The dim light of a single Edison bulb hanging above the bar washes the saloon in a dismal orange far too reminiscent of the sands the patrons came in seeking refuge from. It's eerily silent, no patron willing to interrupt their own drinking to make a sound outside of the soft thumps of glasses coming to rest on tables.
In a strange sense, it's nothing more than a stopping point for the destitute, the ones that float through it all with little to anchor them. No one talks because no one has anything to say. Anything they could say is meaningless, both to themselves and others.
The peace and quiet of the saloon is interrupted as the door is roughly opened, a screech rising as it drags on the floor. Standing in the doorway, a silhouette in the dark interior ringed by sunlight, was a man in a long duster who held himself in a manner the old man had seen only in carnies, politicians, and wax statues. The newcomer sauntered into the saloon, slowly gazing around at the sullen drunks, sure to show everyone there his immaculately waxed mustache and ivory grin, occasionally tipping his black felt bowler hat at one.
A youthful spool of yarn, the twine the old man craves. He exudes charisma, it sputters from his mouth in a red foam. So young, so arrogant.
To incite is to cheat, to reel in is cunning. So he begins reeling. He taunts, cajoles, questions the suave young man on his life, decrying every hint of personality and disregarding supposed accomplishments.
Life is but a series of choices that lead to one's death, the old man is simply moving him along the path. And so the foolhardy is drug along until he has slaked his thirst and stoked the fire within him. The weary soul seeps into the cracks of the prideful's skin, until he himself begins to feel the arrogance drip down his form. It's a dangerous game, but one he must play if he is to beckon the youthful soul out into eternity.
The young man tosses back the last of his tumbler of whiskey before pointing at the hunched bundle of wrinkles that had been taunting him. He makes a grand declaration, spit flying from his lips as he reigns in his frustration with the promise of putting the old fool in his place.
They find themselves walking out through the entryway, the sunlight catching the metallic baubles that litter their clothes, creating a magnet for the eyes that had been hidden away in the gloomy atmosphere of the saloon. The freshly groomed declarant rests a hand on his holstered piece as the other gestures theatrically, his feet kicking out in front of him to catch his forward-leaned strut, kicking dust up off the wood with each solid thump! of his heel connecting with the floor. Walking more slowly behind him, his hands resting casually in his pockets, the aged killer glares at the back of his skull, his slack eyelids betraying a growing animosity for the showmanship of the peacock in front of him.
Both parties drop off of the porch, their landing kicking up small clouds of dust, followed by a bustling crowd now come to life at the prospect of witnessing bloodshed, crying out down the street the good news. They fan out, taking sides and exchanging bets whose payoffs range anywhere from a drink at the bar to ownership of a slave.
Blood-flush gambling paraphernalia, sliding into place on green felt, the Mississippi riverboat beached on wrathful sands.
Scratch and win, scratch and win.
They walk their distance down the street, turning to face one another, confirming that they're appropriately far enough from one another.
Taking a deep breath in, the old man begins to center himself, mentally preparing for the oncoming eternity. He sucks air in through his nose until his lungs have shoved his chest to his chin before letting it leak out of his mouth.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Again, again.
He narrows his thoughts, pulling from only one source, to keep himself grounded.
Another deep breath as he shifts to taking in only…
Nerve Endings, Sensory Filling His Mind
His skin is tough as jerky, a deep tan that's splotched with burning crimson red, like his momma hung him out with the laundry when he was a baby, pinching the flesh on his neck with a clothespin onto the line. Wriggling and squirming, crying out to the wastes, his tears being drunk up by the thirsty, cracked ground below him. It was wrinkled to hell and back, sand tucking into the edges and crevices as it blew by, brought on by the unholy torrent of sun and the torrid winds of the wastes as it chafes and peels skin off bone, mixing with his old age as it tries to slough off his body and escape into the sweet, cool rest lying six feet below his worn boots.
He stands still as he can, his feet dug into the sand. Sweat beads on his forehead and slides down, hanging on his brow before dropping to the ground. His dry tongue runs over his teeth, feeling the grit of the sand that was stuck to them, as he runs his thumb over the smooth, shiny metal of his six-shooter's hammer, the original etching carved in for friction long gone. The hammer and the trigger were the only shiny parts left on the piece, the rest dulled by time. The other four fingers gently tap the sides of his holster in a rhythm, the once oiled and supple leather now an old, faded brown. His palm rests on the well-worn wood of the grip, textured with cracks and a warm line of metal down the middle. He feels the contrasting textures beneath his palm as he subtly twists it back and forth, trying to quell the adrenaline that demands he pull.
He eyes the man across from him, a spry young 'slinger from higher up the land, in both location and status. He's a showman, wearing a brown duster with a crushed velvet interior that he readily shows off as he holds it back on his right side, his hand on the fancy pearl grip of his elegantly engraved piece. The circus carnie watches the old man from beneath the brim of a bowler with a genteel smile, teeth just as white as the pearl grip shimmering in the sunlight as he puts on his show for the bystanders. The old man stares at the showman, his eyes only narrowing while the fancy 'slinger blinks, and blinks, and blinks as the midday sun pierces his eyes. It'll be his undoing.
