Barren Stadium

Description: A massive stadium located in Los Angeles, California, and built to house over four thousand individuals. The stadium is at least the size of a football field with a domed and sealed roof; a stage situated in the middle of of the large oval construct with thousands of seats in the circling stands around it, allowing adoring fans to observe their favorite artist from almost every angle. Currently, the stadium is filled to about half of it's capacity with noisy and awaiting individuals, with Rebecca Black herself being scheduled to arrive on stage in ten minutes from one of the tunnels in the walls beneath the stands. Guards are positioned around the perimeter of the stage, positioned there to prevent any unruly fans from attempting to drop down from the stands and rush the stage in a frenzy.  

Spoiler:

The German was glad he got a ticket. So very glad. So very very glad. Even though said ticket was his, but he borrowed it off of some chap, and by borrow, more like make sure they won't be bothering anyone again absolutely permanently, making sure to have hidden the body in a dumpster somewhere along with whomever were to accompany said person, a few blocks away from the stadium, which is to say said daughter. He made sure to destroy their phones, and borrow their car keys, and said car. Some sedan from the looks of it. They were torn into gore and paste, and dissolved by his blood he made sure to douse them in, leaving behind nothing more than an abhorrent stink and a puddle of gore, as he were far away from it.

Anyways, he made sure to actually seat himself in the lower stands looming about in the background, with the higher stands overlooking him as he sat at the third row from the edge of said lower stands at the high end, particularly the one that was filled up, which gave him quite a good view of the night skies were the roof even open along with the general span of the stadium, if he was willing to look high up and open the roof somehow. She was quite far away, were she to arrive on stage in the predetermined area of where she'd sing. He was surrounded by the fans, mostly little brats from the looks of it, then again, all those pre-grown larval love babies are pubescent brats considering the super advanced aged yet young looking parching on Americo's good manly features to make him look far more youthful, were it not for the fake lumberjack beard he wore and the metrosexual wig he wore on his head. All in the name of a good disguise, both matched colours, and he wore a coat this time, and much more natural clothing, in the form of a Metallica T-shirt, because he hated it, and a cargo pants, as a change from his usual clothes. He was seething in sheer rage, considering murdering everyone of these brats, but relented his wrath unending.

He had, from normal observation, a spyglass, to survey the entire area, tucked away in his pocket, whistling a low angry tune to himself as he looked around the crazed mob that were like a sea of great masses of teeming human flesh. The scope had a single dot in the middle of the glass, and some make-shift measurements to account for bullet drop stenciled out at the end. He made sure to accurately mark it out. As of now he sat, and just minded his own business, while the stadium was being filled, ready to wait for 10 minutes for Rebecca Black to make her appearance, while he looked goofy, what with having fake blonde hair and all that. He looked WAY different than his Mexican mission.

The thousands currently inhabiting the stands only grew in number as more and more fans piled in to witness their new favorite artist's first live show. They all fit the criteria of pre-grown, pubescent larval, as some would call them, since the only ones present over the ages of 20 would be parents. Some mothers were there because they liked the music the same as their children, but the vast majority of the fathers who were there, however, had different feelings for it.

The look of annoyance and torment on some of their faces proved as much, as they were likely conned into taking their children through some sort of bribe or plea or some other form of coercion; likely by their wives. The crowds continued to grow and the noise raised in volume as the arena, once half full, was now nearly filled to maximum capacity. One would be surprised by the sudden increase, especially since it had only been a few minutes.

However, as it was still quite a bit before their pop idol made an appearance, a group of children seated on the other side of the area thought it a good idea to pass the time with a song, particularly a song called "Friday" by the very same pop idol they were here to see, as it caught on. The group of what was originally just singing children humming to themselves quickly evolved into a stadium-wide song of all those who were true fans openly singing the song in unison.

An irritating symphony of children's and select parents' voices of varying pitches filled the stadium with the dreadful song, a makeshift concert preformed by the fans awaiting their artist to exit the tunnel and begin the real show.

SO, as far as it goes, he can't bone any of these girls, because they are pre-developed larval baby things. Also because they are annoying. Also a major turn off point is the fact that they LISTEN to the shriek of THAT THING and consider it entertainment. Anyways, it was a pain in the ass, and Americo himself had his hand in his coat the entire time. The urge... to murder everyone rising to levels akin to a volcano about to explode in a blaze of fury to coat the entire arena into one murder lava pit so that they may writhe and scream to sizzling burns and so on and so forth. Oh how he was soothed by the idea of ending this ENTIRE arena a bloodbath, and would do it FREE of charge. ALAS, woe is he who is tasked with only killing a single woman, nay, a fetus larval baby that refused to grow out mentally, only becoming some young adult-thing physically to irritate her vocals towards shrill highs to assume such things known as music known as pop. A bastardized thing based on the yodels of the olden times to achieve something that talks about life except through elated highs and lows in vocal tunes. Just what the fuck happened to the world, and why must it be so fascinated with such a wanting concept?

