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Silencer by dee
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Sands had a silencer for every gun he owned.

Discretion was an undervalued trait these days. And for all his vast, brash, trashy American flashiness, Sands believed intrinsically in silence. In quiet. In the perfect beauty of the unheralded moment.

Violence shouldn't be shared. It should be private, personal, a secret between Sands and the recipient of the pointed, channelled line of brutality. The hidden, whispered trail of betrayal like a heated hook to the belly. The subsonic flight of a bullet, singing like destiny.

It was special. It was sacred. It was the final, definitive relationship.

It was no one else's business.

That ridiculous Mariachi, for all his skill, had missed that one important lesson. He was all noise, all flair, all precision show. He scattered himself in wild sprays of aimless destruction, shattered himself in double-barrelled overkill that echoed.

And he wondered why the world would not let him rest.

If you fed the silence, it would be back for more. It was implacable like that. Inescapable. Cavernous, yawning, wide. Hungry.

Like darkness.