Post by gustave on Feb 6, 2013 17:05:54 GMT -5
Gustave had been drinking. His huge frame lurched from place to place in staggered clicking foosteps along the cobbled streets of some dirty alley that he scarcely could remember. Latin Quarter? Perhaps. There was a stench of alcohol on his clothes, he could feel it seeping upwards into his nostrils as the smell cloyed and held there. It had to be said that Gustave was in a rather pitiable state and the huge Sargent though sufficiently drunk to not really care was well aware of that fact and that was why he was trying to walk but almost always stumbling towards his tiny house. He threw a large booted foot into a wall at the thought of returning to that pit. That den of despair where the various failure's of his life seemed to be painted on the speckled walls. Gustave wanted to lash out at someone, something, he wanted to force those failures on someone else as if it was their fault that he had wasted his life away in the trivial pursuit of war. He had watched years, decades slowly pass him by as he marched endlessly to battles he did not win, his General had won those battles, Gustave was simply a pawn, a mere insignificant thrown at the most dangerous of obstacles and though he had loved Napoleon. Gustave's mind addled with alcohol cursed him, cursed him to the very pits of hell, a place the Sargent felt he would be going sooner than he thought.
But he carried on stumbling down the street, hands passing over the roughly hewn bricks and mortar that some of the crumbling buildings were comprised of Gustave was beginning to care little for the structural integrity of the buildings however as he heard footsteps coming closer. He pulled his cap over his face and the hand that had done so curled into a sledgehammer of a fist. Coiled and ready to be fired at a potential aggressor should one present itself. The footsteps came closer and closer and Gustave turned and prepared to swing the heavy fist with all of six foot five inches of huge muscular Sargent behind it. A woman.... she immediately froze in fear and Gustave's hand dropped to his side. "Madame." he began, slurring the word so ridiculously that he could say little else. "Madame forgiv-....forgive me." the woman had scampered off and if Gustave was perhaps more sober he may have given some thought as to who or why the woman had been approaching him.
Unfortunately he was very drunk and that did not aid him in his quest to return to his home, his mental capabilities where inhibited and everything seemed to sway around him. He wanted to lie down, to sleep, to rest all of this away and wake up feeling refreshed, hungover but refreshed all the same. Of course he would curse himself for being such a fool and for intimidating members of the public. But who would even recognise him? As a Sargent he was dressed in a perfectly clean uniform, his bicorne dustless, his facial hair trimmed and well kept and his hair cropped close to his head. But now as he stumbled around the alleyways, his memories leaving him. His hair was messy, his dirty off-duty clothes stank of alcohol, his beard and moustache had seemingly grown long and he looked a mess. No better than the thieves and crooks he had sworn to protect the people of his fair country from.
But who was Gustave to say that? Who was he? A murderer, butcher, arsonist..... A man who caused pain and suffering wherever he had gone. Whose bloodthirsty nature had earned him the nickname. 'The French Lion' he who had battered men to death with the blunt of his musket, who had cut men from shoulder to hip with his great long-sword, he who had stabbed and cut and hacked and brutalised other human beings simply because of the uniform he wore. Who was Gustave Desjardins to say. "Who was bad and who was good?" he wanted to just fight and punch and kick and he wanted to force all the rage that coursed through him, that manifested in self-loathing that wanted to rip through his body and pour out of him.
He heard more footsteps, sets of steps. Gustave had long since forgot caution, his cap still pulled over his face. But he stumbled again and as he stumbled he saw a club... it cracked into his face with a powerful force sending a mouthful of blood flying with the sound of a rapidly falling rain to land with pitter-patter on the cobbles. Gustave was surrounded but he was angry. He caught another club in the face and another in the stomach but he would not be taken. He stood to his full height and pulled a powerful fist back. He parried a blow from one of his attackers and with a great bellow of rage he threw that fist and it connected. A man was sent falling backwards with a whump of breath being forced out of lungs. A club descended and Gustave moved aside stumbling back in his alcoholic rage. Blood streamed down his head, obscuring his already blurry eyes. He was hit again and again.
The Sargent struggled to his feet, all he could see around him was green, the green of the fields in Belgium where he had watched his friends mown down by the British and their German friends. He snarled an animalistic rumble that echoed from the heart of his broad chest till it growled from his bloodied mouth he threw that tense fist into another leg and sent the man falling to the ground with a screech of pain. He felt clubs raining down upon him, he could feel his spirit slipping. He bellowed and threw another hard fist and rose and grasped one of the men, a thin man with a weasel face in a rib-cracking embrace. He felt clubs raining upon him even as he squeezed and the man's breath began to fade and he could feel blood being coughed onto his face.
