The sky is dark with storm clouds, the air is thick with the scents of blood and decay, and the crowd gathered around you wait for the macabre spectacle you're about to provide.


This is the city of London, 1882, the seat of aristocracy, science, and the civilized world.

It's also a festering cesspit of corruption, disease, crime and death.

Whatever it's called, it's the city you were born in. And it's the city you'll die in.

You're to be hanged for treason, murder, theft, and assault. You can't deny a single one of those charges.

Your name is Karl Grim. And today is the day you die.


Do you deserve to die for what you've done? You really can't say.

You don't fear death, even now as you stand on the executioner's platform, the rope tightening around your neck, your end creeping ever nearer, you still don't fear death.

But you regret. You regret that you never finished your work, that the world remains plagued by demons and monsters; by occult diseases and unnatural phenomenon.

You regret so much.

But that doesn't matter now, nothing does, to you. The end is here.

The hangman has his hand on the lever, a matter of seconds before your demise.


The church bell tolls for the last time.

You feel the floor drop out from under you, you feel yourself falling. Then...


This is the city of London, where the gutters run red with the blood of the innocent, where the vilest of monsters wear business attire, where depravity and malevolence fester in the shadows.

This is the city of London, and for your crimes, you pay with your life.

You gasp for air, but your lungs fill with a miasma of chemicals and decay.

Your eyes fly open, and immediately begin burning; irritated by the cloying fumes that surround you.

You lie half-buried in a mound of human corpses. Their rotting cadavers piled around you in a horrific landscape of death. Countless dead eyes staring at you, accusing you.

You thrash violently, and managed to pull yourself from the macabre heap.

Bodies shift and roll. They surround you, enclose you, trap you. So many corpses, oh gods, so many.

You crawl, scraping and grasping at the dead, trying to get somewhere, anywhere!

But the horror-scape doesn't end. The bodies, they're countless.

This is hell.


You can't see, your eyes are burned by the horrible chemicals that cover the dead.

Every inch of your skin is burning, your head pounds with unimaginable pain.

You retch, but only black bile comes up, staining your mouth.

You want to die, you want to give up and join the dead, but you don't.


You keep crawling. Crawling for what seems like eternity, when your hand strikes hard stone.

You blink away the stinging tears from your eyes, and look up to find a cobblestone embankment separating this sea of death from the world beyond.

It's only a couple feet high, but you fear that you don't have the strength to climb even this.

No, NO! You won't die here! You refuse to!


You claw at the stone, your fingernails cracking apart, and drag yourself up.

You use ever drop of will you have left to pull yourself up from the bodies and over the edge.

You don't have the strength to stay awake.

You wake up in a puddle on the side of a street. Rain is beating against your face in a rhythmic patter.

Your skin still feels as though it's peeling from your muscles, your mind still has the horrific images of the dead burned into it.

But you're alive.


You force yourself to your feet. And try to figure out what to do next.


You're on a street you've never seen. It appears to be a closed down store front. All the windows are boarded and the doors locked. This place is completely abandoned.

Behind you lies the mass grave. You... You don't want to think about it right now.

In the distance, you see a church spire. Maybe you could find sanctuary there.

You're just so tired. You need somewhere to stay, and your body is badly damaged; you need medical attention as well.

You don't know what to do. You're lost. So lost.

Stay away from the church - they are sworn to protect the living.

You are no longer recognizable as 'living'.

Wander the streets for a doctor. Steal what you need, the laws of men no longer apply to the executed.

You start off in a random direction, hoping you'll find someone who can help.


After walking for around a half hour, you see a man dressed in finery walking down the street in front of a school.

You call out to him as you approach. "Sir! Sir, can you point me towards the nearest hospital?" You ask.

The man turns to look at you, but his face contorts in disgust and horror when he sees you. "No. Stay back Ghoul! Please!" He says, holding up his hands as if to shield from an attack.

"Ghoul? No, sir. I just need your help." You say, holding out your hands in a show of peace.

"Stay back! Back! HELP! HELP!" He shouts.

A police officer rounds the street corner to your right, running to investigate the commotion.

He sees you and recoils. "Fucking 'ell. GHOUL! GHOUL!" He calls out, as if sounding a warning. He then draws his pistol, and levels it, hand shacking, with you.

"No wait! I only need help! I just-"

The officer fires.

