stares at the man, Imrichs once loving eyes now show Hellfire as he unloads the cardboard box of TulAmo .308. Imrich, with a strangely meticulous form loads five rounds into the rifle, one after the other without hesitation. He walks towards the door with intention in every step, his boots rattle the hardwood floor of his now ghostly home. Dimir, suddenly frightened of his Neighbor ends his war to stop him, he simply steps to the side to let the soon to be murderer walk outside into the cold chernarussian night, he didn't even bring a jacket.
Imrich waits, shivering slightly ad he overlooks the Erine Family Farmstead. His body has turned slightly pale, and red in places from the cold. Nearly 4 hours have passed since Imrich had taken the rifle. Nearly 6 since the ChernaRussian Police declared Bush Erine innocent of raping and killing both Juley Vakindi and Bela Vakindi. Imrichs arms seem to go numb as his tank top absorbs the newly fallen snow. His rifle still firmly held in his hand, the tool of death turned judges Gavel for tonight. The Sun rises over the farmstead as Imrichs eyes begin to adjust to the new light. He looks down the hill to the farm, seeing the awakening and movement of two lonely figures, one smaller than the other. The field workers follow a bull as it pulls some form of farming equipment. Imrich smiles, a smile he has not shown in a long time. He raises his rifle to look down the scope.
The two figures reveal themselves as Imrichs target and his 10 year old son. The elder man is pointing to the connecting parts of the trolly on the bull. The child looks on in clear frustration and a lack of understanding on how the trolly connects to the bull. The elder man smacks the child at his incompetence and continues to explain the uses of his prize bull. Imrich looks down the rifle scope with an overwhelming lust to pull the trigger. His body aching for revenge and true justice on the man who killed his beloved's. He looks at the two and his smile widens, the youngin would only come after him if his hellspawn of a father was killed, or worse, rape and kill more than just his wife and child. Imrich eyes the two and wonders the best way to cause suffering to the child and elder. His finger resting on the trigger, his eye, one closed and one on the boy picking the most painful place to fire. His head? No, the child would die too quickly. The shoulder? Maybe, he would most likely pass out from shock and be unable to watch his father die next to him. No, It must be the upper thigh. The Hellspawn would be unable to move correctly to try and help his father and would be forced to die from blood loss.
Imrich smiles so great his teeth show, he lines the scope on the unforgiving child and his father. The .308 would pierce the gut of the father and land into the Child's leg clean. However, just before Imrich can squeeze the trigger the two move to look behind them. The mother had called out from the farmstead. This sends a shiver of satisfaction through Imrich as he watches the smile cross the Demon spawn child. Imrich knows this is the best time to take the shot, a time where not only would the child be forced to witness the slow death of his father choking on his own blood. But to force his own Mother to watch as he rapist husband dies next to his boy.
Imrich lines the shot one more time, his hands steady and the lines of the scope aline with the fathers gut. The slow pull of the Eight pound trigger feels like a feather as if this was what he was meant to do. The wight seemingly removed from the trigger as if his wife and daughter themselves are helping him kill. The recoil brushing lightly off his shoulder taken by his tanktop like a pillow. The round, traveling faster than his own mind, connects with the target sending pink mist up into the crisp ChernaRussian air. Imrich does not look down the scope again, the cries of the boy as he attempts to hoist himself ontop of his father reach to his ears. The blood, staining the fertile soil sending the bull running towards the treeline. Imrich smiles as he lifts the bolt and chambers the rifle again, the casing launching down the hill smoking from its holy flame.