So, to set the record straight, it wasn't me that got shot. Nah, it was my clone, a puppet I conjured up to play my part in this twisted game. Took a toll on my mind, but hey, better safe than sorry, right? I had to play it smart, keep myself out of harm's way. So there I was, watching from my perch, observing how the show would unfold. Lucky Blaze, he walked right into my trap, flaunting his so-called "Django Unchained" ability.

Now, let me break it down for you. My puppet took a hail of bullets from behind, but those shots weren't from Lucky Blaze's piece. No, someone else pulled the trigger. I tracked it down, zeroed in on the spot where the shot originated. Fourth story of a building, that's where it came from, that fourth window. I made my move, barged right in, and found the sniper just sitting there, unfazed by the ruckus. Strange, ain't it?

I reached into my pocket and flicked a coin at him, expecting the metallic ping of it hitting flesh. But to my surprise, the coin passed right through the sniper as if he were nothing more than a ghostly apparition. Clad in black bandages and topped with a sinister cowboy hat, this phantom gunman was none other than a manifestation of Lucky Blaze's twisted power.

It was a scene straight out of a wild west showdown, with two cowboys squaring off, but one of them playing dirty. Lucky's ability to conjure untouchable snipers, controlled by his telekinetic grip or the mere wave of his hand, was a cunning display of his malevolent essence. Like a sinister puppeteer pulling unseen strings, he orchestrated his deadly game with ease.

Though technically, I had achieved my objective, the urge to toy with Lucky lingered. I wanted to watch him squirm, to feel the icy grip of fear tighten around his soul. For he needed to understand the depths of horror I was capable of unleashing upon him.

Back in the fray, with Lucky in its sights, my puppet took a bullet to the head. Now, any other contract holder would've been laid low, plunged into that regenerative coma we all know too well. But this puppet? Nah, it ain't one of us. It's just a marionette, dancing to my tune.

Still standing, it turns those lifeless eyes to Lucky, with a plea on its wooden lips. "Spare me, brave cowboy," it croaks, "I reckon I done wrong by ya."

Lucky's voice rang out, rough and raw, like gravel underfoot. "Yeehaw! I am in an apple pie order today not gonna lie! You've just been served a dose of Django Unchained, partner. You should grow a pair of balls and die standin' up. Might be time to find some backbone and face the music. Mercy ain't on the menu, I'll keep firing till you're resting six feet deep in the Bone Orchard."

( In an apple pie order= In shape. Die standin' up = be brave. Bone Orchard = the graves/the cemetery. )

Lucky fired another round into the puppet's head, but its pleas for mercy persisted, sending a shiver down his spine. In a panic, he ordered his snipers to unleash a barrage of gunfire, shredding the puppet's form into a grotesque mess. Yet, despite the damage, it continued its relentless advance, seizing Lucky's leg with an iron grip.

In desperation, Lucky aimed for the puppet's hand, hoping to force it to release him. The gunshot tore through flesh and sinew, severing the limb from the puppet's body. To his horror, the detached arm slithered up his leg, wrapping around his neck in a suffocating embrace.

Gasping for air, Lucky was paralyzed by fear as the puppet's pleas for mercy echoed in his ears. The lack of oxygen combined with the relentless grip sent him tumbling to the ground, his back hitting the earth with a sickening thud.

As he lay there, helpless and vulnerable, the puppet crept closer, its form engulfing Lucky's body in a suffocating embrace.

Lucky's eyes shuttered closed, conceding to his defeat. The puppet's voice, a sinister whisper, slithered into Lucky's ears like a serpent's hiss: "Fear sustains us, molds us, breaks us. Remember your place. Your survival hinges on it. Consider yourself fortunate, for you have caught the eye of the Church of Truth. But beware, this is merely a glimpse of my power. Now flee, for I will seek you out to unveil your purpose."

With a sudden explosion, the puppet burst, leaving Lucky drenched in blood and entrails, etching scars upon his mind that would haunt him for eternity. Rising to his feet, Lucky bolted like a Broom-Tail, his screams echoing through the night: "Lord, have mercy, you are the very essence of damnation, The Deuce himself."

(Broom-Tail = badly behaved or unattractive horse. Deuce = an alternative expression of the devil. )

Before the puppet exploded atop Lucky's lifeless form, it slid a missive into his pocket—a cordial summons to The Church of Truth, along with the secret locale of our inaugural gathering. With the lad duly schooled, it was time to retreat homeward and replenish my spent energies; manipulating the marionette had taken its toll on my mind.

Thoughts flitted to Psyche, my recent encounter with a fellow contract holder. A breeze, really, compared to the ordeal with Lucky. I couldn't help but wonder if she, too, had encountered such hostility. Ah, well, tomorrow's dawn would reveal all.

Yet, an unsettling presence lingered—a specter, perhaps, lingering in the shadows of that sniper's den. Its silent scrutiny now trailed me through Manhattan's dim alleyways. Let them think themselves the hunter, while I played the hunted. In their arrogance lies their downfall, a fate they'll soon learn the hard way...