The round hits you in the thigh.

You feel horrible pain, but you're so used to it that you barely flinch.

You lung at the officer with an inhuman speed, and with a strength that isn't yours, grab the gun from his hands.

He takes several steps back, shaking.

You lunge.

You bite.

A jerk of the head.

And his blood is spilling from his neck. He falls to his knees, clutching the wound; but it's far too late for him. He collapses, and you smell the lifeblood pour from his throat.

You turn to the man in the fine clothes. He is petrified with horror.

He yelled at you, cringed at the sight of you, called this officer down on you, when all you did was ask for help.


You lung at him, and with a swift kick to the back of his knee, you've brought him low before you. You can smell his fear.

Do you let this man live?

Stare him down and review the situation:

You're an undead killing machine. He's a posh nobleman with no weapons yet stuffed with loot. Why, you could go so far as to say you've caught a leprechaun, and any leprechaun who doesn't lead their captor to a pot of gold may as well be baked in an oven and ground into dust as a lucky talisman. You don't know where you heard that, but it had something to do with crabs.

If he screams, you'll kill him. If he rallies an army of police and personal guards to hunt you down, it will take years of practice murdering the pigs, years of waiting for your life of fear and distrust to calm down in an attempt to not live behind boarded windows and stuffy rooms while paying his maids four times an average salary just to live with his constant paranoid raving, but oh, you will cut him down when the time is right.

Or. OR. ORRR! He can assist you and write a book about surviving an encounter with a flesh-eating monster and get rich and famous.

Can this man even understand you properly? Try writing something if you can't get a real response from him.
While I do enjoy the idea of having this man write a book based on his encounter here, wouldn't it be better if, say, we took him with us to chronicle our exploits in stead?

No you dont. Pigs like him deserve to die.

But, use the gun its much easier,and less of a mess. anyone who finds this scene will see a police officer with a bitten neck and a rich man with a gunshot to his head.

Alternatively figure out if this man can comprehend you and knock him out. Then steal whatever he has on him, including his clothes.

Or thirdly kidnap this guy, and write that book. :)

>>925312
Don't kill him, spare his life, him living could have you exposed, but such ha thing would happen if you executed him as well, seeing how you've been spotted, if you want to get away without witnesses you should kill everyone (not recommended), you should probably just escape the whole dire situation, you just used your inhuman speed to harm, now it would be prime time to use it to escape with your head still on your shoulders, in the future try not to spill to much "innocent" blood, it will give you a bad name and seeing how uncivilized this place still is, they will hunt you and make your impossible goal already a whole lot more impossible.

You look around the street; it is entirely empty, but you don't know how long that will last considering the noise from the gunshot.


You lean in close to the man. "Do you understand me?" You hiss.

He nods vigorously.

"Good. If you call out, scream, or in any way attempt to signal help; I'll kill you. Understood?" You ask.

More nodding. He seems on the verge of tears.

"What is your name?" You ask.

"Ichabod Crow, of Mistbreak!" He says.

You take a moment to study his features, so that you might hunt him down should you need to. He appears relatively young, perhaps mid thirties. His features are pale and lithe. He is wearing small spectacles. His eyes are dark blue. His hair is neatly kept, and he is wearing a small bowler hat.

"Well then mister Crow, you'll forgive me if I'm too quick to the point, how much coin are you carrying?" You ask.

He pulls a small purse from his pocket, and extends it to you, hand quaking.

You snatch it up, and give a cursory glance to the contents; it's full of silver Crosses, about thirty of them. A large sum.

You pocket the purse in your tattered trousers, and return your attention to mister Crow. "I'm going to leave now. If you follow me, alert the authorities, or commit any action that impinges upon me, I will find you, and I will gut you neck to navel." You say, backing away from Crow.

He remains frozen with terror for a moment before slowly regaining some composure. "You're not going to kill me?" He asks, voice still shaking slightly.

"Not today, mister Crow." You say, turning away and beginning to search the policeman's corpse.

Crow sighs in relief, and you hear his heart rate drop from around 130 BPM to a calmer 90. "I... Thank you." He says. Somehow, he sounds genuine.

You hum in vague acknowledgment, you're busy checking the policemen's firearm; a Webley-Pryse break-open service revolver Mod 4, standard issue, no modification, .50 caliber. A fine gun. Five shots left. You find twelve more rounds in the officer's belt.

