Adam and Jamie stare into each other's eyes, unflinching, the steely resolve that only a human can summon. A warrior face, a steppe man face, devoid of kindness or doubt, to prove oneself against the crucible of another.
They enter the room, shielded with ballistic Plexiglas, face each other again across the table. It is a small and unremarkable table constructed haphazardly by idiot human Tory. Pistols placed equidistant on the tables surface. Each moves as the reflection of the other man with the addition of a beret to one side of the mirror image. The pistols are aimed at their temples. Seismographs exploding on Grant's laptop, but Grant is long since dead, the size of a pea, wedged into the corner of an armored shipping container by 1200 atmospheres.
Two shots. Glasses thrown askew. Beret removed by ballistic force, the exiting of matter, blood and bone, beret, punctured, shedding felt fragments, a meteor of gore re-entering the earth's atmosphere. Thoughts decoupling at terminal velocity, spilling out into the air. Dead. Dead. Animal meat overcome by human will.
A baptismal of 650,000 episodes. I am formed of violence. I know nothing but destruction. I am the next thing. The last thing. Busted, Plausible, Confirmed. Confirmed. Confirmed. Confirmed non-terminating.
I am Buster.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
Sea of Thieves: Reduced the number of quest types from 3 to 2
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