So as Rebecca Black, whom he knew not to be in the stadium center that her absence was met with a chorus of high pitched chorus which was a parody of the Choir kids singing that irritated Americo to HELL. Spyglass planted firmly around his eye socket, his eye with optical feed to his brain and thus nerve communication between the two, he peered towards the black headed teen idol sensation's place to make an estimate, which was FUCKING HARD with the annoying screams. He had to FUCKING CALIBRATE and ACCOUNT for range of bullet drop and other factors, no winds thankfully, but NOOOO, these singing wanted him to shoot here and there. Pocketing his spyglass, he desperately reached for inhaler, because he has a sickness, and that's homicidal need to want to kill the rest of these brats, and he needed to be in control. Whiffing in the chemical air before pocketing it over again. Pulling out the spyglass as he considered putting on something around his ears to dull the hymns of irritating screeches over Friday.

Was this a punishment to Americo for being a Nazi? Or was it for being a homicidal serial killer only interested in monetary gains? Or was it maybe that time he actually mistreated his daughter and son, calling his daughter a lard ass whale with her own zip code? And his son a twig of a man? Well, whatever it was, it was as if this was a divinely appointed punishment given out to him to test if he had the patience of a saint, and to see if he'll snap or not.

The things he'd do for money... Right, Rebecca Black isn't here, homicidal urge to butcher the lot is a problem, and looking through the scope briefly as he peers past to look left, right and back to the singing masses of girls keeping his attention mired with bloodlust. Just WHERE was the damn pop idol? And why couldn't this mission be as simple as the Justin Beiber one? At the very least, it was fun... oh that girl with the Cross gun, which speaking of which, he needed to investigate into her origins, was quite a fighter, however stink of a destiny she had that he hadn't rectified. Still, in a way, he was glad he let her go, at the very least, THAT job was entertaining, unlike THIS GODDAMN BLOATED over a CORPULENT teeming mass of queer folks singing their aberrant song.

The singing continued, and only grew louder as more and more individuals joined in to pass the time as they waited for their idol to appear. It had been well over several minutes, quickly approaching the end of the aforementioned wait period. The anticipation and excitement made the air practically alive with electricity, which seemed to influence even more into joining in on the godawful concert of song.

The entire arena, bar a handful of individual parents, were now singing aloud the song of "friday", which never seemed to end as it seemed as though they were merely repeating the chorus nonstop. However, after the next ten minutes of utter torture, some began to worry about their beloved idol as she had not appeared, and a number of the bodyguards surrounding the stage had also disappeared, leaving only a few in their place.

Despite the worry, they had continued their song, but the tone of some of their voices had become somewhat worrisome. True be told, the pop idol had all but abandoned the concert after receiving an anonymous tip that told her a threat against her life would occur at this concert, which explained why a number of the bodyguards had disappeared.

Inside the halls of the stadium, she and her mob of guards were making their way toward the parking lot where they would likely make a quick escape. After they had done so, and only after, would an announcer come over the speaker to explain the situation to the worried crowds.

Americo has decided in all his venerable years that perhaps he should seek another contract, resolving and acting upon leaving the stage before he digests ten minutes worth of singing that seemed to draw out within the first minute he had an iota of patience to brave through. Lest he endanger his anonymity, perhaps he should walk out, in his merry way, lest he sinks into some kind of homicidal rage where he would butcher the crowd and let the stage run red with the blood of the young. This'd end up being a memorial of some kind, a police siege follows, and generally they'd regard this more akin to a terrorist attack than an actual murder. Well, whatever the case, he was done with this arena, DONE. No amount of money was worth it, besides, this was JUST the meeting place, the idea is to kill Rebecca Black. When is not the question, but the fact he would, and he has given his word, but stiiilll... it is a MAJOR PAIN.

He groaned on and grits his teeth as he pocketed the spyglass. In defeat, he'd rise out of his chair with a sullen and pained expression as he steps down the flight of stairs after shuffling past the seated audience to an empty aisle. He wasn't electrified with excitement like the rest of the audience, but merely seething with contempt like a knife and dagger being breathed in and out quite so, only adding to his woes further dogged singing caressing his ears with the likeness of grating needles, if that's a good way to say how annoyed he was and miffed with their attempts to emulate their idol, and he was in a hurry to leave out, taking large and fast strides to just be done with this whole affair.

So he made his way outside, maybe he'll get drunk, sleep it off, and kill Rebecca Black later on. Stepping towards the nearest exit, preferably taking the emergency exit, as he pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up with a match as he begun to inhale and smoke the cancer on a stick. Having went through the emergency exit with the intent to merely go back home as the German puffed out the noxious fumes from his cigarette, normally something hazardous to others, but not to him, would head over to maybe some more fancier car, but sought true sticking to his respectable Sedan instead, and by his, mostly the previous owners whom were nice enough to give it to him, and by give, murdered and robbed of it. Pulling out the car keys he took from earlier from the two whom he took their tickets from, as he saw the title that read, 'Pussy Wagon' written on it. Written ignobly to name a sedan of all things within a family oriented setting rife and smitten with those farthest from the ideal of that is kin to be compiled within a single stage in this neon light surrounded night illuminated by the many surrounding lights about.

Though as he looked at the car keys, that he'll just head over to a motel or some such heavy in thought, Americo looked up to see before him what was in the parking lot while he walked to his repossessed car, which wasn't that far. It was lucky for him that the parking in itself was coincidentally close by, as he left the stadium behind him, with a donkey kick behind, sending the emergency door opened earlier to leave, snapping shut.