"I'm sorry." Says Crow. His voice is melancholic and downtrodden.

You're caught off-guard by that. You turn back around to face Crow. "Pardon?" You ask simply.

"I'm... Sorry that I judged you before you even spoke, that I called that policeman over, that because of me he..." Crow trails off.

You don't know how to respond to that. If at all. You've gathered most everything useful from the police officer (cudgel, ring of keys, pair of cuffs, handful of coins), so there's nothing more keeping you here. Yet... You feel somewhat obligated to console this mister Crow.

Put your blade to his throat again.
"No talky, Mister Crow. You don't like secrets? Then write it all down and publish a book. The only people who would believe what they read are too engrossed in their own theories to support you."

This may be a very, very good attempt at convincing you that he's not gonna fuck you over. Still, very small amount of people can pull such things off so you're most likely safe.
best course of a action is to give a little nod to his for now unknown struggles, or show respect in some small way and then leave as fast as possible, you don't want to risk fucking up and getting caught again, they will very likely make you regret they didn't run out of places to put bullet holes in you.

You could simply note to Mr. Crow that, although his actions led to the death of this officer, if he were not ready to die, he could have sought a different job; let his willingness to protect those he was charged to not go unappreciated and utilize your second chance at life as I intend to use mine. Let not proximity to the ever-increasing death count leave you disgruntled.
dammit, I switched over to spoken words mid sentence. Why thought process, why?

>>925671
Pull him up and pat the dust off. he can change. it takes a certain type of person to admit the mistakes he has made.

You can take him with you to do stuff with. whether bad or good stuff that's up to you.

It briefly crosses your mind that Crow might by faking his emotional distress too stall or trick you in some way. But you dismiss it as unlikely, mostly due to the fact that he would have to be able to consciously control his heart rate; an extraordinarily rare skill.


You stand from the policeman's corpse and crouch in front of Crow, who is still on his knees. He is visibly sagging under the weight of his illogical guilt.

"These are dark times, Mister Crow. Men die, men like him... Men like me. Dwelling will only crush you." You look off into the distance. You're not quite sure if you said that for Crow's sake or your own.

Crow looks you in the eyes. "Yes. You're right. Thank you, I... Thank you." Crow stands up, and you do the same.

"Go home. The streets are not safe." You say.

"Yes, of course. But... Where will you go?" He asks.

"I can take care of myself. It's not your concern. Just worry about yourself." You say.

"Of course. Only, a Smog bank is rolling in from the harbor. The streets will be toxic soon." Says Crow.

"Smog?" You ask. Unfamiliar with the term.

He seems taken aback by your ignorance. "Yes? A toxic cloud of vapors from the factories. The air above ground will become poisonous until the Smog clears. Before the bank rolls in, everyone is evacuated to the bunkers, that's why it's so empty tonight. You didn't know about the Smog? It's been terrorizing London for the past year." Says Crow.

You... You feel as though you should know what smog is. But... It's like the memory has been eaten away, as if by insects. The harder you try to recall, the more the holes in your mind become obvious.

"Yes. Yes I'll be fine. Just, please, mister Crow, get yourself to safety. And perhaps one day, you can recount this event in writing." You say.

"I will. And please, Sir, take this. It's dangerous to go alone." Says Crow, extending several objects to you.

You take the items in question; a beautifully engraved silver pocket watch, a matching silver ink pen, a silk handkerchief, a penknife, and a strange piece of intricately carved animal bone.


Crow has gone, presumably off to one of these bunkers to keep safe from the smog. Considering the reaction you got from the only two people you've met so far, you doubt you have the luxury of staying at one of these bunkers.

Fortunately, despite the gaps in your memory, you recall one place nearby you could probably head.

It's a den of thieves, liars, and cutthroats. A veritable town in its own right, situated in the sewers. Should you arrive there completely covered from head to toe, you wouldn't arouse much suspicion. And covering yourself completely should be good enough to walk amongst other people, even though you aren't quite sure what makes you appear a Ghoul.

Gods damn it! You can't even remember what a Ghoul is. You know that you should know, but the knowledge is missing from your mind just like so much else.

Your options now are limited, either you continue wandering as you have been, which you doubt the wisdom of, or you head to the Thieves Den.

