The Man in Black

As the two boys grew into teenagers, life took one hard turn after another for the both of them. They saw less and less of each other, and as time always does it got away from them both. The kid often wondered if he would find something in life that he would take to as naturally as Dalton had taken to those old pliers. As fate would have it, one day he did.

Many years into the future, and very far away

He sat there at the counter, grunting and snorting under his breath as he ate. He was an ungainly, overweight red-skinned hoggish bastard who was out of breath pretty much all the time. In front of him sat a half-eaten pile of scrambled eggs, dusted with a heavy spray of salt and pepper. Sausage patties and links sat on top of strips of thick-cut slab bacon and in the middle of the whole mess was a big kitchen spoonful of grits; a puddle of butter melted into a runny yellow pocket that resembled a volcanic crater full of cholesterol. To one side was the remainder of a huge blueberry pancake, a lake of liquefied butter and syrup surrounding it. To his other side sat a saucer with a small stack of toasted white bread; several bite marks on the pieces apparently at random.

He heaved and panted as he shoveled the food into his mouth, a spray of crumbs ejecting here and there as he stuffed himself, heedless of manners. His hat sat on the bar stool next to him, a habit the proprietor hated from day one. When the café got busy that damned hat always cost the owner one seat at the bar, and asking the fat bastard to please move his hat so someone else could sit down didn't seem to do the trick. Every now and then the café's owner would send one of his kids over to 'accidentally' sit on the hat, just to get a reaction from the rude jackass. He was tolerated, though. After all, he was the Sheriff.

In the back corner of the little sun-dappled café sat a man, dressed in black head to toe. He was enjoying a second cup of coffee (which he found to be particularly good, by the way. For some reason he seemed to be enjoying a great many things more in recent days) The man in black had been studying the sheriff as he sat there raking his food in, and after several minutes he had only one initial impression; 'This is one fat disgusting son-of-a-bitch.' He thought to himself. He knew he couldn't be the only one making the same observation, as everyone who passed by the counter gave the man the same look of disgust or exasperation.

Once the She Sheriff had his fill he fished a bill out his wallet and dropped it on the counter. Several dirty plates with all manner of partially eaten food were strewn in front of him. He pushed his chair back, the tortured seat creaking in agony. He stood up slowly, wincing as if in pain. No doubt he was, the man in black thought as he watched him. The sheriff was morbidly obese; the front of his tan uniform shirt bloated obscenely outward at the belly, the buttons straining for dear life to hold on. The yellowed white of his undershirt showed through the distorted button holes. The man looked as if he would fall over dead if he had to run ten feet.

His slacks were the same color tan as his shirt, although they were in obvious disarray. Wrinkles and creases were visible everywhere and there was no neat, crisp seam at the front like you would expect to see on any self-respecting lawman's uniform pants. It was obvious that he didn't care for maintaining his appearance, professional or otherwise. His hat and badge, however, were impeccable. The brim of the hat was razor-straight and his badge was polished to a high shine. It was a big silver star, like the ones you would see the small-town sheriffs wear in the old Western movies. The man in black found it odd that this sloppy greasy son-of-a-bitch would let his health and appearance slide so bad, but he kept his hat and badge looking downright sterling.

'Probably because they're the easiest to maintain. That big bastard ain't gonna break a sweat unless he's eating.' A voice said in the back of his mind. The man in black chuckled to himself, in agreement with the thought.

When the sheriff opened the door to leave, a little bell hanging overhead from an arm of bent brass chimed happily, as if even the inanimate objects in the little café were glad to see him leave. A warm ray of brilliant sunshine spilled into the café through the open door, framing the Sheriff's silhouette as he left. The ray of light dwindled down to a thin splinter of yellowish white as the door closed behind him, and then disappeared altogether. The sunlight seemed to have a particularly beautiful clarity to it, the man in black thought.

Then again, almost everything seemed to be better or greater or somehow more these past few days, as if somehow he was regaining some use of his senses, or possibly recovering some senses that had become muted or altogether lost. He couldn't quite make sense of it, but the sensation was undeniable. Something was different; he simply couldn't quite grasp what it was. He had the strangest notion, however, that soon it would make sense to him.

