The Lessons of the Gun

Inspired by News From Poughkeepsie – Day 117

Bobby Joe believed in The Gun. He had met other Marshals, men and women who appeared pious, but who threw aside the Lessons of The Gun as it suited them. To them, wielding the gun was about power. To Bobby Joe, however, it was about salvation. Out here in the Wild, it had to be.

Bobby Joe said a prayer for every bullet as he loaded his weapon. He thought about about the two marauder gangs outside his door, ready for war. He though about the town they were about to tear apart as scratched at each other. And he thought about the Lessons of The Gun.

“This about salvation,” he said, walking into the streets. “This is about salvation…”

Preacher looked out the window of the Constantinople and swore under his breath. That fool kid was going to mess with the wrong people one day and get his head shot clean off. Today wouldn’t be the day if he had anything to say about it though. His fingers checked to ensure that all of the Elements were present.

The hardware was all old so he still carried percussion caps, loose powder, and lead balls. While he didn’t hold with some of his brethren that the new cartridges and double action revolvers were sacrilege there was something to be said for the old ways. Loading the gun was meditative and allowed him to recite the Prayer.

“The Gun is is my Protector, I shall not Fear. It makes the crooked path straight and levels the field. It rights wrongs and commands respect. Yeah though I walk through the valley of darkness I will not quaver. Its metal and its fire will save me. I shall not use The Gun to wrong others and will protect and avenge those wronged. Surely Justice and Respect will follow us so long as we keep to these. And may I dwell not as the cowards do. Amen.”

His weathered hands settled on the ivory butts of the two six shooters and he moved through the bat wing doors. A broad brimmed hat, as much a part of his uniform as the rust colored serape, kept the sun out of his eyes. Down the windblown street he could see Bobby Joe step into the Circle. He was actually going to call someone out.

A barely used double action hung heavy from the ginger haired lad’s belt. The new leather and shiny metal cartridge casings shone in the sun. His jaw was set with determination and Preacher could see his lips moving even from here. The man was old, but his eyesight was the envy of eagles. He had trained Bobby Jo Morales in the Way only after two years of begging. Finally he relented after realizing that the boy might go on ahead and teach himself. That way lay certain death.

Unfortunately, Bobby Jo turned out to be something of a zealot. There was a place for that, certainly. Zeal needed to be tempered with some good sense though and there was a shortage of that in these parts. The zeal bore skill though. Bobby was fast, damn fast. His hands danced and his aim was true as any acolyte could ask for. His brain soaked up all the knowledge of the workings of the Gun and all of the traditions. There was talk that he would be going out further into the Wild next year. Most of that talk came from Bobby Jo.

Now the Wild had come to them in the form of the the Cowboys and the Oklahombres. The two groups controlled most of the territory for a month’s ride in any given direction. They were here to see if combining their resources could expand their power base. A treaty between the two gangs would be bad news indeed and no one official would stop them. The Marshals in these parts were every bit as corrupt as Bobby Jo believed and had done and would do nothing about it.

Preacher felt no small amount of shame at the state of the Marshals. As a Ranger it was his job to train new recruits and feed the machine that the Order had become. All of that guilt needed to be left behind for now though. Arkansas Tom and John Ringo broke off from their groups and began the slow amble towards the Circle and that was Bobby Jo’s death warrant. Either man by himself was enough, but the two together represented a challenge that only the most talented and experienced could face.

“Well, well, let’s see what we have here.” Ringo drawled. “Looks like this boy wants somethin’.” The tall man walked with crossed arms. His fingers weren’t far from the sawed off shotgun on his left hip or the horse pistol on his right. Either one could be out an blazing death in a heartbeat. The red sash of the Cowboys seemed to almost connect the two weapons across his narrow waist.

Arkansas Tom nodded, his long dirty dishwater hair moving as a mass. Preacher could see that his forty-five hogleg was in a swivel holster. The gun didn’t even need to come out to be used. Dirty trick. “Looks like. You issuing a formal challenge boy? Or you just drawing water?” He jutted his chin towards the well behind Bobby Jo.