Either way, you'll have to fashion a disguise. Your clothes are in tatters, but you should be able to fashion a makeshift keffiyeh from your shirt. Then the problem remains of finding clothes that are any semblance of presentable.

There... Are the policeman's clothes. At the very least you could take the peacoat.

Take everything you can from the policeman, then nail his naked ass to the front door of the church with his butt sticking out.

Use your rags to loosely bandage yourself, and make your way into the heart of London's Violence. The neighborhood will know you're wearing a dead cop's knickers, and they won't give a @#$%.

Along with the looting of the cop, we could check the corpse pit. We should also take care to avoid looking like a cop, though that shouldn't be a problem, really. See if you can find a reflective surface on your way to wherever you go, though after clothes are procured, we should head to the Thieves Den.

>>925943
Take it all. he wont be needing it anymore. make sure you take the boots.

You strip the police officer down to his skivvies, and don his jacket, pants, boots, and gun belt. By tearing off the patches, and forgoing the hat, you manage to avoid looking like an officer yourself.

You then fashion a head rap from the soiled scraps of your shirt. Too a person on the street, you'll look rather suspicious, but you'll blend right in among the filth that frequent the Thieves Den.

You suppose you're filth now too.


Then something occurs to you. You were shot.

In the haze of violence, and the following conversation with Crow, the injury had completely slipped your mind. On inspection, you find that the wound has closed up, and an angry red growth of raw flesh has formed in the laceration. It doesn't hurt, but it's still a little irritated.

Regeneration of that magnitude is entirely inhuman. You don't know what you are, but it's not human.

Whatever you are, you have a destination.


You begin walking towards the Docks, where you know one of the entrances to the Thieves Den is located.


The streets are empty; shops closed, houses locked. The only signs that London is still alive are the innumerable footprints left in the fresh mud.

On your way to the docks, you come across several human corpses. Some of them slain by fellow man; bullet holes, knife lacerations, blunt trauma inflicted with melee weapons, others killed by far more insidious forces; claw marks, drained of blood, organs eaten.

As you continue on, the situation becomes obvious.

This city is sick. It's festering gutters overflowing with blood and refuse, the people themselves numb to the violence and madness. And the monsters that prowl the streets at night, praying on the defenseless, leaving eviscerated corpses in their wake; the people are powerless to stop them. Too most, a bullet through the brain would be sweet release from this man-made hell.

Perhaps it is beyond saving. Perhaps these people don't deserve saving.

You pity them, you do. But you're also furious at them; furious that they just turn the other cheek, furious that these 'men' slink away with their tails between their legs when faced with an ugly truth.

But that's irrelevant at the moment. You refocus.


You're walking along the bank of the Thames, the river polluted with gods know what. An occasional body floats by, and several times you think you see movement under the water. The Thames was never a lovely sight, but this is an all time low.

You arrive at the entrance to the Den; under a bridge, on the bank of the Thames is a shack erected around a derelict cistern outflow tunnel from cheap wood and metal scrap. Several men stand outside of the structure, all obvious gang members, all conspicuously armed.

You approach the front door, and a very large man wearing suspenders and a bowler -as well as bearing a revolver in his waistband- steps in front of you.

"What's ya' business, westy?" He asks. (Westy being a derogatory term for those of privilege.)

You lean in close while placing a silver Cross in the man's palm. "My business is none of yours." You say.

The thug smiles as you lean out. "Oy, right you are, Sir. Enjoy your time here." He says, stepping out of the way.

You walk into the shack, and find the inside is little more than a tunnel opening protruding into the middle of the room. You descend into the cistern.

You enter a long, brick walled tunnel that leads downwards. There are no forks or branching tunnels.

There are also no light sources. It is dark, damp, and smells of trash. But you find you can see perfectly in the near pitch blackness.

Eventually, you emerged into what you immediately recognize as the Thieves Den proper.

It is an enormous cavern, the ceiling easily several hundred feet above you. Wooden structures are built all along the cavern floor and walls, stacked on top of each other, and leaning against one another. Some piles of structures reach so high as several stories tall.

Stalls peddle illicit goods, whore houses, taverns, and drug dens proudly advertise their services along the Main Street with signs and red lanterns.

Shady individuals skulk in the shadows, men walk the streets brandishing illegal military-grade weapons, and cloaks seem to be a staple article of clothing.

This place is a city all its own.


You need to prioritize your objectives.

