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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HughEhhoule on 2024-11-16 18:27:11+00:00.

For anyone that missed yesterday’s events:

So it seems like my advice followed 2 main lines of thought, rip and tear, and Home Alone. I’ve got to say, might seem like the obvious options, but that is only from the outside. The help was appreciated. I’ll adress some of the things brought up to help you guys be my cutmen (and women).

Yeah, I’m not really a brawler, I’m no teacup, but in a straight up fight , I don’t know how well against …demons I guess we will call them?

As far as upgrades, well I’ll get to that in a bit. But other than that, I’m not to sure that works. I don’t know if I should be working out or finding an arc welder or what. Guess I’m going to have to do some experiments.

Getting outside seems like a good idea, I’m going to be honest though, I have no idea what outside is like. Where I am is one of those things my creator did not feel the need to equip me with. But I guess it’s obvious I’m in a residential neighbourhood. Maybe garages or something could work?

Which brings me to the next point, I do need to figure out more of what is going on. Truth be told I know a lot more than I can tell you , creator blocking me ruining her plan.

I tried to put some of this to work. Some success, some failure. Here it goes.

My first setback was lack of access to anything scarier than my teeth, and the 4 inch blades I can swap out my hands for. See, the problem isn’t that I wasn’t well equiped this time, I actually have a regular sized chest , covered in a tarp in the attic where my creator assures me rests all kinds of implements of death tailor made for me.

It’s made of a dark splintered wood, secured with a massive black iron lock with no keyhole. Faded (purposely antiqued would be a better word) paint trying to look jaunty and creepy all at the same time reads “Tickle Trunk” in large letters on the top.

The problem is, that lock has no key. It won’t open for me, nor anyone else until my mission begins. Leaving me in a rather sad situation offense wise.

I rolled over every option I could think of. Reading the books downstairs? No idea if I’d even understand them. Contacting my creator? Not the killing demons type. Physical force? Tried and failed. These Are just a few of the ideas I had before I heard the door to the house smash inward a little after midnight.

I scuttle into a vent to try and figure out what’s going on , I find a good angle from a floor vent and see a new oddity.

The door was indeed smashed to splinters inward, steel reinforcements and thick locks twisted and mangled , standing in the middle of this was a new person who I had no real right to judge based on weirdness , as an evil doll, but I was going to anyway.

He was a stoutly built guy , mid to late thirties , close to six feet. Square jaw and a dozen or so nasty scars across his face. His hair was cropped short and He had on a thick brown leather bomber jacket with several hooks and holsters holding various pieces of modified weaponry. A clean white t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans reinforced with bits of leather and steel completed his outfit.

The strangest thing about this guy though, was his right leg. It clicked and whirred as he moved, and as I looked close I could see the hard edges of mechanical parts show through tears in the jeans.

Casually across his left shoulder he held a massive pump action shotgun, the barrel welded and drilled into an agressive pointed muzzle. In his right he held a slab of sharpened steel reminiciant of an oversized cricket bat, a yellow and black ‘danger’ symbol painted on one side.

He holds the shotgun one handed and fires into the ceiling, the shot makes almost no noise but the effect is immediate and cacaphonous. A piece of the ceiling the size of a child’s pool explodes upward raining down plaster and wood.

He walks forward with confidence, his right leg gouging and cracking the hardwood floor as he walked.

" Hey Padre! I’m here for midnight mass" the man says swinging the sword like object into a wall in a burst of plaster and sparks as a power line is severed.

Faster than I can register, the bishop is at the top of the stairs. A smile that has no effect on his dead eyes spreading across his face.

“I was wondering how long it would take the choir boy to find me. 2 decades, that’s a little long to hold a grudge , don’t you think?” The bishop says, slowly walking to the bottom of the stairs.

“This is a long time coming old man. I’ve killed a lot of shit worse than you on my way here. I’ve became more than the result of your little party in the 90s. Choir boy? Asshole, the only thing I’m going to sing is 'raindrops keep falling on my head ’ as I piss on your corpse.” And with that the man aims and fires his gun at the bishop, the old man glides back up the stairs in a black blur.