Hours later, in the dark

The preacher man was stone drunk, passed out in his armchair with a half-empty bottle of hooch resting in his lap. The main black was tempted to finish him then and there, but he felt it would be a sloppy end to a job what was worth doing well. As the preacher snored away in his oblivious sleep, the man in black carefully searched until he found what he was looking for, hidden behind a stack of neatly folded shirts in a dresser drawer. It was an old revolver, what the old guard would have commonly called a Saturday Night Special. It was a cheap and simple thing. No chrome or blue steel finish, just a cheap old black iron revolver with a plastic checkered grip. He opened the drum with a practiced flip of the thumb, spun it and then snapped it back in place. When he left the preacher was still deep in his idiot sleep, dead to the world. Later on when he woke, the preacher man would find a half-empty bottle of liquor in his lap, but in his stupor he didn't realize that it was not the same bottle he was drinking from before he fell asleep.

On a dark empty road, after midnight

The sheriff had retired for the evening, his hat and badge resting safely on a bedside table. Although saying he had retired for the evening was somewhat of a misnomer; it suggested that at some point he had done something, which he had not. His afternoon was spent mostly idling down a few of the main thoroughfares in town, stopping at random to waddle into a convenience store and buy an obscenely large fountain drink and a double handful of anything covered in chocolate. He was a regular fixture on the streets in the early afternoon, always driving at a maddening pace of about ten miles below the posted speed limit. The townspeople mostly believed that he did it purely to be irritating, although the truth was that he simply didn't like to be rushed while doing anything. He was possessed of such a damning laziness that it permeated everything he did, and while the man in black stood there watching him, tucked away in a dark corner of the sheriff's home, he almost felt a tinge of guilt for what he was about to do. It wasn't because he felt any form of pity for the sheriff; it was simply for the fact that the sheriff was so helpless.

The man in black had been watching him for the better part of a half hour, listening for any telltale sounds that might signal he should wait or retreat altogether. He had accepted that one day he might be caught and put away for the rest of his natural life for the career he chose to pursue, and during these past several days he had thought to himself more than once 'It's too late in the game to get caught, Kid. We gotta be extra careful on this one.'

Luckily for him the sheriff lived at the dead end of a long dirt road, on property that had been in his family for years. The man in black was taken with the belief that the sheriff wasn't exactly a socialite, either, given the way the people in town reacted to him. He felt that this was going to be easy, almost easier than the job should ever be, and secretly it gave him a sense of relief. After all the messy jobs he had done and all of the damnable and damned people he had encountered, the man in black felt like he deserved an easy finish to a hard career. The sheriff, unaware that he was being watched, made it even easier so for him when he decided to go down into his basement and enjoy a little entertainment.

In the dank, humid basement was an old sofa, stinking of mildewed fabric. Against the far wall was an enormous projection-type big screen television, surrounded by stacks of old VHS pornography. The Sheriff rifled through the stacks of cassettes and found one of his all-time favorites, studying the cardboard slipcover with a mildly lecherous grin, and then put the movie in to play. He was still dressed in his uniform shirt and slacks, as much an insult to the service as it was a testament to his laziness. He removed his belt (the man in black could practically here it sigh in relief) then pulled off his ill-fitting slacks and underwear, and then he plopped down onto the old sofa, which responded with a groan and a squeak of bent springs.

The man in black always insisted on being overly cautious and taking his time, but when the tape started to play he felt a sudden urge to be done, and quickly. The screen flashed a brief blast of static then the image resolved into a grainy image of a tall, thin man dressed in a preacher's frock. Kneeling in front of him was another man, younger and dressed to look like an altar boy. The man in the altar boy costume was kneeling at the preacher man's feet, and the preacher had his hand on the back of his head.

'You've been a very naughty boy, kissing girls!' The preacher man barked at him.

'Yes I have.' The altar boy cried, his voice a bad falsetto of a child's. 'I've been very bad.'

'You should be punished!' The preacher man hissed at him, reaching inside of his frock at the crotch.

'Ah shit, that's enough of that.' The man in black thought to himself, and decided it was time to finish the job.