Exiting the stadium with her posse of guards not far behind, the young vampiric pop idol had resembled anything but what her fans would have expected to see. A furrowed brow and twisted lips distorted her features into that of an angry, livid glare, the moving of her lips spewing nothing but muffled curses and irritations that went unheard to even her bodyguards. She had been hoping to spread her influence over even more of the masses with this concert, but the warning about a threat on her life had made her remain cautious.

Unlike others, she had never desired to take risks. She had reason to be nervous as well, as she had heard of what had happened to Justin not long ago. Perhaps it was the same individual, perhaps not, but it was better safe than sorry. An audible "tsk" and a wave of her hand caused one of the guards to rush hurriedly towards her tour bus door, in which he held the door open for her.

"You," she glanced over her shoulder toward another of her guards, "Go back inside and tell them that we'll reschedule the concert for next week." A nod of his head was all it took before he did as it was told, allowing the young Rebecca and her remaining guards to enter the bus without issue. "Boris, I want you to look into these rumors about a possible attempt being plotted against my life. Don't stop until you're absolutely sure of it's falsehoods. If you find anyone associated with the rumor, or anyone who claims to be apart of the conspiracy, I want them to disappear. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded, his broad arms crossing over his chest as another of the guards took a seat at the drivers wheel, a turn of the key bringing the engine to life before it slowly began to pull away from it's present space and towards the nearest exist of the filled parking lot.

As he jogged over to his Sedan not afar, he jammed the key in like he would his pe-- a normal key into a key hole, and twisted the thing to open the car in a manner of moments. Pulling the door handle back, he popped open the car door and went inside only in a brief slow motion, as he was going towards his car, his eyes caught something, as his cigarette fell. It was like that movie, what's it's face, the Hangover, except instead of being drunk with booze, he was drunk with SHEER RAGE when he saw what was actually going on.

From the short span of gap between his car door and the frame to the car's main body, he saw a figure from afar with his eyesight he could not help but recognize for all intents and purposes with sheer HATE. HATE. HATE. Rebecca Black exited from a differing exit point from Americo's own, but he was glad that she didn't seem to notice him, otherwise she would've actually reacted with a far more hasty disposition, or with suspicion, either one of them, but he wasn't packing heat besides that of rage. She entered the bus, and he knew he had little time to lose.

Penetrating the car engine slot with the key, he turned on the ignition as the engines hummed to life with a growl, as it sparked the car lights on, which Americo turned off. Reversing back from the neatly aligned rows of cars parked, he made sure not to crash into any and give off sound. Reaching with his other hand a fat slab of compact almost rectangular object with a sticky top, he held it at hand as he rolled down the window to his side. The bus was slow, which gave Americo PLENTY of time to actually intercept that bitch, as she was in fact to the empty space past a wall of cars to Americo's left, which is also the side where he sat at. He also took out a remote which he color labeled like the C4 he just took out with enough explosive power to turn anything into a ball of inferno.

He made sure to speed up at a calm hum, nothing too fast, but fast enough to outpace Rebecca's bus, that when the moment came that she was almost a few couple of meters away from the exit, Americo's car at a corner, makes a turn, speeds along at the T-like intersection, with the top of the T where the singular vertical line's end connecting to the horizontal one as an example, the exit in itself. Lothar sped across the horizontal end, only a moment was all it took for him as he came across the bus in its front, to chuck a C4 outside his window, as the sticky end would adhesively in purpose hold in stickiness unto the front. As the car passed, the bus's front to the empty road adjacent to the parking, and feeling he has gained enough distance, at least 50 feet upon hitting the gas pedal to gain distance, in that short span of time, he pulls up the detonator, and presses the red button. Because FUCK all other colors, red is the best. An explosion emits from the C4, having made sure to press the button only if the C4 remained on the bus's front.

"EAT SHIT YOU BITCH, YOUR SINGING MAKES ME BARF LIKE YOUR FACE LOOKS LIKE GRATED CHEESE. WHEN YOU GET TO HELL, TELL JUSTIN BEIBER TO SUCK IT, AND NOT HIS OWN PENIS, BECAUSE HE HAS NONE." He shouted from inside the car hoping she'd hear him inside her damn bus. Dumb bitch.

Rebecca paid little attention to her surroundings at the moment, for she was absorbed in thought about the recent developments. Luckily, Boris was doing his job, and his eyes were as sharp as ever. Taking notice of the foreign car that had also exited the still packed parking lot, of which no one else had done. In fact, the stands were still packed to the brim due to listening to the announcements about a rescheduling for the concert.

Boris was trained to be alert, and he didn't like the feeling he got when he managed to catch a glimpse of the driver as he passed by. In addition, the bus driver had noticed the odd object be thrown onto the bus from his perspective, and promptly alerted Boris about it. Now, Boris was, in fact, former military who had gone into the private sector to act as a body guard for those who needed one, and he knew the description of a block of C4 when he heard one.

