Log, Day 185, year 9x.
That little community that I've been telling you about? The one that might have actually had a chance to start up again off of scavenged food and supplies? Gone. The water purifier that was at least good for clearing the ash out of the water? Gone. All the people? Gone. All of it. Sometime during the night, raiders set fire to our encampment. If not for the burning people, I would have thanked them for their gift of warmth. If not for the beatings and stabbings, I would have run away. But something told me to grab Sierra and Carlos and hide under the purifier. We waited there for hours. The raiders feasted, eating the meat of my burned comrades and drinking the blood that had been boiled in their veins. We lay there, cold and afraid. I held Carlos' hand as he shivered with my right, and Sierra's with my left. I thought about shooting at them, but I only had twelve bullets left. And even if I managed to hit every single slug dead on, there would still be plenty more, waiting to pull us out, kicking and screaming. Carlos began to cry as he saw his friends being eaten. He's only ten, now, he shouldn't have to see this shit.
Finally, the raiders left. We crawled out from under the crawlspace and looked around. Everyone was dead. I managed to find a shotgun, but there are no shells for it. Maybe if I could find some gunpowder, I could load it like a musket with a makeshift shell. Worth a try, I suppose. I did, however, manage to find some more slugs to my revolver. I have eighteen in total now. That's enough for me to kill fifteen people and then off Sierra, Carlos, and myself. God forbid it should ever come to that. I fear that my sanity may be slipping a little. Sierra told me I have flecks of gray in my hair now that weren't there yesterday. I don't doubt it.
Jake sat back against the wall. He had been awake for the past two hours, but he was simply to tired to move. It had been ages since he had slept well enough. Probably not since Sierra...since Sierra stole his revolver and put a slug into her brain. He was all alone out here. He couldn't trust anything, not even that damned demon revolver at his side. Speaking of which... He pulled the revolver out of his holster and flicked the slug into the chamber, and then gave it a good spin. Where to today? The right temple sounded good. He pulled the trigger.
He put the pistol down, sighing, "Fuck me." He got up and stepped over the body of the religious zealot he had been eating the night (or was it day?) before.
'God will protect me by striking you down, heathen!'
"I give 'God' the opportunity to every morning for the past four years. If he had wanted me dead, he'd have done it a long time ago. But just to test your theory, lets see." He flipped the cylinder open, flicked the slug in, and then spun it back into place. He looked at the zealot, putting the barrel to his left temple, "One out of six." He pulled the trigger.
He put the gun under his chin, "One out of five."
To his forehead, "One out of four."
Right between the eyes, "One out of three."
He almost laughed at the man's astonished look, "Are you happy? I gave him four, not two, not three, but four separate opportunities." He raised the crowbar over his head and brought it down twice. The zealot would be meeting his "Lord" in person now. Presently, the zealot was missing his arm and half of his leg. Jake rubbed the blood away from his face and sighed. He took out his jar of olives, his book, and a pen and began to write, popping an olive into his mouth.
Log, Day How the fuck should I know, Year 15x
Beat a religious zealot to death last night. At him for dinner, about to begin breakfast. It's just as cold as ever. Balls feel like their turning into raisins, just like usual. Revolver failed again. I'm beginning to think I'm never going to die. Based on my present sanity, I suppose that's left to be determined. Maybe I'm dead already and this is my personal hell. Who knows, and who gives a rats ass.
He stared at the page long and hard. No point in delaying the inevitable. He put the book away, popped another olive into his mouth and took out his machete, cutting of a piece of the man's meat. He threw it on the little metal pan and struck his flint over some pieces of the zealot's clothing. It caught fire easily enough, and he watched the smoke rise up into the sky, mingling with the ashes already there. He didn't care if he concealed his smoke trail or not.
"Come on, you fuckers! I DARE YOU! Come take me on! Jake Barents is waiting for you!" He yelled over the horizon to nobody in particular. He laughed, a soulless, heartless laugh. It was a hollow laugh. He fell down next to the fire and simply laid there in the ash/snow. At this point, he'd lick it off the ground and make a snowman out of it, using his own pecker as the nose. What the hell did it matter anymore? He sighed, staring up at the ever empty sky, "Why do you two keep me here? Don't you want me up there with you? Why does this damn thing never WORK?!" He yelled throwing the revolver down. It bounced and landed near his left foot. He just kind of stared at it. As if he had been expecting it to ironically go off. That was how these stories worked, didn't they? The downtrodden man always losses his one chance of escape? Of course, all you had to do was sit in one spot for too long and go to sleep and you'd never wake up. Hell, all he really had to do was strip naked and run through the city streets, screaming at the top of his lungs. Lord only knew he was crazy enough to do it. But for some reason, it had to be this revolver, and this bullet. Otherwise, he couldn't bring himself to die. That's why it was called roulette.
Beware the Wrath of Color Changing Kirby.