Cold steel. (Beans in continuation.)

[Kevin]

<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFvX1a7Yxh4" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFvX1a7Yxh4</a>

Beans unzipped the side of his sleeping bag, crawling out lazily. He grabbed his stained and torn City 8 shirt from the pile of clothing. He began buttoning the shirt, moving up towards his head progressively. The birds chirped, and the sun glared through the small back window of the aged vehicle. He climbed to the front seat of the vehicle, pushing the door open. The creaking from the rusted door hinges interrupted the songs of the birds. The fluttering of their wings trailed off through the trees.

Beans breathed deeply through his nostrils, sighing heavily. He turned to face his vehicle once more. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, wrapping his hands around the handle of a fuel can. He set it just outside of the vehicle. He scanned the objects in the vehicle thoughtfully, reaching for his sheathed knife, clipping it into a belt loop on his faded and horribly tattered City 11 pants. Beans reached his hand carefully under his seat, his hands wrapping around cold steel. He dragged the Mossberg 500 shotgun from beneath his seat and tossed it into the dirt outside of the vehicle with the fuel.

He grabbed his old notebook from the pile of junk on the passenger seat, as well as his last pack of cigarettes. He looked at the pack thoughtfully, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. He reached into the back seat, pulling his battered and worn out looking combine boot, guiding his foot into it. He packed all of his useful things- full cans of food, medical supplies, alcohol, and the like into his backpack. And with that, he exited the vehicle. He carried his backpack and shotgun a fair distance away, setting them amongst the grass.

As he started once more for the aged vehicle, his pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. All that remained was a single cigarettes, a nearly empty book of matches, and a scrap of paper. He withdrew the cigarette and book as matches as he continued on, placing the cigarette between his lips. He yanked one of the matches from the book, folding it up once more and setting it back in his shirt pocket. As he got to the vehicle, he struck the match along the hood of the car, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. He dropped the match in the grass, twisting it out with his booted foot.

Beans took a long, content drag on the cigarette. He let his lower jaw separate from the upper slightly, letting the thick, condensed puff of smoke roll from his mouth impassively. He bent down, setting a hand on the cap of the fuel can. He twisted the cap open, tossing it onto the hood of the vehicle. He stood, yanking the fuel can up with him.

Beans walked around to the hood of the vehicle, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth neutrally. With each breath, a small, nearly invisible puff of smoke exited Beans’ mouth and sailed into the airspace. Beans planting his foot on the bumper of the car, stepping onto the hood. He tilted the fuel can slightly, letting a splash of gasoline onto the hood. Beans poured a steady trail of gasoline behind him as he walked over the entirety of the automobile. He hopped off of the trunk, walking to the passenger side of the car. He pulled the door open, a few empty cans of soup fell at his feet. He stuck his arms inside, swinging them around and letting the fuel cover the interior of the car. As it emptied, he dropped the can on the passenger seat with the trash.

Beans took one last long, sedated drag on the cigarette as he walked towards the hood of the vehicle. He blew the smoke out in a steady trail from the corner of his mouth, withdrawing the mere stump of a cigarette from his mouth. He sighed, flicking the cigarette onto the hood of the car.

The flames grew nearly instantly from the fluid covering the car. Beans stepped backwards slowly as the flames spread, staring at his burning possessions dejectedly. He reached his belongings near the edge of the clearing. He sat down at the edge of the tall grass, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. He dropped his hand in his shirt pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He flipped the top open, and pulled out the scrap of paper, splaying it out on the grass in front of him, between his legs.

Beans stared down at the scrap of paper, lost in thought. His hand fell upon the barrel of his Mossberg. The cold steel never felt better.

[Dallas]

What a good choice of music, splendid story too. Will it be a series?

[Kevin]

Might be, not sure. I'll have to first figure out if anybody would actually read it.