“You think your the first kid with a gun to come after me? You arnt even the funniest.” I notice an accent from the bishop, Dutch maybe. From under his robes several thick white tentacles begin to snake forth. They are studded with what look to be giant jagged fingernails.

He anchors them to the wall and raises his body, swaying and moving like a spider in its own Web.

The man smiles for a second and throws his shotgun, somehow as it spins toward the bishop, it fires four times , blowing the four tentacles to pieces. He catches it as he charges, slamming it into the bishop’s face , the gun, upgraded as it is, stays in tact, shattering one of the bishop’s eye sockets, the dead orb flying across the hall.

A fifth tentacle, easily twice the size of the previous ones slams into the man, he keeps his balance on the short flight down the stairs and lands , sword held at the ready.

"First round to me there your worship. Don’t worry though , I got plenty more for the collection plate. " the guy says with a swagger that gives me hope.

“You got me there. Don’t worry though, there won’t be a round 4.” The bishop says as he snaps a finger.

One of the cherubic things stalks silently from the kitchen. A high pitched hollow noise I assume is laughter comes from deep within it.

“Should have known you’d have something to fight your battles. Couldn’t you afford legs for this thing?” The man, who I’m thinking of as ‘the hero’ says.

I notice him flick a switch on the butt of his shotgun before tossing it to the ground. He draws out a bulky sub machine gun, a two foot chain anchors it to his wrist. The gun is spiked and studded , all its fragile parts scaled up and shielded. He spins it once like a flail and grabs it by the grip, drawing the monsters attention.

He looks at the bishop “Thought you’d like this toy. " he says shifting his gaze to the monster " But I got something you are really going to get a kick out of big fella.”

He unleashes a kick that sprays shrapnel toward the beast, it shuts it’s stretched massive eyes against the debris, making itself completely vulnerable to the steel, piston-driven leg immediately behind the stinging cloud.

It’s jaw shatters, and it stumbles backward, but the hero keeps his momentum , firing a clip from his machine gun into its chest, then swinging the firearm in a devestating arc into the top of the creature’s head. Pale grey blood sprays and rotted looking yellow bone is exposed as the monster slams into the kitchen wall.

It screams and catches the sword that blurs at its neck, the hero reloads his gun single handed using an ingenious little rig and fires another clip , point blank into the creature.

It’s hurting, but it’s not out of the fight.

It rips the sword from the heroes hand and unleashes a massive headbutt that sends the man to the ground, his nose a pulped ruin.

The monster picks him up single handed and tosses him back down the hallway, stomping toward him before he has a chance to rise.

The man delivers a series of kicks from the ground that stun the beast. Bones deep inside it’s twisted form breaking and splintering.

He kips up with a spray of dust, and begins wildly beating the creature with his firearm. He dodges it’s attacks, spinning and slamming the weapon into the thing.

But out of no where the creature spins on one arm, catching the hero off guard with a massive backhanded strike. I can almost feel his arm shatter and his ribs break as the wet cracking noise echoes through the hallway.

He screams and holds his right arm as he tries to rise. The monster stalks toward him , bloodied and looking on the verge of death itself.

“Wait!” The hero says, defeated.

The monster lets out a high pitched chuckle and shakes it’s shredded head at the hero, expecting some kind of plea for mercy.

Instead the man starts his own laugh.

“Just needed a second , thanks for that.” The hero says as a gyroscopic whining can be heard from the shotgun laying on the floor. It aims itself at the creature and fires off over two dozen rounds that make the effect of the first few seem petty.

The monster explodes apart in wet chunks, defenseless against the torrent of lead and phosphorus. By the time the gun starts dry firing the demon is nothing more than an ankle deep pile of gore.

The hero stands, he still seems hurt, he is breathing heavily but he is obviously running on endorphins and rage alone.

“Looks like we get round three after all. I’m feeling it, but not enough to keep from breaking you until dawn.” He starts to limp toward the bishop, picking up …

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