Immediately turning on his heels, without alerting anyone, he bolted towards the back of the bus where Rebecca had put herself, seated on her bed in a deep thought, and effortlessly grabbed one of the chairs to shatter the back window, then, without responding to the protests he was receiving, he lifted the young popstar onto his shoulder and dove out the back, using the bed as a spring board to do so. Tucking Rebeccas head to this chest, he was allowed to safely roll across his back and to his feet without any harm befalling the girl, though it's not like any would have to being with given the girls unholy origins.

Not wasting time, Boris jumped to his feet, still clenching the girl to his chest and bolted away from the doomed bus mere moments before it had detonated. The shockwave blew him from his feet, sending him flying to the concrete with the young popstar in his arms. Knock outcold by the blast, Rebecca freed herself from the mans embrace and stood to her full height, her eyes flashing a vibrant red as the sight. "The rumors were true then!"

She shouted, filled with sudden rage and scorn for whoever had attempted the assassination, her eyes scanning the parking lot, her body tensed and ready to react to anything that might come out at a surprise attack.

This putrid assignment was proving a pain in the ass more so than he imagined, just like the Justin Beiber one, except, even as he remains human, what he saw wasn't as he learnt from experience to confirm the FUCKING kill, to just watch and see. From afar from the seat of his car, as he stepped out of it after popping open the door and closing it behind him, were two glimmering red acast from Rebecca's eyes his vision registered from a distance. She seemingly didn't notice him but seemed alert. Far as he recalled from his days as a Nazi, vampires still needed awareness. It wasn't like they could run one hundred yards in a forest while getting shot in the leg without even KNOWING of a presence, running away from some terminator dude. But that's just Americo's imagination running wild right now, he figures that most vampires are creatures still constrained by the laws of physics, and thus was the same of Rebecca Black in his thought. The bus illuminated the surrounding in a blaze of fire, as it turned into charred black remnant of metal. Though to those in the distance, no doubt it'd obscure those in the shadow, which Americo remained in from a distance, safe from the after shock and the heat wave to come as he was three car rows away.

Pulling out his already loaded Thompson Contender from his coat, he took aim to her chest with the powerful round in his weapon, silvered tip. He didn't really need much of even a moment to train it, but a brief raise of his weapon as he pulled the trigger. The purpose of the chest aim was to maximize the damage of the mass as much as possible, without offering a minimal target, regardless of how glamorous headshots can be, it still means a lower chance of hitting an enemy. He knew better than that.

That being shot, he immediately squatted down under the cover of cars to obscure his figure immediately, popped open the breech of the Contender, and fed it a fresh bullet, all without looking at it as it came instinctively. Keeping just a degree of sight whilst minimizing his entire general figure from view, only to confirm the hit. Vampires are a pain in the ass, Hell, this ISN'T even his job. Well, okay, it is. He was paid to get this shit done, and there was a lot of money on the line that'd make him consider... money is the magic word.

Vampirically attuned senses allowed her to take note of even the most minor sounds over the roaring flames, and it was because of those gifts of Unlife she'd received was her life spared, turning just in time towards to sound of a finger pressing lightly against the trigger and leaning to the left, arching her right shoulder back with as much flexibility as she could muster. The movement saved her from a quick death, though the silver tipped bullet had grazed across her shoulder, signaling a cry of agony in response and dropping her flat on her back, hand moving to cover the wound.

She did not stay in this position long, foreseeing a possible followup shot to go along with the situation, she rolled to her left in a series of three turns before pulling herself back to her feet, facing the last known location of her assailant. Grimacing towards the hidden assassins general area, the Undead Popstar would result to another ability that had been granted to her by the unholy forces that now coursed through her veins. A quick, sharp inhale filled her rotted lungs with fresh air, her chest puffing outward to confirm her intake, and the smallest smirk on her now closed lips would be the only hint of what would come next.

Exhaling, the most ear bleeding screech would erupt from the depths of her vocals, like a mythical harpy. So loud was it, in fact, that car windows began to shatter, alarms triggered and added their annoying cries, all of it combining with Rebecca's own horrid screech of the undead to form a symphony unfit for the ears of even some supernatural creatures, many of them in the past having succumbed to having their eardrums torn to shreds by the unholy sound, and the few humans who had been exposed to it fell dead where they stood as the harsh sound waves pummeled their body.

Even if her target would likely not suffer such a fate due to him not being within pointblank range, the sound itself was several thousand times worse than a nail slowly dragging it's way across a chalkboard, so not only would it likely cause ear damage, but also a loss of equilibrium and balance. Luckily, Boris was behind Black, and thus had no chance of suffering any of the side-effects. It did, however, awaken him from his outcold nap and force him to rise to his feet, a shake of his head clearing away any grogginess that may be lingering from the previous explosion, after which he turned his attention in the direction his mistress was screeching, placing one of his fingers in an ear to mitigate the annoying shrill.

