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[WP] A Time Traveler Went Back to 1400 AD Europe with an Assault Rifle, and used it to obtain power. He has lived like a Baron for 40 years. The gun's internals have been broken for the last 30 years.
“Dood aan de baron!”
Geoff sat atop the simple wooden throne at the head of his grand hall, trademark M4 loosely clutched in in his right hand, the symbol of his ironclad power. On a normal day, this might have been the time of afternoon he would entertain an open audience made from his subjects. A rueful smirk slithered across Geoff’s features. He supposed by the strictest definitions, that was still the case.
The chants were getting louder.
It had only been a matter of time. Between the sickness and drought, his people were suffering. They needed someone to blame. Geoff, and his station, represented the status quo.
It was a good run. His waist had grown. His family had flourished. His beard had turned grey. It had sure as shit beaten the hell out of life as a sanitation worker from Buffalo. At least here, he had made history. He had LIVED history. Not many could say that.
“Time to go,” Geoff muttered, clambering to his feet and letting out a groan as he straightened his back.
The first of the mob made it through the door, pitchforks, clubs, and torches at the ready. An inadvertent snort escaped Geoff’s face; if his situation hadn’t been so dire, the cliché scene might have been comical.
The leader of the mob hesitated, fear flashing over his face as Geoff leveled the barrel of his weapon at the man’s head. The chanting hushed to a low murmur and Geoff couldn’t help himself.
“There’s no way this old hunk of rust still works, right?” the baron said in a tongue only he could understand. “You want to see me gone so bad, all you've gotta do is ask yourself one question. ‘Do I feel lucky?’.” Geoff aimed down the sights, relaxing his breathing and thumbing a small red switch on the side of the lethal tool of war. “Well, do ya, punk?”
The mob, to their credit, were committed to their cause. Without hesitation, they surged forwards, a violent wave of humanity.
Geoff sighed internally. At least where he was going, he wouldn’t have to worry about his peers not getting his references. But the thought was a cold comfort.
In a single deft maneuver, Geoff flipped the weapon in his hands and pressed the cold, unforgiving barrel to the underside of his chin. His subjects skidded to a halt at the foot of the dais, baffled for the second time in as many minutes. Geoff gave them a final grandfatherly wink and pulled the trigger.
The world went away.
Baron Geoff of the Low Geofflands, long may he reign, stood in the entryway of his studio apartment in Buffalo, New York, tears rapidly blurring his vision. It was not good to be home.