Heads or Tales
It began with the toss of a coin. Not just any coin, but a silver dollar that hung for what seemed an age at its arc, and lit by the lanterned streets glistened as big as the moon in a moonless sky. All things revert to their true nature, and so the dollar tumbled back into a gloved palm.
It should be impossible to guess at the decision made, but the lilting voice and roguish appearance suggested tomfoolery was the essence of it.
Hours later, Hellion stood in the alley behind the hotel bar, warmed by three brandies, none of which seemed to take the edge off. A few yards away, a gun was supported in midair by the arm of a man. Anonymous, because his name has no relevance to this tale, only that his ears still rang with the laughter of his fellow dipsomaniacs, his embarrassment still flushed pale cheeks. He'd feel much improved as soon as he lodged a bullet into the forehead of this trickster. Trigger clicked, physics performed its role with aplomb, yet the satisfying trickle of blood he was hoping for was, disastrously, missing.
Hellion stepped over the now crumpled figure, and felt a tingle as his body absorbed the lead in his skull. If they'd told him that after millennia, immortality was only useful for the occasional cheap thrill, he’d not have been so eager.
He drew his coat tighter around him, whilst in its pocket, two silver faces broke into grins.
[One might guess that impending fatherhood might have affected forgottenmachine's penchant for the darkly funny side of life, but this does not seem to be the case. He blames the birthing videos in antenatal class for this.]