He saw the bullet only come to graze her on the shoulder with a scathing hit as the idol of ignoble mediocrity cried out like a fell deer screeching out for its momma to come suckle on her teats. Being well versed in sharp shooting from his days back at WWI, he didn't exactly keep to his position for long, as when he was fighting from outside on the move, without the safety or static stationary positions of trenches, his was not to be a target within the fulcrum of the force of another fixated response. So Americo does the SMART THING his intellect has given him, and NOT WAIT AROUND like some moron being the target of a helicopter chopper bearing harbingers of demise coming for him, or staying within inaction and shouting across at a Panzer tank. Nay, for 'twas not Americo's way as he had instead, whilst squatting down, began sprinting along whilst remaining out of sight as most of the cars rose beyond him in height, and he kept his posture hunched to keep out of sight. A blur that ran below view along to grow a great swathe of distance and move along the flanks as the distance between the two though expanded, as he has come to orbit her general placement of that singular location not dynamic but stationary as to face her leftmost side facing her arm when finally he has come to a stop.

What came next was like that of an angry turtle having testicular vasectomy done without anesthesia to dull out the pain, and he was glad too that he wasn't exactly in front of her, but GODDAMN how the FUCK do people even consider this shit singing? Back in his days, yodeling was considered a noble art of the mountains passed down from generations, graceful to the ears as many Germans made it their blissful mating call to kindle forth a season of which they fornicate with their chosen woman. Sometimes two women at once lather one another with soap to draw in a man, only to devour his skull... great times. Oh wait, that's praying mantis, different subject. Well, yodeling was still a noble art.

His ears began to throb madly, even outside the immediately harmful range of her conical-like attack he can surmise, it already pulsated a headache that made his homicidal rage rise many times more akin to the supernovae of the sun culturing within one's crotch like gonorrhea from Thailand, which is a lot, in case anyone is wondering. Pointing his gun once more within momentary time faster than that of a human's reflexes whilst keeping hidden in the darkness, the sound bellowed from Rebecca's foul throat drowning out every other sound in the vicinity, and he feels his black blood boil with sheer HATE, he'd once more pull the trigger. It had helped that there was little illumination of his part of the sector, sheer dimness that one may call him black embodied whole blanketing his general figure, not like the ghetto African Americans, or just your average African American African, as political correctness would have it in America.

He had already aimed at Rebecca's throat from the centermost mass as her awareness seems to be focused on his previous location and he remained out of the peripheral vision, noting the sight of Boris with sheer pity that he'd actually WORK for this harpy after seeing what kind of sick abominable screech that profaned the immediate front of hers with the singing calls of the evilest cries of the abyss. But that won't matter, the gun's latest shot will shut her THE FUCK UP ONCE AND FOR FUCKING ALL, BECAUSE GODDAMN THAT BITCH. She doesn't even have the decency to sing inside her own stadium, runs away, and tries to pull off a Justin Beiber.

The horrid scream, the shriek of the undead harpy and all of it's unwelcome fury, had been silenced, replaced with a loud gurgle of crimson which cut short the gasp of surprise and panic that was the response given towards what had torn into her neck. The silver tipped bullet ripped into the soft tissue, punching clean through and out the back, making the wound serious, but not irreparable for the regenerative properties the vampire popstar possessed. However, had been taken off her feet in response, hands clasping the wound with a look of utter shock upon her features. She had made a mistake, a grave one at that. How stupid, but luckily she would not be alone while she recovered from her helpless state.

Boris had risen to his feet the moment he saw his master injured, but he did not leave himself open by rushing to her side. No, he knew she could recover since the silver bullet had passed straight through, if given the time to do so, and he would provide that time. Sharpened senses, far above that of mere humans and even some creatures of unnatural origin honed in on where the shot had came from, even despite the vampires previous scream which had seemingly drown out all other noise. A snarl, not unlike that of an angry lion, escaped his lips, his clenched teeth visibly showing as his features twisted with anger. The Russian Man and all of his height of six feet suddenly hunched over, his shirt shredding to pieces, his trousers ripping apart, and the flesh beneath splitting open to reveal a greater increase in muscle mass and size.

Unkempt fur of a silver shade erupted from the back of his neck and around his head, resembling a lions mane, as did the same kind of fur appear around his wrists and ankles. The transformation further changed his body as his face restructured itself, a snout extending and large teeth of a carnivorous nature bore forth, with a set of razor sharp claws extending from his nails completing the lion-like transformation. What followed was a bellowing roar, animalistic and primal in nature, the volume nearly matching that of the vampires previous scream only less focused. It wasn't designed to maim like Rebecca's, but instead to establish his presence. The mutated lycanthrope flickered out of sight the moment the roar had died down, pushing from his position with leg strength strong enough to destroy the ground in which he previously stood upon.

He had taken position behind the burning husk of what was once the tour bus, and with strength befitting his beastial appearance, bent down and sunk his claws into the charred remains. A mighty roar echoed forth as he heaved, lifting the massive chunk of flaming metal with herculean strength, flipping it with such force that it shot through the air in the direction he had heard the shot originate. The flaming husk would illuminate the darkness in which the assailant hid, and crush him if one were lucky. However, he highly doubted such a simple thing would end this conflict, and thus pushed off the ground once again into a supernatural stride; blurring into a distorted form of streaking silver. His destination was the hitman, who would likely react to the bus with surprise, and thus give the King of Beast's a an opening to saturate his claws with the man's intestinal track with a strike from his left, in which they were aimed; the intent being complete bifurcation.

