Azazel by Nameless

Chapter one: Further into madness

    Bleeding out onto the road as I lay motionless I begin to
smile. These are to be my very last moments in the world of the
living. My name is Azazel, a piss poor name if I do say so myself,
however I have come quite attached to the name that represents me
so well.
    Born and raised in the murder capital of the world, Honduras,
my life isn’t, or wasn’t what you would have called luxurious but I
loved every second. Life in Honduras, kill or be killed, kill to
survive, deal drugs, get in a gang, become someone, or if you’re
like me, kill every motherfucker who deserves it. You see I have a
twisted ideology on the take of life, you reap what you sow but I’m
the reaper that reaps for the defenceless, for the ailing, for the
children and for the weak.

    No sooner than I was spat out into this delightful world by a
supposed crack-head mother who sold me for whatever drugs she could
buy I was saved. A man with no name raised me until I was seven. I
vaguely recall what he was like being so many years ago. All I can
recall is that he was some kind of soldier, the only claim to this
is that he was very well organised and he trained me daily. In fact
he trained me way past breaking point. Apparently I was not the
first kid he had come across but I was the best test subject, or so
he put it. Either way he made me into one of the best killing
machines this world has seen with a dead eye shot.
    I use to kill to survive after being left on my own at the age
of seven. Tossed onto the streets after the man with no name just
disappeared into nothingness, more than likely killed, yet I hardly
doubt it. Time passed and I was quickly known as the demon of
Honduras, a ruthless, relentless, bloodthirsty killer and guess
what, they weren’t wrong. From the age of seven up until around the
age of thirteen I had killed more than two hundred gangsters, drug
dealers and even military personnel, I had something they didn’t.
Roughly four times faster than anyone I had come across my senses
where beyond human. My hearing, reflexes, sight and smell were
impeccable, yet still I lay sprawled out on a dirty mud road in
between two rows of shanty shops.
    People gathered around staring at me like common trash, oh how
I pity them, living their life in such fear and guilt. Three bullet
holes in my side and two in my legs, yet not one person was willing
to help a fifteen year old lad, what a joke, but at least my life
was fun. Smiling as all life began to fade the bastard who shot me
came stumbling out of the building I had assaulted, silver coloured
gun in hand pointed up at the innocent crowd of people.

    Done in by some infamous drug lord who was now threating the
lives of innocent bystanders I felt sick instead of happy. Not too
long ago I had stolen some rust bucket of a car and smashed it
directly into a shanty shop building, armed to the teeth with a
Tactical semi-automatic shotgun on my back, two nine gen glocks on
either side of my hip some wondered how on earth I procured such
glorious weapons. Then again when you kill corrupt military
personnel you find a vast treasure trove of wonderful
weapons.
    What got me killed wasn’t this asshole waving his gun and
firing at innocent bystanders it was my lack of planning. I’m not
the most patient guy or the brightest. I know how to kill, I know
how to fight and that is good enough for me.

    As the car smashed through the front of the shop I continued
to press that damn accelerator to the floor of the rusted Fiat
Punto. Debris flew everywhere, it was such a rush as my adrenaline
kicked into overdrive and the car continued to the back of the
store, smashing through shop shelves and hitting the crook of a
shop owner. With him sprawled out on my windshield I removed my H4
Shotgun pointed it at the window screen and shot the bastards head
clean off. Not long after the car came to a halt, unable to move
anymore as it had smashed through two walls, god knows how many
shelves