Bobby Jo stood his ground. “I hereby challenge the leaders of the Cowboys and the Oklahombres to a draw down. Losers goes to Boot Hill, winner gets control of the two gangs.” His voice was rock solid, though barely into its adult register.

Preacher nodded. That would be the only way. That was if there were any chance in Hell of the leaders of the two gangs honoring such an agreement, assuming they accepted it and assuming Bobby Jo won.

The Western

Jared Axelrod has been dropping story germs over here as an extension of Mur Lafferty’s News From Poughkeepsie project. His latest category tackles the Western genre. He has this to say:

I don’t watch a whole lot of television, but I don’t dare miss an episode of PROJECT RUNWAY. As an examination of the creative process and an intriguing character study of the kind of people who chose to make creation their life, it’s hard to beat. Plus, you get fashion shows and the idiosyncratic charm of Tim Gunn. It’s hard not to like such a program.

But I was watching last weeks episode and I almost punched the screen. The contestants were challenged to come up with an outfit based on a cinematic genre, and nobody wanted “Westerns.” In fact, not only did no one want Westerns, but there was serious Western bad-mouthing through most of the episode.

I just about lost it. What is wrong with Westerns, I ask? What?

Not a damn thing, that’s what.

I happen to agree. It’s one of my favorite movie genres and I tackled it in a sci-fi direction for my first NaNoWriMo. I think the two genres taste great together because they are both most often about people living on the frontier of different sorts. It’s about how that difficult life shapes them, changes them. Sometimes it’s a change for the better and sometimes not. It’s also about looking at the kinds of people that move out to the edges and why they do it. Everything from Little House on the Prairie to Firefly/Serenity to some very enjoyable podcasts (Solar Clipper and Tumbler) fall under the genre.

It wouldn’t break my heart to see Westerns replace or join Steampunk and Zombie in the hearts of geeks everywhere. Heck even mash them up together. They’re certainly compatible. So I’m going to try and do at least a couple of his prompts this week. One of them may even turn into a NaNo thing. We’ll see.

Evan the Gentleman Otter

Just using this as an exercise to get my brain in full on writing mode. This will certainly happen from time to time.

Evan preened his whiskers and checked to make sure that his emerald waistcoat was straight and that his rapier hung such that it would neither bump his leg nor risk prodding anyone else on the street. A gentleman, regardless of his shape, should always ensure that he appeared as clean and well put together as the situation allowed.

The fact that the gentleman in question was a four foot tall otter who happened to stand on his hind legs and wear a monocle due to an unfortunate weakness in his left eye was not unusual in the least in his neck of the woods. Perhaps the only oddity was that he was a gentleman at all, since most otters tended to be a bit more rough around the edges.

Satisfied that all was in place, he left the room he had been renting at this particular inn for the last two weeks. Moving like quicksilver through the common room downstairs, he avoided any contact with the inn keeper. Evan was a bit… behind in his payments. The work he had lined up today should take care of that and he didn’t like starting the day with harsh words. While a gentleman should also stay current on all of his expenses, once again one could only do what one could do with what one had.

In the light of day the waistcoat was revealed to be threadbare and the gold band around the monocle looked more like brass. He was an otter of manners that had seen better days. The only thing on his person that wasn’t somewhat shabby was the sword. It was a well balanced and maintained weapon as beautiful as it was sharp.

He walked into the sunshine and out on to the crowded city street with head held high and sloped shoulders held back, thrusting out what chest he had. The throng of creatures didn’t part for him, but that didn’t hurt his pride in the slightest. He made his way through and around groups as though he were in the waters where he spent most of his youth.

Soon a merry tune left his lips as he whistled melodiously and before long he stood before the house of his new employer. It was almost palatial when compared to the houses around it, as befitting a retired noble.