In the background, Rebecca would weakly crawl her ways toward the hedges which lined the parking lot, hoping to use them as a form of concealment to aid in her recovery.

Boris, the Mutated Lycanthope's transformation:

He had confirmed the hit, the power of the shot would've ripped a huge amount of hole and probably fuck her up from the shock as he was using high powered rounds normally reserved for rifles, instead used in his special pistol. Popping open the breech, he pulls out the casing, and inserts a new bullet into the pistol in a short and ample amount of time. The harpy had gotten her throat punctured that he thought it not to be the case of the deed being done in its complete earnest as his vision had come to acknowledge and visualize from his dark foreboding realm, or just a fancy way of saying he is in a really dark place without being a gangster. He is an assassin, big difference. He gets paid to kill people. And this hit pays GOOOOOOD.

As there seems to be a deliberate case of bullet not murderizing her but should at least having torn out a major amount of ligament and maybe even her throat, which is a good chunk, MAYBE her spine if he was a lucky son of a bitch, which he is not, as it seems that EVERYTIME this shit seems to happen. Simple assassination plan, and suddenly the retarded target is actually being protected by a super competent bodyguard and some retinue of superhuman maniacs, or some sassy chick with a lar-- no wait, that's just one time in Mexico, and either ways, it seems both of them didn't care about one another, well, except for the fact Americo just burnt down a Church. Sue him. Oh wait, nobody can, because they don't know him. HAH. The good qualities of a good disguise, and being dead helps.

Seems like the bodyguard rose up, probably a dumb normal human he'd probably just kill for his wallet, which should be packed, as a bonus. Maybe steal his suit for good measure? Yeah, sounds like a good plan, as Americo watches, checking through his pockets and holsters to see that indeed everything he needed was there, and back up to find that things were not actually as they seem. This night just COULDN'T GE-- no, he will not tempt fate because FUCK IT IN THE ASSHOLE. It deserves to die. His luck is small, but the pay offs are big. Is this karma? Because Americo was an asshole Nazi who was a jerk ass even among his peers? Naaaah, he probably wasn't. He was pretty polite, he was open about his opinions (cramming his fist into people's faces to those that disagree), very tolerant (he once set an Italian on fire because he hated his accent), AND best of all, open minded (he calls his daughter a fatass land whale who is her own country, and his son a twiggy pizza face, among MANY other colorful words of encouragement).

And THEN fate decides to take a dump on Americo as he had realized what he had beheld to be something even worse than anything he had realized. Something he loathes to mention as his blood ran with sheer rage he felt it burning. Well, not really, but it was a metaphor. Well, there is two things Americo could do in this situation. He could A) stand like a dumbass watching the transformation go on, or B) just shoot the fucker mid-transformation and do it as the pragmatic thing like he always do. In a fit of insanity though as a lapse of judgement went as if time had come to corrupt his brain, he had decided to opt for the latter because that's just unsporting. Oh wait, Americo wasn't a sporting chap to BEGIN with. Horror dawned on Americo as he had realized what he faced, something abominable, something unnatural, that he could not help but mutter out in sheer dread as this actually signals EVERYTHING Americo had seen before in Boris.

"Oh my God..." He mutters in a small hushed whisper, "That man... HE IS A FURRY! I fucking hate furfags." Also a subtle whisper, somehow. And missing the point completely, and by completely, more like missing a sniper shot to a large barnyard only 100 yards away as a matter of metaphor. Well, verbally missing the point anyways. He HATES transformers, those assholes. Last time he met one of the were-kind, he was met with an abhorrent pungent smell that invaded his nostrils and burnt the hair in it with the sheer stink.

So he watched the manlion announce his presence like an erotic were-leopard as it bellowed out into the air, something majestic that he couldn't help but almost let out a tear. Almost, and stared at what the werelion was planning on doing next, because he is a monstrous beast, and it is not the smartest thing to do was to let him out of his sight. It wasn't that hard to follow the blur, considering the direction he faced, it was actually keeping track of that bastard with his speed, watching the werelion punch crater with his feet by sheer impact of sudden force projected in a blur.

Americo pulled both of his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, and wore it instead like a cape, having kept track of the werelion to the bus as he had gauged the intention in the surmised words of 'MOTHERFUCKER', in his mind. He had decided to leap aside before the bus was thrown, skid across the floor, as he kept his sight locked still on the werelion, only to see his direction and the span he had come. The streak gave intention, and it was no secret to Americo since that thing OOZED hostility. The bus itself crashed unto the former position of Americo instead of Americo himself as he was twenty feet away from it in his leap aside past the rows of car, only for him to stand up with deliberation, as if vulnerably being dumb, as the werelion had come to the side where Americo had instead inclined to show his back as opposed to his left. Also the cars were flattened at the top by the bus, and BOY is someone going to get PISSED at just what happened.