[The Mysterious Stranger]

Beans unzipped the side of his sleeping bag, crawling out lazily. He grabbed his stained and torn City 8 shirt from the pile of clothing. He began buttoning the shirt, moving up towards his head progressively. The birds chirped, and the sun glared through the small back window of the aged vehicle. He climbed to the front seat of the vehicle, pushing the door open. The creaking from the rusted door hinges interrupted the songs of the birds. The fluttering of their wings trailed off through the trees.

Beans breathed deeply through his nostrils, sighing heavily. He turned to face his vehicle once more. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, wrapping his hands around the handle of a fuel can. He set it just outside of the vehicle. He scanned the objects in the vehicle thoughtfully, reaching for his sheathed knife, clipping it into a belt loop on his faded and horribly tattered City 11 pants. Beans reached his hand carefully under his seat, his hands wrapping around cold steel. He dragged the Mossberg 500 shotgun from beneath his seat and tossed it into the dirt outside of the vehicle with the fuel.

He grabbed his old notebook from the pile of junk on the passenger seat, as well as his last pack of cigarettes. He looked at the pack thoughtfully, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. He reached into the back seat, pulling his battered and worn out looking combine boot, guiding his foot into it. He packed all of his useful things- full cans of food, medical supplies, alcohol, and the like into his backpack. And with that, he exited the vehicle. He carried his backpack and shotgun a fair distance away, setting them amongst the grass.

As he started once more for the aged vehicle, his pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. All that remained was a single cigarettes, a nearly empty book of matches, and a scrap of paper. He withdrew the cigarette and book as matches as he continued on, placing the cigarette between his lips. He yanked one of the matches from the book, folding it up once more and setting it back in his shirt pocket. As he got to the vehicle, he struck the match along the hood of the car, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. He dropped the match in the grass, twisting it out with his booted foot.

Beans took a long, content drag on the cigarette. He let his lower jaw separate from the upper slightly, letting the thick, condensed puff of smoke roll from his mouth impassively. He bent down, setting a hand on the cap of the fuel can. He twisted the cap open, tossing it onto the hood of the vehicle. He stood, yanking the fuel can up with him.

Beans walked around to the hood of the vehicle, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth neutrally. With each breath, a small, nearly invisible puff of smoke exited Beans’ mouth and sailed into the airspace. Beans planting his foot on the bumper of the car, stepping onto the hood. He tilted the fuel can slightly, letting a splash of gasoline onto the hood. Beans poured a steady trail of gasoline behind him as he walked over the entirety of the automobile. He hopped off of the trunk, walking to the passenger side of the car. He pulled the door open, a few empty cans of soup fell at his feet. He stuck his arms inside, swinging them around and letting the fuel cover the interior of the car. As it emptied, he dropped the can on the passenger seat with the trash.

Beans took one last long, sedated drag on the cigarette as he walked towards the hood of the vehicle. He blew the smoke out in a steady trail from the corner of his mouth, withdrawing the mere stump of a cigarette from his mouth. He sighed, flicking the cigarette onto the hood of the car.

The flames grew nearly instantly from the fluid covering the car. Beans stepped backwards slowly as the flames spread, staring at his burning possessions dejectedly. He reached his belongings near the edge of the clearing. He sat down at the edge of the tall grass, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. He dropped his hand in his shirt pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He flipped the top open, and pulled out the scrap of paper, splaying it out on the grass in front of him, between his legs.

Beans stared down at the scrap of paper, lost in thought. His hand fell upon the barrel of his Mossberg. The cold steel never felt better.

 Sorry but I had to. You need to come up with new words at the beginning of your sentences instead of "He." Try something like instead, thus, never, etc that continue your last sentence.

[Kevin]

Beans unzipped the side of his sleeping bag, crawling out lazily. He grabbed his stained and torn City 8 shirt from the pile of clothing. He began buttoning the shirt, moving up towards his head progressively. The birds chirped, and the sun glared through the small back window of the aged vehicle. He climbed to the front seat of the vehicle, pushing the door open. The creaking from the rusted door hinges interrupted the songs of the birds. The fluttering of their wings trailed off through the trees.

