Him and his men were ruthless but just. His shiny purple glove, which he wore on his right hand (the one he used to crack the whip) was one of his trademarks, alongside his scarf, silver hair, perfectly trimmed moustache, and the whip hanging from his belt. Where did these war men find time to groom themselves? His men were cunts and they were his, the scum of the earth, too noble and loyal for any other trade.
They’re all hanging out at the back of a truck, Belmondo’s band, watching the people around them. The Colonel can’t remember when was the last time he smiled. Keeping the balance of the world wasn’t his destiny: it was something he’d chosen to do, a choice he still had to make everyday of his life.
A child comes running side of the truck and immediately one of his men, aware of what these kids are capable of, points his long-barrelled, long-range rifle at the child, who’s reaching out holding a small package for the men to take it. The Colonel himself hurries to take the package from the child’s hands because he’s already seen three other kids in pursue of this one. “I need to deliver this to my family, there’s 400 here”. The Colonel hands the package to one of his men, not saying a word but his men knew what he meant, whilst helping the boy up and into the back of the truck.