He felt something exit then enter and suddenly his left arm went limp and he fell... blood was pouring from his arm and he could not see through the red sheet. He simply slumped against the wall, he reached for his arm and felt the cut and Gustave began to cry. Deep, heartfelt tears that washed into the blood and created a salty, iron mixture when it touched his tongue. He pushed rough fingers against the wound as he watched with barely open eyes as the men dragged their comrades away. Gustave played dead. He allowed his head to slump and his eyes closed and he let everything wash away in his alcoholic, bloody induced sleep as he lay there. He could sleep for a while and wait for the men to leave and then h-...he....he'-.....he'd be.....Gustave's eyes closed as he went to sleep... for perhaps the final time.
But he carried on stumbling down the street, hands passing over the roughly hewn bricks and mortar that some of the crumbling buildings were comprised of Gustave was beginning to care little for the structural integrity of the buildings however as he heard footsteps coming closer. He pulled his cap over his face and the hand that had done so curled into a sledgehammer of a fist. Coiled and ready to be fired at a potential aggressor should one present itself. The footsteps came closer and closer and Gustave turned and prepared to swing the heavy fist with all of six foot five inches of huge muscular Sargent behind it. A woman.... she immediately froze in fear and Gustave's hand dropped to his side. "Madame." he began, slurring the word so ridiculously that he could say little else. "Madame forgiv-....forgive me." the woman had scampered off and if Gustave was perhaps more sober he may have given some thought as to who or why the woman had been approaching him.
Unfortunately he was very drunk and that did not aid him in his quest to return to his home, his mental capabilities where inhibited and everything seemed to sway around him. He wanted to lie down, to sleep, to rest all of this away and wake up feeling refreshed, hungover but refreshed all the same. Of course he would curse himself for being such a fool and for intimidating members of the public. But who would even recognise him? As a Sargent he was dressed in a perfectly clean uniform, his bicorne dustless, his facial hair trimmed and well kept and his hair cropped close to his head. But now as he stumbled around the alleyways, his memories leaving him. His hair was messy, his dirty off-duty clothes stank of alcohol, his beard and moustache had seemingly grown long and he looked a mess. No better than the thieves and crooks he had sworn to protect the people of his fair country from.
But who was Gustave to say that? Who was he? A murderer, butcher, arsonist..... A man who caused pain and suffering wherever he had gone. Whose bloodthirsty nature had earned him the nickname. 'The French Lion' he who had battered men to death with the blunt of his musket, who had cut men from shoulder to hip with his great long-sword, he who had stabbed and cut and hacked and brutalised other human beings simply because of the uniform he wore. Who was Gustave Desjardins to say. "Who was bad and who was good?" he wanted to just fight and punch and kick and he wanted to force all the rage that coursed through him, that manifested in self-loathing that wanted to rip through his body and pour out of him.
He heard more footsteps, sets of steps. Gustave had long since forgot caution, his cap still pulled over his face. But he stumbled again and as he stumbled he saw a club... it cracked into his face with a powerful force sending a mouthful of blood flying with the sound of a rapidly falling rain to land with pitter-patter on the cobbles. Gustave was surrounded but he was angry. He caught another club in the face and another in the stomach but he would not be taken. He stood to his full height and pulled a powerful fist back. He parried a blow from one of his attackers and with a great bellow of rage he threw that fist and it connected. A man was sent falling backwards with a whump of breath being forced out of lungs. A club descended and Gustave moved aside stumbling back in his alcoholic rage. Blood streamed down his head, obscuring his already blurry eyes. He was hit again and again.
The Sargent struggled to his feet, all he could see around him was green, the green of the fields in Belgium where he had watched his friends mown down by the British and their German friends. He snarled an animalistic rumble that echoed from the heart of his broad chest till it growled from his bloodied mouth he threw that tense fist into another leg and sent the man falling to the ground with a screech of pain. He felt clubs raining down upon him, he could feel his spirit slipping. He bellowed and threw another hard fist and rose and grasped one of the men, a thin man with a weasel face in a rib-cracking embrace. He felt clubs raining upon him even as he squeezed and the man's breath began to fade and he could feel blood being coughed onto his face.
He felt something exit then enter and suddenly his left arm went limp and he fell... blood was pouring from his arm and he could not see through the red sheet. He simply slumped against the wall, he reached for his arm and felt the cut and Gustave began to cry. Deep, heartfelt tears that washed into the blood and created a salty, iron mixture when it touched his tongue. He pushed rough fingers against the wound as he watched with barely open eyes as the men dragged their comrades away. Gustave played dead. He allowed his head to slump and his eyes closed and he let everything wash away in his alcoholic, bloody induced sleep as he lay there. He could sleep for a while and wait for the men to leave and then h-...he....he'-.....he'd be.....Gustave's eyes closed as he went to sleep... for perhaps the final time.