For one, you still need medical attention. Though your gun-wound seems to be fine on its own, you are still suffering the effects of toxic chemicals.

There's also the matter of your clothing, you'll need to find new attire.

Then you'll also need a place to stay at least for the night, as well as finding food and drink.

And finally, though you are already armed with the officers revolver and cudgel, you may want to acquire some superior firepower.

You need to decide how to go about these tasks. This is a large place, and wandering blindly will likely get you a blade between your ribs.

Search for places with red crosses for medical attention. consider what stuff you have and how you will pay for medical attention. I would say offer to help around or Get rid of people to pay off a debt.

(ill let the rest of yall decide what to do for the rest)

Getting medical attention is definitely the top priority, we could pay with the thirty and some coins we got from Mr. Crow and the officer; it may also solve our food and shelter problem, we could learn about how to procure such things from our medical provider. Obtaining a better weapon shouldn't be too hard, but that is probably the lowest of our top priorities. Make sure to keep the money concealed and as quiet as you can get it so as to not attract unwanted attention. A change in wardrobe would be nice, as was brought to our attention at the gate, you look like you have money. If all else fails in the avoid conflict department, you could always make yourself look absolutely insane; nobody wants to mug a guy who is already trying to fight people who aren't even there, nor do they want to fuck with someone shaking a banana at people. But I digress; look for a medical outpost, shop, or any other thing that would help, aim for a less crowded one.

First and foremost, clean water. Then food. Your supernatural regeneration means any toxins will be cleared faster. How much money do you have right now?

Is this still going?

>>926896
Yes. I'm just taking a short break.

You currently have 30 silver Crosses, 5 nickel Shields, and 74 copper Fracs.

For reference: 20 Crosses is enough to buy a good horse. 5 Crosses would buy a solid rifle, or a high-end outfit. A Shield would get you a room at an Inn for a night. 15 Fracs would get you a meal and a drink.

It takes 50 Fracs to make a Shield, 10 Shields to make a Cross, and 25 crosses to make a Sword.

You have plenty of practice hiding money on your person, and experience no difficulty tucking the coin into a recess of your jacket such that it makes no sound.

Medical care is your main concern. You feel thirsty and hungry, but you doubt your ability to hold anything down in your current state. You'll deal with those concerns later.


You walk a little further into the Den, eventually coming to some sort of market square. It is bustling with activity; merchants aggressively hawking stolen goods, storefronts displaying illegal imports, and a dense crowd of disreputable people all walking to gods know where.

Over the din and through the commotion, you can just make out a faded sign in a back street with the universal symbol for medical treatment painted upon it; a serpent woven around a syringe.

You make your way through the crowd to arrive at a tiny storefront, if you could even call it that. It isn't much more than a doorway jammed between neighboring buildings. But white print above the door reads 'Medical clinic & Apothecary', and that sounds to be exactly what you are looking for.

You step inside the shop, and are immediately assaulted by the combined stenches of blood and ammonia. A small hall leads into the building proper, obscuring your view of the rest of the clinic. A voice with a strong accent calls out "Ah. Come in, come in. I was just finishing with a patient."

You emerged from the hall into an oblong room with a wooden floor, lit by electronic lights. Shelves covered in jars of herbs and chemicals, as well as bookcases full of medical encyclopedias line the walls, and a full lab setup sits on a table in the far left corner of the room. Various tables in seemingly random spots around the space are covered with innumerable medical tools, open books, and several diagrams.

Your attention is immediately drawn however to the three examination tables against the far right wall; two of them empty, the last one containing what you sincerely hope is a dead body, yet it appears to be convulsing heavily.

Standing over this body is a man in a white medical overcoat wearing black elbow-length chemical gloves and holding a hacksaw. His features are pale and slight, and his unusual face sports a small, deeply unsettling smile. His eyes, blue and piercing, framed by tiny round spectacles, are fixated upon the convulsing human. You assume him to to be the doctor.

He looks at you for a moment. And his gaze sends a shiver down your spine. "One moment, please." He says, before returning his attention to the person on the table.

Then he brings the hacksaw down on the figure's neck, and with a couple hard strokes has completely severed the man's head, stopping his convulsions.

The doctor then lifts the disembodied head up, inspecting it briefly, before throwing it onto one of the scattered tables near him, blood leaking from it's neck and saturating several documents. You feel as though the eyes of the disembodied head are looking straight at you.

