This is what you get for testing your luck, Ash. Not sure what I expected but, damn, they really don't joke around when they collect in Vegas, do they?
Wanting a vacation of some sort from the monsters and deadites had led him to all the lights and sounds of Vegas. Any other day, it might have even worked in distracting the man from the years of horrors on his back for a time. Might've even pulled off getting some funds back into his wallet if he'd played his cards right. Hard to nail down a job when you're the 'Chosen One' and all that gold hiding in his back pocket'll dry up eventually.
But of course it wasn't gonna be that simple, was it? Never is.
A soft tsk of annoyance as he pulled duffel bag from car at the first sign of trouble-- right to, too. Just as he'd taken off metallic hand back in the casino; did the first thing scream "chosen one", only to have it's head blown clean off with a boom from the modified shotgun. A twirl, eyes narrowing at the sound of gunfire in the distance. Either someone else was giving these rot-breaths what for or they're done tryin' to be cute with it.
Butt of gun smacked to another as stump slid into duffel bag; the click of mechanism locking the other prosthetic in place. Watching as something burst through a wall, not of it's own volition given how it scrambled about before honing in on him.
"Should cashed out when ya had the chance, buddy." Came with the boom of both barrels, taking the time to let spent shells fall before they were promptly replaced. Teeth grabbed the wire, tugging it as chainsaw revved to life where his other hand once was. If they wanted a piece of him again, well, they were gonna get it.
Gaze turned up from the gooey remains, stopping on the hulking red man across the rubble.
". . . Ya gotta be shittin' me." was echoed back, looking at what was for all intents and purposes a comic book character standing in a swarm of deadites.
Ash shouldn't even be surprised at this point, frankly, with how much shit's happened to him. Even still, this was up there with the shit he's had to accept as real. Shotgun rested on his shoulder, blasting the deadite's chest that had been creeping up behind him to smithereens; followed by a spin that took the head clean off before he approached.
"Please tell me you're playin' for the home team with that kinda whammer, big guy."