Beans breathed deeply through his nostrils, sighing heavily. He turned to face his vehicle once more. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, wrapping his hands around the handle of a fuel can. He set it just outside of the vehicle. He scanned the objects in the vehicle thoughtfully, reaching for his sheathed knife, clipping it into a belt loop on his faded and horribly tattered City 11 pants. Beans reached his hand carefully under his seat, his hands wrapping around cold steel. He dragged the Mossberg 500 shotgun from beneath his seat and tossed it into the dirt outside of the vehicle with the fuel.

He grabbed his old notebook from the pile of junk on the passenger seat, as well as his last pack of cigarettes. He looked at the pack thoughtfully, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. He reached into the back seat, pulling his battered and worn out looking combine boot, guiding his foot into it. He packed all of his useful things- full cans of food, medical supplies, alcohol, and the like into his backpack. And with that, he exited the vehicle. He carried his backpack and shotgun a fair distance away, setting them amongst the grass.

As he started once more for the aged vehicle, his pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. All that remained was a single cigarettes, a nearly empty book of matches, and a scrap of paper. He withdrew the cigarette and book as matches as he continued on, placing the cigarette between his lips. He yanked one of the matches from the book, folding it up once more and setting it back in his shirt pocket. As he got to the vehicle, he struck the match along the hood of the car, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. He dropped the match in the grass, twisting it out with his booted foot.

Beans took a long, content drag on the cigarette. He let his lower jaw separate from the upper slightly, letting the thick, condensed puff of smoke roll from his mouth impassively. He bent down, setting a hand on the cap of the fuel can. He twisted the cap open, tossing it onto the hood of the vehicle. He stood, yanking the fuel can up with him.

Beans walked around to the hood of the vehicle, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth neutrally. With each breath, a small, nearly invisible puff of smoke exited Beans’ mouth and sailed into the airspace. Beans planting his foot on the bumper of the car, stepping onto the hood. He tilted the fuel can slightly, letting a splash of gasoline onto the hood. Beans poured a steady trail of gasoline behind him as he walked over the entirety of the automobile. He hopped off of the trunk, walking to the passenger side of the car. He pulled the door open, a few empty cans of soup fell at his feet. He stuck his arms inside, swinging them around and letting the fuel cover the interior of the car. As it emptied, he dropped the can on the passenger seat with the trash.

Beans took one last long, sedated drag on the cigarette as he walked towards the hood of the vehicle. He blew the smoke out in a steady trail from the corner of his mouth, withdrawing the mere stump of a cigarette from his mouth. He sighed, flicking the cigarette onto the hood of the car.

The flames grew nearly instantly from the fluid covering the car. Beans stepped backwards slowly as the flames spread, staring at his burning possessions dejectedly. He reached his belongings near the edge of the clearing. He sat down at the edge of the tall grass, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. He dropped his hand in his shirt pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. He flipped the top open, and pulled out the scrap of paper, splaying it out on the grass in front of him, between his legs.

Beans stared down at the scrap of paper, lost in thought. His hand fell upon the barrel of his Mossberg. The cold steel never felt better.

 Sorry but I had to. You need to come up with new words at the beginning of your sentences instead of "He." Try something like instead, thus, never, etc that continue your last sentence.

Lol, believe me, I've noticed myself do this. I hate it myself, but it's a bad habit of writing that I can't quite kick.

[Kevin]

<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3G9bsCJ4znM" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3G9bsCJ4znM</a>

Something in his mind just kept telling him that they were all dead. Everyone. Beef, Meaty, Old Man, Luco, Paul. And he gradually began to believe himself, whether or not they were ACTUALLY dead, he may never find out. But the lie gave him a sort of inner peace, he had nothing more to worry about than his own survival. He still missed all of them, but going back to the mountains wasn’t a viable option as of yet.