He reached inside of his boot and retrieved his razor, instantly feeling comforted by its weight in his hand. It was a light and delicate thing, but it felt solid and reaffirming in his hand. Just as the sheriff's hand was making it way past the round expanse of his belly to his crotch, the blade suddenly kissed his neck. He froze instantly, not attempting to move or speak. The man in black waited several long seconds, waiting for him to say something or attempt to move.

"Well." The man in black remarked. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for."

The Sheriff didn't say a word, he just sat there motionless. The man in black was watching him closely, as sofa cushions provide a very convenient place for hiding a gun. The cool kiss of the razor disappeared and the Sheriff felt something hard and cold press against the back of his neck.

"Up with your hands. And be slow about it." The man in black demanded.

The Sheriff complied, slowly lifting his arms upward until they were over his head. His breath was a heavy, wet sounding pull and draw. The man in black was mildly surprised that he didn't just fall over dead. Something fell over the sheriff's shoulder and landed on his lap. He looked down to see his badge staring back up at him.

"Put it on." The man in black ordered him.

The Sheriff fumbled with the badge, his hands shaking badly. Once the badge was pinned onto his shirt the man in black ordered him to his feet. He stood up, painstakingly, his knees cracking and popping as he did so.

"Keep 'em up and turn around."

The sheriff turned around slowly to see a man dressed in black standing there, looking at him with a fierce intensity. He wore latex gloves and had a black revolver in his right hand. The gun was leveled at his head. He knew he would have to talk a seriously deep line of shit to get himself out of this mess.

"Wh, wha, what can I do to fix this?" The sheriff stammered.

The man in black arched an eyebrow and smiled a little, as if he were terribly amused. "I don't know." He said. "What you got?"

The sheriff spoke up, without a moment's hesitation. "I've got a few Kilos from the evidence locker nobody else knows about. It's good stuff. Uncut." He stuttered. ""You can have it, all of it."

"Hmm, must be good shit, huh?" Asked the man in black.

"Oh yeah, it's good. It's good as it gets!" The sheriff blubbered, foolishly thinking he saw a glimmer of hope.

The man in black looked away for a moment, seemingly staring off into space, although the gun stayed leveled at his head, unmoving. He shook his head a little and then looked into the sheriff's eyes, fixing him with a stare.

"Is it so good that it can bring someone back from the dead?" He asked.

The sheriff looked completely baffled, as though he were uncertain of what he heard. "Can it do what?!?" He asked.

"Nevermind." The man in black sighed. "I figured as much." He said, lowering the gun a bit and pulling the trigger.

Miles away, just before dawn

The preacher man opened his eyes slowly, shaking his head. His hand instinctively found the neck of the bottle resting in his lap, and without thought he took a long draw from it. He sighed aloud as the warm burn of the liquor made its way down into his stomach. As much as he hurt for it, it always made him sad. He had indulged himself in his vices for so long that he felt numb to life, and the harsh warmth of hard liquor was the only thing he relished any more. His greatest joy had become a familiar pang of self-destruction. He cared not, though. He had a good thing going, you see. He had it 'whooped', as the old folk would say. He had plenty of money at hand, a roof over his head and a cabinet full of booze. His afternoons were spent nodding away in his armchair, his best and closest friend resting in his lap. He finished off the bottle in three more long pulls and set it aside, bracing the arms of his chair to stand up. Once he was on his feet he reeled a bit, swaying back and forth.

"Bout time you woke up." Came a voice from behind him, startling him so bad he almost tripped over his own feet as he spun about to see a strange man standing there.

"Who the hell are you?" the preacher man yelled, his words slurred. "And how the hell'd you get into my hou-"

The stranger moved fast, reaching out with his right arm and pressing something cold and hard under his chin, cutting his words short. Even in his stupor the preacher knew it had to be a blade of some kind.

"Who I am don't really matter." The man said, his voice heavy with a Southern accent so thick it was almost a caricature."What matters is why I'm here."

"Wh, wh, why is that?" He stammered, flinching as the man came closer.

This man was a stranger to him, a rough-hewn looking country salt with a gardener's tan and a face that looked like it had seen a lifetime's worth or hard travels. He was wearing black top to bottom, and he also looked to be righteously pissed off.

