The damn thing was huge, and a Class Three. It stood on giant hooves, had a mid-section kind of like a slimy tree, but covered with dozens of mouths spewing stinking green goo. Several thick tentacles writhed from the top. One of them grabbed up Charlie, another the Professor, then swelled up, squeezed, and our two guys popped like screaming grapes. Shot blood all over me. Hell, I didn’t even realize I was that close.
Anderson Blake, U.S. Marshal (Ret.), now in the care of the Manchester Foundation.
I drew the 1860. I knew it was draining my life, soul, or something. Still, Class Three. I put the last two rounds into the creature. Two beautiful blue streaks, then the crackling explosions. Must have been gallons of green-black filth blew out of the thing.
It started careening, stomping off into the woods, all those damn mouths screaming. Then it just slid in half. I felt my mind crumble just a little bit more. Am I de-briefed now? I need to get drunk.
This is a magically enchanted Colt Army Model 1860, a .44 caliber six shot weapon which weighs 2 lbs 11 ounces. It has neither ammunition nor moving parts. An Elder Sign is engraved on the top of the cylinder.
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