Not a boy scout
Not a Boy Scout
Kalas swung his sword negligently. “You think you can challenge me, shorty? You think that you have the skill to match my own? I have lived for almost two millennia-”
“Yeash, don’t you’ve got a big head? Think you’re something else because you can make Boyscout McLeod run? My nephews would send him scurrying! An’who said I wanted to fight you? You’re on my property and I want you off!”
“This is the Eiffel Tower!” Kalas waved his sword.
“Och aye. It was supposed to be demolished after twenty years an’ I bought the metal in 1902, when the Paris City Fathers wanted to buy more wine. I was gonna make bridges out a’ it. But the then they begged me to leave the thing up, and I’ve been gettin’ half the money for receipts and not doin’ any maintenance, and I can see a good deal when I bump my snoot against it. Now, am I gonna hae to get violent?” The smaller Immortal waved his stick under Kalas’ nose.
“You. Will. Die!” Kalas hissed and jumped forward. The other rolled agilely out of his way, his top hat tumbling off and falling onto the metal deck, only to be blown against the embrasure by the high winds.
Kalas seemed to have expected the move and cut down, the tip of his sword slicing through the other man’s coat.
The small Immortal’s eyes narrowed and his face became grim. “I bought that coat in 1902! You’re gonna pay for that, Boyo!” With a startling jump he was on his feet, a deft flick of his fingers sending the wooden sheath around his sword flying, a razor sharp sword cane in his hand instead of an old man’s support. He lunged forward and under Kalas’ defence, the sword burying itself in the big man’s stomach up to the curved handle.
He jerked the blade up, spilling Kalas’ guts onto the walkway. Kalas fell to his knees, trying to push his entrails back into his body.
The smaller man was inspecting the tear in his coat, then turned towards the dying Immortal. “I become who I am today by being tougher than the toughies and smarter than the smarties and I made it square
,” he leaned forward, his yellow beak inches away from Kalas’s nose. “Unlike you, you scum.”
He swung his sword. “At least his sword may be worth a few bucks,” he muttered as she cleaned his blade on Kalas’s shirt after the quickening. He is immortal. Of an ancient Highland family, he was born in the Lowlands of Scotland a hundred and forty-six years ago, he is not alone. There are others like him - some good, some evil. For a century and a half, he has battled the forces of darkness, with Holy Ground his only refuge and profit his main goal. He cannot die, unless you take his head, and with it, his power. In the end, there can be only one. He is Scrooge McDuck, the Lowlander.' Disclaimer: I own neither Highlander, nor Scrooge McDuck.