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Devil’s Song

Devil’s Song

“There’s a song that plays through Arcadia every night. A chorus of sharp, broken tones echoing off of the ramshackle shacks and plays long into the night.”

“It’s a terrifying piece of music, one where every note could bring a life to an end with but a single strum of its instrument.”

“And the man who plays those terrifying tunes does it not because he wants to, but because he knows that he must.”

“With a cacophony of bars he’ll mow down those who stand in his way while their screams fill the air.”

“A chorus of the devil’s backing vocals to fill in between his notes.”

“What song am I describing, though? What is so violent and demonic that it could kill with a single sound?”

“Who plays this deadly song?”

“You would be forgiven if you think it was El Mariachi Muerte.”

“Because in reality? The instrument is a rifle.”

“And the most evil of Arcadia are often the ones plucking the strings.”

“El Mariachi Muerte is best known as the singer of death’s song, plucking his guitar strings along with his terrible beat, watching as those he follows see their life flash before their very eyes.”

“What escape is there from his horrific tones once he’s begun to follow you?”

“You’re no different than the mass shooters and demented serial killers who walk the levels. With your guitar in hand you fire at the hip at anyone and everyone who crosses your path, songs like bullets slung from your guitar until their screams bounce off of the walls and their pleas for kindness land on deaf ears.”

“So long as you’re able to pull the trigger and follow your mystic song then there’s not a care in your mind just who ends up in your path.”

“Man, woman, child? They all fall by your song.”

“And I just can’t sit by and let you continue to do it any longer, Mariachi.”

“See, while you and the rest of the scum of Arcadia prowl the levels with your weapons in hand, your instrument of death, you never expect anyone to stand in your way.”

“All who cross your path will find themselves torn asunder by the strums of the strings and the pulls of the trigger.”

“But unlike the muggers and killers, you never expected to see someone else with an instrument of his own ready to fire back with his a song of his own.”

“In my hands is my own instrument, Muerte. With it I plan to play a song of justice, a song of redemption.”

“Every pull of the trigger will embed my notes in your skin until my requiem splatters you across the ground.”

“You’re wanted for murder and I’m here to take a hostile down by any means necessary.”

“Open your ears, listen to my song and let it fill your mind before you hit the ground.”

“Because it’s just about time for the crescendo.”

“Eagles soar!”