"I am Herr Doctor. What might you require?" He asks. You now recognize his accent as German.

It takes you a moment to recover from shock. "I.. I am suffering from exposure to chemicals. Can you help?" You ask.

He waves his hand dismissively. "A very simple treatment. It will not be difficult. Sit over there." He says, indicating one of the examination tables.

With great hesitance, you sit on the table furthest from the beheaded corpse.

The doctor sets the hacksaw down on one of the tables before striding over to stand before you. He pulls a notebook and pen from a pocket in his jacket, and readies them for writing.

"Now then. What can you tell me about these chemicals? Where were you exposed? Do you know what specifically you were exposed to?" He asks, arching an eyebrow inquisitively.

You are hesitant to reveal where you were exposed. So far, he hasn't yet asked any questions about your head covering or strange attire, but you fear he may quickly become suspicious. You need to decide how to address his questions.

>>926910
casually. and if any weird questions come up just answer truthfully.

>>927013
Support also ask about the head removal

Tell him you don't know. You should be dead after that blow to the neck, and you woke up in a mass grave. You think they were using acids to break down the bodies.

We don't really need to make mention of the reasons that we were where we were, we just need to give him that information so he can practice medicine. Tell him that, due to unfortunate events, you ended up unconscious in a mass grave for some period of time resulting in exposure to caustic agents.

"I... Might I inquire about this other patient first?" You ask, indicating the beheaded corpse.

Herr Doctor lowers his notebook and sighs. "Yes. Go ahead."

"Why-... What led you to remove his head in that... Fashion?" You ask.

The Doctor looks pensively into empty space. "Let us say he made a miraculous recovery. Miraculous and unfortunate. I was forced to cease his... recovery process. Now please tell me what is ailing you so that I might fix it." He says, his tone slightly annoyed, and his words cagey. He brings out his notebook once again.

"I lay unconscious for an extended period in a mass grave. I believe I was exposed to the solvent agents used on the corpses." You say.

"Ah. You most likely suffered burns from potassium hydroxide. Intriguing... How, exactly, were you rendered unconscious?" Asks the Doctor.

"A... Blow to the neck." You say.

"Does it require medical attention?" He asks.

"No, no it's proving no further issue." You say.

"Ah. Please explain to me exactly what symptoms you have been experiencing from the chemical exposure." Says the Doctor.


You explain all your symptoms in detail: headache, vomiting, irritation of the skin eyes and lungs, coughing, nausea, etc. He simply nods and takes notes, asking the occasional question.


Eventually, the Doctor closes his notebook and puts it away. "I believe you have told me enough. Before I perform any sort of treatment, I'll need to take a blood sample." He says.

"For what purpose?" You ask.

"To test your blood acidity." He says.

You agree, and he draws about an ounce of blood.

He takes it over to the lab setup in the corner, and sets about performing various tests.


Fifteen minutes or so later, he stands up from the equipment.

Then, with practiced speed, he spins on his heel to face you, and brings a pistol to level with your chest.

"You are no human. What are you?" He demands, a strange frown curling his lips.

Bollocks.

You feel that if you concentrated, you could move fast enough to reach the doctor before he can fire his pistol. But perhaps that won't prove necessary, he hasn't fired yet, after all. Maybe you could talk him down?

>>927509
" I dont know what I am. Though when I emerged from the grave, i was called a ghoul. Though I have no intention of harming you, and all i seek is treatment." , somthing like this maybe worded diffrent but I think i made my point clear. besides killing a doctor is taboo. you might need him later.

Also "maybe you can help me find out."

Whatever you are physically, your mind still seems to be human, you don't have cravings for flesh or anything. So he should just put the gun down, because you've come in for treatment and are willing to pay him, which is what matters. You don't intend to do anything nasty if he doesn't.

>>927509
Everything i said was the truth i dont really know what happened

We are his patron, likely a less violent one than he normally deals with. We have done harm in self-defense only and would hope that he would not resort to violence so quickly. Physically, we aren't sure what we are, we were called a ghoul, but aren't quite sure what that means. We would appreciate not being questioned at gunpoint but understand the caution.

Immediately begin screaming "SHOOT ME IN THE FACE! IN THE FAAACE!" And make sure you dance around to make aiming difficult. Funny dance towards him until he fires, then grab the pistol and knock him out.