Pablo ripped open another drawer. Where did he put the damned ammunition? Remember, Pablo, remember when you bought the ammunition and thought that you would shoot a kid trying to eat your pizza? Pablo suddenly remembers that he put it into the leftmost drawer with a little extra spicy thing that will only be used in the absolute emergency - nothing for now, but it was tempting, very tempting. Quickly Pablo grabbed the shells, loading them into his shotgun. The baker made hasty quick steps downstairs, his eyes scanning his pizzaria for the intruder. Cursing, he stumbled over a random sink that he hadn't seen in his scanning of the pizzaria as it was too close and had blended well into the scene. As he fell, several glass shards cut into him, slicing into certain tiny cells, which released certain chemicals, which spread towards his central nervous system, only to give him a certain message: that had hurt. Those thorns in his side must have come from when the sink had been thrown through the window. Pablo wanted to just lay down and cry, but then he heard his pizza-ovens door open. His vision turned red and his heart started beating .

He had cursed so many people to die with his actions, worked so hard making the drugs and pizzas and was regularly victim to so many people out for his money - getting all the ingredients for his very own pizza was not a thing he could afford regularly. Disregarding the shards of glass lodged into his skin - they actually blocked the bloodflow to a certain extent - he got up.Disregarding his slightly cracked bone from stumbling over the sink, he took hurried steps and grabbed his shotgun.

Bobby tackled the injured man when he bent over, having surveyed the area instead just digging into the best food of the entire city. He had learned that if one were to stop, let's say to get a silenced chainsaw and a neon suit, one would end up in an alley, pierced by sniper rounds, just another corpse on the gore pile - a common occurence to the sunrise cleaning squad. Everyone had their fun and now they had to clean up - it just was not fair.

This was extrapolated onto the delicious pizza and the shotgun, he managed that even without having a system telling him that he got 3 survivalist levels for that.

Seemingly useless, a system that is. It might even just distract him, a system really didn't do anything useful if used like Bobby wanted to use it. Would it help anyone just survive?

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Wasn't it just best used as a gimmick to manipulate someone into being motivated?

All these questions were completely irrelevant in the current situation, but not to dismissed.

Bobby and Pablo grappled over the gun, Bobby was uninjured and maybe more intelligent than a normal 12 year old, but in grappling your intelligence is worth nothing, Pablo was definitely stronger as a grown man, but he was injured and in crippling agony.

Adrenaline overcame pain and Pablo threw Bobby two meters through the air where the boy landed on his back, air driven from his lungs, his lips turning blue as he wheezed to get a bit of air - he was entirely helpless until he regained his breath.

Breathing heavily, Pablo knew that it had been worth buying the shotgun.

He levered it at Bobby, knowing that anything on the other side would be pierced by multiple pellets causing lethal damage, and then he could fire it another time without reloading, just to be sure - and maybe hit the corpse with the sink as revenge until it was just some pulp he could easily dispose of. Shots rang out into the night, death came.

The divine fragrance of fresh, real, perfect pizza filled the air. A meal for the gods, they liked the souls rising upwards, freshly died and then damned for eternity in torture - that is if you were a believer of one of the main religions. The religion had risen from necessity of keeping uneducated masses on the fields, where they would work until they died at the ripe age of 40 years. It came and it stayed, it lived in its host and did not die with it. What a ruler does not do to eat regularly whilst the mere peasants would starve in harsh winters. Then the masses rose up, they got as far as a large wall seperated them and the life sustaining fruit of their work. There skeletal bodies were resembling Robert uncanningly.

The wonderful smell of food drawing them into the fire range of warriors positioned on top of these solid stone walls. The snipers had a wonderful night. All these homeless drawn by the irresistable smell of pizza, a simple shot into the masses could kill several people - peak efficiency. Extra payment for going over the quota - free days even. Many shots had rung out. What was one pizzaria owner to them? Nobody would be able to tell who hit that guy. No sniper would get executed over this successful night, a night positively remembered by nighttime and enviously frowned upon by daytime snipers.

Nobody found Bobby when the sun rose - and the oven was empty.