"Say her name." The man in black growled.

"What? Who?!?" The preacher man whimpered. The room seemed to be spinning around, everything frightening and surreal. Was he having a nightmare?

"Listen to me you son of a bitch, I've done decided that you gonna die. Now you can just die or you can die bad. But you're gonna say her name or I'll take all day killin' you." He snarled back at the preacher.

He stood there baffled for several moments, searching frantically for some clue or reason behind what this man was saying, and then it came to him.

"Oh no." The preacher man sighed. "It's her."

"She has a name." The man in black hissed, pressing the blade harder under his chin. "Say it."

The preacher's shoulders slumped and he exhaled aloud. "Selena." He whispered, and immediately he felt the blade digging into his skin, harder.

"Selena!" He repeated, much louder.

The man in black just stood there watching for several moments, studying him with that macabre glare.

"Why are you doing this for her? Was she really that important?" The preacher barked at him, the liquor getting the better of his senses.

The stranger cocked an eyebrow. "You tell me." He said.

The voice of common sense was screaming loud in the back of the preacher's mind, trying to overcome any stupid bravado the liquor might be causing. 'Are you trying to get killed man? This bastard's gonna skin you like a polecat if you don't shut up!'

The man in black pulled the blade away from his chin, and he could see it was an old straight razor. The stranger reached into his jacket and retrieved something from an inside pocket, cupping it in his hand.

"Hold your hand out." He growled at the preacher man.

The preacher extended a hand, slowly and shakily. He hadn't the courage to argue, he just wanted the man to be gone. The man dropped the object in the palm of his open hand. The preacher looked into his hand, his eyes growing wide. His first instinct was to throw the item away; it felt angry and cold in his hand. He was holding a silver badge. It was not a pristine and polished star, though; instead it was bent and spotted with flecks of black. The arms of the star were bent outward and a ragged hole pierced the center and gave the badge an odd inward impression. The bottom two arms of the star were stained with a reddish brown substance that he knew could only be dried blood. He looked up at the man in black, horrified.

"Oh my God." He stammered. "You killed him!"

Calmly, almost casually, the man in black reached into the right pocket of his jacket and pulled out the preacher's gun. "No, actually I didn't." He remarked rather morosely, taking the badge from the preacher's palm with his left hand and forcing the revolver into his open hand with his right, squeezing his hand around the preacher's hand and turning the gun upright. "You did." He quipped. "And then you did this."

"Wha?" the preacher man gasped, and the gun discharged in his hand. The bullet struck him just under the chin and a grisly spray of red bloomed from the back of his head. He let go of the preacher man's hand as he went down. The preacher man fell dead, his body landing with a flat thud. The gun was clutched tightly in his hand, so tight that his knuckles were white. A thin ribbon of smoke drifted up from the barrel of the cheap Saturday Night Special, the odor sharp and acrid.

"And, yes." He finished. "She was that important. They all were."

The man in black stood there over him, studying him for several long seconds. He closed his eyes and then inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and then opened them again. He leaned over the preacher man's corpse and put the bloodied badge in the palm of his left hand and closed the fingers around it. Through the thin latex gloves he could feel the warmth of the man's fingers, and he knew they would soon grow cold.

He was struck with a terrible irony at that moment; it was a great metaphor for his life, one he wished badly to change. What little warmth he had in life had been replaced with so much coldness, so much death.

"I guess maybe this is a way of changing all that." He whispered to himself. "Now that I'm done."

He turned to walk away, and then he stopped for a moment, slowly turning back around to look at the preacher man's dead body again.

"Yeah." He said, his voice both elated and exhausted." Now that I'm done."

Hours later and many miles away

He was sitting in a small café, an unremarkable Mom and Pops type of joint with red vinyl checkered tablecloths and dime store curtains framing the windows. He was into his second cup of coffee, and as he sat there he closed his eyes, savoring the aroma of the roasted beans as the vapor wafted up from the cup. The scent was strong and heady, and he realized that he had never enjoyed a cup of coffee so much in his life, taking a long drag from the cup. He put the cup down and sat there staring at it, as if something was going to come from within the cup or something might reveal itself through it. Then it came to him, something occurred to him that made sense of it all.