Spicy Genius

This post was inspired by Great Hites hundred word story prompt “Spicy Mustard” and the latest News From Poughkeepsie prompt “The Continuing Adventures of Clemens and Tesla”.   It’s short and silly, but then so are most of you.

Sam Clemens took a pull on his cigar, the coal lighting the otherwise dim library.  “The devil you say.  Is it that simple?”

Tesla nodded his head.  “Yes my friend, yes.  That’s the beauty of it. And think, unlimited energy from such a simple, clean source.”  The excitement brought his native accent to the fore, as it always did.

No one would believe them.  They rarely did when genius brought them discovery like this.  Not, that was, that this sort of genius or discovery was in any way common.  He stirred the grainy contents of the jar and marveled.


The audio version of this will be published as a bonus Great Hites episode and I will link it when it’s up.

The New Adventures of Alfred Schicklgruber

Jared Axelrod has been dropping story germs over here as an extension of Mur Lafferty’s News From Poughkeepsie project.  Go over their to get all the details.  What I’m going to try is to follow each one of his prompts for just a bit.  I think that’s a worthy way to put some content over here.  So I hope you enjoy:

The New Adventures of… Alfred Schicklgruber

Alfred Schicklgruber was not a noticeable man. He wore faded, unassuming clothes that went well with his faded, unassuming face. In his youth, Schicklgruber was a man of passion, of anger. Now, he was just an old man. An old man on his porch, as much a part of the human race as the rocking chair he sat upon.

Which is why it surprised him to see two men pull up his driveway. The were dressed in identical black suits, with identical fake smiles.

“Mister Hitler, I presume,” one of the men said. “You were not an easy man to find. The world needs you.”

“The world believes me to be a monster, a villain.” Schicklgruber slowly got out of his chair. “I have no use for the world.”

“But Mister Hitler,” said the other man. “Right now, a villain is precisely what the world needs…”

Intrigued, Alfred invited the men in.  Ever since he had been moved here and under his gramdmother’s name he had been left alone.  Yes, no doubt, he had been a hard man to find.  The Allies found him near death in his bunker and somehow managed to both keep him alive and keep the fact that he was alive a secret.

They used him for the information he had and rather than kill him, as he expected they would, they left him alive with the agreement that they could call on him should he ever be needed again.  It was of course an agreement he had no problem signing.  With that he was given a new identity and a place to live that only a handful of men knew about.  All of those men were dead now as was the idea that he would be called on, or so he thought.

Once the kettle was on the gas ring, he turned to face the two agents sitting in his airy, well lit kitchen.  They perched on the delicate looking chairs and watched his every move carefully.  Nervous energy radiated from them.  They wanted to kill him.  They believed their superiors when they were told who they would be confronting.  Like anyone else they had been raised to believe that the Chancellor, former Chancellor he thought to himself, was an inhuman monster.  Confronted with this aged specimen they didn’t know what to do.

“So, I am needed?”  His accent had morphed over the intervening decades, becoming the flat Midwestern creature that was the American equivalent of Received Pronunciation.  There was still power in his words.  The sort of charisma that had made men and women do whatever he asked.

The more mature agent, still younger than Alfred by a good four decades, nodded his blond head.  This one would have been indistinguishable from one of his Sturmabteilung or Brown Shirts.  The other man was like his younger twin.  They hadn’t sent a man of color.  That amused him.  He retrieved a PDA from his coat pocket and slid it across the table.

Alfred stiffened when the hand disappeared and then relaxed.  He walked to the table and picked up the small computer.  He had kept up on the technology of the day, always interested in the latest advances.  The cabin he occupied had no electricity, in part to keep him off the grid.  Still his weekly trip in to town to visit the library allowed him to know what was going on in the world he had left.

The screen brightened at his touch.  Light flashed from a sensor near the top of the device, reading his retina perhaps or the shape of his face.  He couldn’t be certain.  All he knew was that once it was satisfied with his identity lines of text appeared.  He read it and then began to laugh.  They really did need him.  God help the world, they really did need him.