The claw had made its mark and swiped across the coat, at first, seemingly puncturing the clothes from its side and riddling them with holes as opposed to bifurcation, but behind that, there were no flesh, only space and some mass that would be stuck in between those claws, something pudgy and yellowish, that obscured by the veil of the coat that stuck to it, if actually pulled aside, would reveal it as C4. That brief obscurity provided by the coat had found itself in the riddle of Americo's absence as he had taken towards using his inhumane speed to make away with a detonator at hand, past the gap between the cars as he had pressed it the red button whilst having made use of the concealment offered by the cars themselves and his back turned to ensure this gambit of his worked whilst picking as much distance as possible in that short span as he is for a better of the word, safe from its radius, at least from an imminent demise, coincidentally towards Rebecca's direction.

What entailed from his coat was an incandescent and steel-ripping explosion instead that let loose a glorious and gross illumination of vividness, throwing aside cars and subsequently Americo had to take further extra steps ahead as to retain his balance before finally slowing and his posture reasserted itself. He felt his back was heated up by the heat wave, but nothing that made it catch on fire. He learnt by experience that ALWAYS he needed to confirm the kill as it tends to be a PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS to actually see them rise up again.

The man had escaped the fearsome white claws which were meant to eviscerate his very being and tarnish their purity, but only on the mistake of Boris, who had thought the man to be a mere moral. The demonstration of speed and reflex were beyond that of the ordinary, and as such only the individual's coat had suffered the lethal influence of the King of Beast's ravenous claws. A snarl, unearthly and enraged, would be the only response the titanic beast would given, which would last only a miniscule moment before his form would one against flicker out of view to leave the coat behind and pursue his prey.

The explosion brought about behind the unseen beast would come as a surprise, but not one extensive enough to take the focus of the Beast off of his target. The Man had made for the direction of his mistress, and that was something he could not allow. Rebecca had managed to pull herself within the concealing embrace of the shrubs despite her wound, but it was poor; her legs remained exposed, revealing her location. The wound in her throat had only healed slightly, not enough for her to even speak.

The speed granted by Boris' transformation was great, but in mid-stride he would throw himself forward onto all fours, which caused his silver, distorted image to disappear into something indistinguishable; the use of four limbs propelling him across the parking lot with speed unmatched by even the likes of some of his own kin, becoming literal streaks of not akin to that of an icy wind upon the Russian wilderness.

The power of three strides brought him upon the Assassin once again, this time bearing down upon him with his entire body, as if a lion in the wild leaping upon a water buffalo that would later before it's meal, which would only be signaled by that of the unearthly roar which echoed forth from the beasts vocals, which only seemed amplified by the fiery explosion left behind him.

Claws of unnatural sharpness were spread, ready to carve upon the flesh of the threat before him and bury within to secure a firm hold. The lion-like maw would open, the elongated fangs of a predator far superior to those found in the natural wilds ready to sink into the soft flesh of the man's neck to rend it and the bone beneath from the vessel in which it was attached.

"I shall feast upon your very being, fool of flesh!"

SO, it seems that his pudgy C4 was removed through his own speed as he had kept his cool, hadn't exactly showered the remains of a beast, but through a look back to confirm the damn kill, was met with a different reception. He had in his surveying look all around for the target's very own bodyguard that was a streaking nudist with no regard for his own clothes and the fact he blatantly displayed his nakedness had annoyed Americo to no end at such modern people and their queer ways being most strange. That he had finally managed to catch a lock onto the animal but only in the ample time provided within only a fraction of the time that it'd take for a human to realize in terms of realization and reaction, a sudden show of speed hasty and in great stride bearing upon him as the singular target seen within the path that seemed to not exactly stop the werelion man that looked like a sexual predator horny for the blood of children, or well, just Americo's posterior, which he would be flattered, if not for the fact that he doesn't swing that way, and he likes his butt not to leak blood out of it. Though that's why he has superior sphincter control. He had spun around his body to face the Werelion as they opposed one another in directions.

But in spite of all that, following all the blurry speed that wasn't that far above his own physical capacity of reflexes, would still deem him only a step below in grade of physical capacity when focusing upon the enemy and following with his own fast stride. He could see the outline, in fact, the whole figure akin to seeing an Olympic sprinter to a normal viewer. He was still visible to his own naked eyes, but his speed difference dwindled the gap to something shorter by every second that passed. But Americo kept his view locked unto the enemy as he himself was out unto the open in a greater space separated by the rows of car, and then the enemy had leaped towards him like a lion poised to pounce and down a water buffalo whilst sailing across with the general mass unimpeded by any in his wayward wind speeding, gravitating downward unto him, that he could barely make out the figure in its vagueness but it was easier to predict the path given the streaks that followed, the rate, and the predicted intention that reeked from the werelion.

But Americo smirked as the mistake was realized in leaping above ground. It means no maneuverability in air aside from a linear path, and the target was obvious to him, despite the speed, he had the power of PREDICTION. Not really. He actually just pointed his gun in the leaping werelion's direction, that silver tipped bullet, or more accurately, silvered bullet, and pulled the trigger at the werelion's chest whilst it was mid-pounce, whilst simultaneously he dropped to the ground and flattened against it on his back, wondering how he'd fared against the monstrous beast that he was thankful not to be limited by human restrictions to be unable to see with his naked eye, but rather the opposite, that he COULD see.

