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A blog for poetry, prose, and pop culture.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets

Chapter 7

It took me several weeks to track down the first of the three men who had killed my wife. John Travers was one of two brothers that had held down my wife and daughter as they were defiled. I could still hear his laughing when I closed my eyes. He had holed up in a shabby hotel in the small town of Sedition. It had seen a small copper rush twenty years earlier, but between the rush and the War, most of the town had folded up. Now it was a stopover for people on the run from the law on their way to Mexico. Why Travers was here I didn't care. I only cared about the bullet I was gonna plant in him.

Travers had taken up a room in the shitbox they called a hotel. I knew a day or two wouldn't make much difference so I took some time just watching him. I had picked up a tip from the Sheriff that both the Travers brothers were on the run. Pinkertons were after them for a series of stage robberies and the Sheriff recommended I check out Sedition. My guess was the brothers were gonna meet up, either here or further along the road and lay out in Mexico. The fact that Johnny boy was still here led me to believe I was right.

I took a stool up at the hotel bar near the door. I was close enough to hear Travers go on about how rich he was gonna be. The way he was throwing money at whores and liquor made me think he might be right. To bad the only precious metal he was gonna get would be lead.

I had my opportunity the third night I was in town. Travers stumbled from the bar to the farrier, why I didn't care. I followed him as he entered the loft. The son of a bitch stumbled and lurched down the street. Drunk or sober, I didn't care any more. He was standing my his horse when I walked in. He turned to face me, his face blank.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised he didn't recognize me. The thick growth of beard and long unkempt hair masked me, as well as the shabby travel worn clothes and boots. A far cry from how I use to look.

"Hello John Travers."

"Who the fuck are you cocksucker?"

His hand slipped to his gun, resting on the handle, but I kept my pace walking forward.

"I'm hurt that you don't remember me John. I haven't forgotten you. I haven't forgotten what you did."

"What the fuck are you talking about asshole? I think you better fuck off if you wanna keep that mangy piece of skin you call an ass alive."

He drew out his gun but I thundered in faster. My arm drawing up, a flash of silver streaking and the thick knife found its mark, drawing true and deep into his gunhand. His gun clattered to the floor and he clutched his hand, a cry of pain freeing his lips.

"FUCK!"

Then I was there. I clenched one hand around his throat and drove the other deep into his stomach, once, twice, three times, before bringing my boot up hard into his crotch. His eyes bulged with pain with each blow, but my grip was tight and no sound escaped his lips. He struggled but I held on. I could already feel my body protesting the exertion, but I'd have time to rest later. I drew out my Father's gun and brought it across his nose, shattering it in a spray of blood and cartilage as Travers fell to the floor.

"I want you to know who did this to you John Travers. I want you to suffer like my wife suffered. Like my daughter. I will listen to no plea of mercy, no begging. You gave them none. I am going to make you hurt so bad the only salvation you will find will be the bullet in this gun."

It was then his eyes went wide with recognition. Clutching his broken face with his bleeding hand, he understood who I was. He understood what was in store for him as I shoved the wadded handkerchief down his throat and dragged him off into the brush behind the stable. As I dragged him to his death.

They found his body the next day, battered and bloody with only a single bullet through his eyes.

End of Line.
Gerrad!

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