Through habit, Beans had constantly been patting his chest pocket for cigarettes. Of course there were none, he’d smoked them all in a rather short period of time. In his lack of attention to his surroundings, he’d walked straight into a tree. He recoiled back, rubbing his nose briefly and cursing under his breath. “God damn it…”

In his blind anger, Beans began punching the tree wildly as if it was the tree’s fault. “Aaaaaagh!”

Besides Beans’ shouting, the forest was completely silent. This fit of anger lasted about a minute before being rudely interrupted by a blow to the cranium. Beans buckled over, holding his head and groaning like an animal. “Uaaagh!”

“Quick, take his shit!” A large branch fell from the hands of one of his assailants next to Beans. The second of the two quickly leapt on Beans, planting their feet against the ground and yanking it from his shoulders.

The two began sprinting from whence they came. Beans rolled over, luckily when he’d walked into the tree, he dropping his shotgun onto where he would fall, in turn covering it with his body. He quickly pushed himself up and grabbed the Mossberg 500 and his helmet, weaving through the trees after the two.

“Somebody’s coming!” blared out from one of the two that was being chased. A male came into sight, raising a revolver.

Beans stopped short, falling on his side. He quickly crawled behind a tree as a shot was fired, upturning the dirt by Beans’ legs. “Give me back my God damn stuff!”

Another shot broke the brief silence, audibly making contact with the tree Beans was cowering behind. Beans quickly stood up, breathing deeply and scanning his surroundings. Trees. Beans reached up, patting his helmet to make sure it was on appropriately. He promptly began running for another nearby tree- another shot rattled through the trees. In an intense adrenaline rush, Beans tripped over a tree root and onto the grass behind a tree.

“I think you got him, ese!”

“Sh-should I go look?”

“Yeah man, bodies can’t do shit but stink up a place.”

Beans rolled onto his back, dragging his shotgun onto his abdomen with his hand still on the grip. As the steps neared Beans, they slowed. Beans blinked rapidly, and as a head darted from around the tree, he kept them open, staring directly up at the tree towering over him. “I don’t see any blood here!”

“Rapido, man, what if someone heard us!”

The male standing over Beans grumbled to himself, letting the revolver hang from his hand carelessly as he bent down to pull the shotgun from Beans’ grip. As soon as the hand wrapped around the barrel of the weapon, Beans lifted his leg, sending the sole of his combine boot into the man’s groin.

The looter fell on his side at Beans’ feet, dropping the revolver on Beans’ lap after bringing his hands to his groin immediately after the kick. Beans dropped his shotgun to the side, crawling up to the male and clutching his collar. “I got your boy here!”

He raised his fist, yanking the attacker’s collar upwards and sending a fist into the center of his face. After several more blows to the face, the attacker’s friends neared. Beans reached behind him and grabbed the S&W .357 revolver. He pulled the hammer back, aiming up at one of the others just short of them reaching Beans.

The barrel of the Smith & Wesson shifted between the two, one of the males began speaking, “Man, you’re fucked when our boys hear about this.”

“I don’t care about yours boys.” Upon finishing his sentence, he pulled the trigger. The hammer swung forward, slamming into the primer of the bullet. The attacker who’d spoken slipped back from taking the shot to the abdomen, staggering back for a few steps before falling on his back, screaming in pain. “Aaaaagh!”

Beans pulled the hammer of the revolver back again, pressing it against the forehead of the looter on the ground. “Tell your friend up there to get my stuff.”

A pair of brown eyes were crossed, staring at the revolver pressed against his head. He clenched his eyes shut,  a glob of saliva spurting out onto his chin as he sobbed. “G-get  his stuhuuuuhf…”

He broke into a steady screech, panting quickly. “They made me do iiiiiiit…”

Beans’ backpack thudded on the grass next to him. He eased on the trigger, letting the hammer fall forward without triggering the bullet. “Thank you.”

Beans pressed his palm against the tree beside him, clawing at it as he pulled himself up. He reached down, sliding his arms through his backpack straps. After placing his helmet back on his head and retrieving his Mossberg, he started off through the trees once more. The screaming and yelping of the men behind him disturbing the otherwise silent forest.