One

Papa Nurgle woke up in a great daze. It's that kind of daze where you worry about the thinning barrier between real life and dreams. It's almost like the fleeting fear of not waking in your sleep, but then suddenly you woke up - perspiring and covered with the miasma of fear. Nurgle sweated and remembered his tasks for the day. Remembered, but not cherished. He hated monotony. He hated gut-work. But he needs to work hard. Times have changed. We don't live in Goomba alley anymore hun, Nurgle reminded himself.

So, he got up and prepared. In the bathroom, he saw his face. Fat prick. Fat handsome prick. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and showered like a regent waiting for graces. Ah, this is life. The hot shower made Nurgle confident...complacent, even. Then his mafioso gentry gut kicked in. No one will get rich sinking his butt in the tub. Quickly, like the graceful move of a swordsman, Nurgle left the tub, donned his regular suit, and prepared for the day.

As he got out of his apartment, he saw a visage of creeping death in front of him. Durden. A fucking Durden.

"Look what we have here. I finally got you." The shirtless Durden spoke in a hiss. A three-headed dragon tattoo is visible in his chest.

"You got me indeed. Are you Jackie Armpit? You folks look the same to me."

"Bruce Armpit." Replied the Durd. "Jackie is the cousin of my cousin."

Nurgle sighed. A guy seeking revenge is the last thing he wanted to encounter for the day. He has many things to do. Paperwork for Big Papa Promotions, contract offers, prisoners to break, banks to rob, safes to pick, and alleyways to terrorize. A mobster is always busy.

"I shall kill you with my Raging Dragon Ultra Celestial Style."  Bruce said, stretching his legs awkwardly. He spread his arms out, just like a heron waiting for his flight. "I've been training for years."

"You...fucking...need a drink."  Nurgle said, secretly preparing his poisoned karambit. "I can offer you a drink, man. Just calm down."

"No, no drink. My style will kill you, just like you killed my cuz!"

"I didn't kill your cuz. He killed himself. I killed Jeremiah Armpit. You know him?"

Bruce stopped his foolishness. "You sure? Jeremiah owes me 40 g's. Scumbag. He's the cousin of my cousin of my cousin."

Nurgle wanted to break away from such meaningless Durden. In fact, Durdens are so confusing but they are a force of nature. Small parts of life that can't be stopped. "So, you gonna avenge Jackie or what?"

"Dieeeeeeeeeee!"  Bruce shrieked, losing his composure and charging head-on.

Wrong move. Nurgle rolled to the side, a massive snowball evading danger. He brandished his karambit, swung it like a rockstar, and gashed the Durden's belly. Blood spurted from the wound, and Bruce howled in pain. He dropped to the floor and leaned on the wall for support. He can taste foul blood and bile gurgling in his mouth. Suddenly, his wound quivered...it gouted more blood and some dark fluid. Bruce doubled over in pain.

"What...did...you do to me?" Bruce spoke, weakly.

"My karambit is laced in poison, but I won't tell which variant. Not that it'd matter anymore." Nurgle replied, preparing to leave. He estimated that the man has twenty minutes' worth of life. 

"Fuck you...we will corner you someday...burn everything you hold dear to the ground..."

Nurgle laughed began walking away. Everythig he holds dear? None, nada. He is detached now. The world is just a revolving piece of trophy dominated by hustlers, schemers, and dreamers. Perhaps he became detached when he lost Eveline...or when he killed his first target. It wouldn't matter now. 

Nurgle has tons of work to do anyway.

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