in the lap of the gods || MURDER

[kilgore]

[align=center][div style="width: 60%; height: auto; font-family: verdana; font-size: 8pt; text-align: justify; line-height: 13px; border-bottom: 5px COLOR solid; padding-bottom: 5px; color: COLOR;"]Kilgore did not remember how he had gotten to The Pitt, but it was all he could remember besides certain scents and voices so he decided that he belonged here and it was where he was gonna stay. You wouldn't hear no complaints from him, neither. He quite liked the blunt attitudes, the cold smiles, the independence from everything and everyone else. Out here in the desert, they were alone, and it felt like they were the only things that existed in the world until they weren't and here he was, smellin' something foreign enough to spike his interest. The curious part of him yearned to explore the world outside, but the majority decided against it because what reason was there to other than his own curiosity? But since this was closer to home, he'd meander forth, awkwardly over sized paws kicking up dust behind him.

He did not know what he had expected, but this was certainly not it. For all his admiration of The Pitt he did not think he had ever seen a dead body first hand and he doubted that he would ever wanna see one again. The thing looked barely animal anymore. It was just all ripped up and bloody, and reeked like holy hell, and oh, why was Stryker standing over it? Kilgore's face was contorted in disgust, nostrils flared and mouth shut firmly tight in an effort to dissuade anymore of that salty scent from getting into his mouth. His tail shot straight from his body, as stiff as the rest of him, and he barely moved an inch for a moment even if it felt like a few hours.

"Mister Stryker," if his southern accent could get any slower he'd sound like some ungodly machine — he gulped, throat constricting uncertainly, eyebrows strained so much against his forehead that he swore it hurt more than anything — "I don't mean to be a bother, but why's that animal all dead?"

He willed himself to continue looking, but eventually he turned his head and stuck his long muzzle into the meaty muscle of his shoulder, swallowing the bile that rose up in his throat. No matter how hard he tried to mask the scent of blood and guts with the smell of The Pitt, he couldn't. It was imprinted on the inside of his nose and he hated it, wanted it out, out, and he closed his eyes briefly in repulsion but instead of the blackness of his lids all he could see was that poor dead animal all red and stretched out before him. Kilgore wanted to cry for some reason, but he tried his darn best not too.