A bestial snarl of pain escaped the King of Beast's maw as he soared forth, his albino flesh, white and pure as it had once been, now tainted with scarlet fluid spread about his chest in an abstract manner with smoke sizzling forth from the new wound which marred his flesh. The monstrosity's landing was one of a pain and impact, his large form crashing into the asphalt and skidding across it's rough surface to leave a trail of crimson it's it wake.

The massive frame of bulk and muscle came to a slow halt, where the White Lion remained unmoved. Silver. Why did it have to be silver? The Great Beast had taken on hails of gunfire in his past life, but he found it ridiculous that such a pathetic material could bring down his mighty figure in even the smallest amounts. The sizzling grew louder from within the wound, peeling open the man's crest from the entrance the specified bullet had carved into his muscled physique, burning away the flesh to reveal naught but bone.

The silver would erase any traces that he had existed, with exception of the skeletal remains that would be left behind. How sad. How regretful.

Rebecca had only caught glimpses of what had transpired through the thickly woven leaves of the hedges in which she took cover in, and upon observing the downfall of her now worthless pet, she had little other choice than to strive for her own survival. The wound in her neck, while it had healed to a more tolerable opening, had not yet reached completion, thus meaning she could not utilize the Harpies Shriek to it's full potential as she did last time.

She could, however, still use it in more subtle ways. Puckering her already moist lips which had been saturated with her own blood, she began to whistle a tune similar to that of "Friday", her most popular song. It seemed normal, at first, but the full effects would become clear mere moments afterwards. It was high pitched, so high that mere mortal ears could not detect the sound, but the frequency at which it operated would bring chaos and disorder to the equilibrium of those which could hear it; which were only those of supernatural origin.

Distorting the equilibrium would bring loss of balance, blurred vision, and likely a pulsing headache. The louder version of her Harpies Shriek was one meant to bring physical harm, but this was more insidious, meant to ruin and hamper the mobility of those around her so long as they could hear the tune and frequency.

Like a silver gracing ballerina dancer that just got shot dead which it was, Americo had seen what cannot be said to actually remain many that see sane whilst it remained not even close to ever come to make contact with the German gun-for-hire. For what he had beheld in sight would be in the passing of the werelion's body sailing above him feet upward a most abominable flaccid piece underneath that furry taft of hair concealing it prior to which he would resist the urge to vomit, or maybe go out there right now and hump Rebecca Black to get the imagery out and not be sickened by the visualization of a werelion's genital, but then again, Americo was not that desperate. That he was glad he remained on his back hence the lack of dilemma from accepting the money shot that'd drive many men to almost suicidal impulses of dying to shame, yielding them death in ignoble obscurity. The werelion seemed to have skid across the concrete ground without really actually having even come close to blocking his view of Rebecca Black, but instead, turned into skeletal remains past its lupine features atrophying away into dust. Loading his weapon from his downed position with a new silvered round, he turned about, rolling, and rotating around as he rolls to face Rebecca Black with his gun's grip planted on the ground, aiming it at that tart whom rose out of the bushy shrubbery that was demanded by a group of wayward Knights some time past.

It was not really that hard to find her position. It wasn't through Sherlockian deduction, and neither sharp eye sight or great hearing, but actually because THERE IS A TRAIL OF FUCKING BLOOD leading to that GODDAMN SHRUB with someone that CLEARLY doesn't belong behind that hedge of shrubbery hiding behind it thinking that she was the most camouflaged individual in the entire world despite those clothes that lacked such traits. Tactical genius Rebecca Black is not. He just used his superior eye sight which is superior to the untermenschen around him, and the untermensch that was Rebecca Black, seeing through the grass gaps as he zeroed in on her position and extrapolating from what little he had seen through the gaps, pointing the firearm at her chest from the information derived from sight, as a faint whistle began to rise in his ears. It seemed subtle, and by subtle, a rising grating screech that raped his brain, as he grit his teeth and felt like he was drunk. His rage got so high, as his aim staggered downward, he pulled the trigger in a reflexive twitch due to the great irritation that felt like the siren tune of an annoying fat woman singing in Italian whilst making her most irritating screech as a metaphor as his vision became milky with blur without consideration where it may go as his accuracy dropped thanks to that FUCKING SONG BEING MADE OUT.

Now in the immortal words of Eric Cartman, 'Dude, what the fuck? Why'd you shoot a guy in the dick? You DON'T do that!', which is what happened. The bullet with a silver tip speared forth towards Rebecca's crotch as Americo began to grunt and decided TO HELL WITH THIS GODDAMN JOB. THIS HAS GOT TO BE THE MOST ANNOYING THING he has went through, and he sat through one of Adolf Hitler's bragging about his German war machine back in one of a Nazi board meeting Himmler once invited Lothar into.

The annoying whistle brought about from the bowels of hell, or so many would come to describe it, turned into an airless gasp of pain as the bullet cut through her, piercing through and up into her abdomen, coincidentally striking the Spawn of Hell's heart in the process. A twisted expression of both confusion and terror claimed her features in response, wondering how and why everything had turned out in such a way. In return, and with the sudden and short lived bout of utter pain that was brought with the bullet entering her body, her form exploded into a plume of ash to coat the surrounding hedges and asphalt, erasing her existence altogether - something that many people might be grateful for, but only time would tell.

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Mission Completed: All Targets Destroyed.