The showman raises his left hand, tipping the brim of the bowler upwards, revealing a forehead as sweat-drenched as the old man's. He didn't show it, but being in all those fancy duds in the cruel heat was wearing on him. He grins at the old man, a different kind of grin than the one he flashed at his adoring audience, one that reeked of sheer confidence and charisma. No, this grin was almost pity for him, as if he were saying, I'm sorry I'm gonna have to put you down you mangy mutt, but I got something to prove. The perfect edges of his stark-white teeth gave speeches without his tongue moving an inch.
In that moment, as the peacock flashed its feathers, the old man realized that he hated the pompous prick. He wasn't a real 'slinger, he'd never felt the sting of a bullet in his shoulder signaling that he'd barely avoided death, never shot another human being's lungs and watched their breaths turn to blood, never faced any of the hardships of the wastes as it siphoned the moisture from his withering form. He wasn't a man. He was an art piece, a walking, talking installation that spun his piece around on his finger and told exaggerated stories of his exploits. Stick five cents in his mouth and he'd come to life.
The old man shifts his feet in the sand, triple checking that he was sturdy. He was. The fanciful 'slinger sees him adjust and follows suit, continuing his preening as his black leather boots dig into the sand, their polished, sharp silver spurs gently clacking. He'd ridden into town in a carriage.
The crowd flanking both men was growing rowdy, demanding that someone do something, anything. The people stood at the perfect distance from the men; far away enough to not be on the end of a potentially missed bullet, but close enough to be able to rush the loser or losers and listen in ecstasy as they breathed their last. The two men had spent too long feeling each other out, getting a lay of the land, and now they were heckling the combatants. Thirsty for bloodshed, desperate for one or both of them to die in the street.
For a moment, and for no real discernible reason, all is still. The growing cacophony of the crowd fades away. Neither man dares to breathe. Something in the air in that moment tells them that they are about to bring the act to its climax, give the audience the conclusion they've been slobbering over.
The old man realizes that just like the deafened crowd, he's thirsty too. Not for blood, no, but for life. He knows he's in his waning years, that all the booze, tobacco, and fighting is catching up to him quickly. His old frame protests even the very act of getting out of bed. So he's been drinking the elixir of life as of late, and drinking deep. It ain't about the brawls anymore, hunting outlaws and Indians for bounties, or open plains gunfights. Now he drags fools into the street and makes them stand across from him and draw. That's the fountain from which he draws the elixir, filling a ceremonial ewer with the precious stuff. Now, in that moment before he will either live or die, he's craving it; a thirst that can't be slaked by mere water alone, nor the moment at hand. It's only after he's put lead through another living, conscious human with a life as full and complex has his that he can bathe in the rush. Let it overtake him as his gun hand slowly lowers, shaking with pleasure. He can practically see his victims' ties to the mortal coil sever one by one with each gasping breath, each poke and prod at their wound, confusion plastering their face. A wife, a husband, a kid, a parent, a friend, all dissolving into the ether along with their soul. And he loves it. So when he sees the showman's hand twitch as fingers begin to curl, he pulls the warm metal from his holster and fires, barely thinking about where he'll put the bullet, whether he'll live or die.
Both revolvers fire off, but only the peacock falls, his back hitting the hard ground with a dull thud, knocking what little precious air he had left in his lungs out in a huff. His perfectly starched, white button-up reveals a red tide flowing in from his chest as he limply brings his arms up from the ground and gently taps, taps, taps where he's been shot, eyes wide with dilated pupils. He kicks his legs gently, as if he were trying to push himself away from the old man, or perhaps he imagined himself standing up. Words try to escape his throat, but have no wind to carry them, leaving only faint wheezes that desperately try to figure out what went so wrong. The crowd rushes the dying man, trying to get a good view of his final moments, his processes reduced to that of a child as he mouths, "Why? Why? Why?" sputtering up blood and saliva onto his chin, his face tightening and turning red as he strains against the inevitable. He wants to reclaim his charisma, but it's been ripped from him. The crowd soon grows so dense that the old man can no longer see his victim, but he doesn't care.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nostrils, feeling how the warm, dry air flows through him into his lungs. The cool water of relief shudders through his body, contrasting the warm sun on his skin. His arms faintly quake as adrenaline courses through his body, slowly waning until it all seeps out of his feet and into the sand. He gently holsters his six-shooter, no longer smoking, and brings his other hand up to his forehead, wiping sweat off onto his fingers. Lowering the hand, he gazes at the now slick fingers, glistening in the sun, before bringing them to his tongue. He savors the salty taste, the life that seeps out of his pores. Proof that he wasn't just upright, but alive.
Opening his eyes, the victor finds that many of the vultures have had their fill, walking off to their next hedonistic pleasure before the man on the ground has even stopped squirming. So insatiable, tolerance calcifying in their veins.
Every execution, it took less and less time for the people to disperse, leaving them itching for more and more.
the Atmosphere Between, a Current of Ionic Winds
He is a worn creature. One who walks with no forward momentum, rising with the sun and setting with liquor.
Hedonism and hatred define his existence. Every act is one driven by that worn, calcified instinct.
The more time flies past him, the less he beds and works. The more he drinks and kills.
He is a blade. One brought to a keen point by the passage of time, the sands slowly etching away at the end as it passes by.
His soul is waning, beginning to dislodge itself from his form. A notion his eyes cannot perceive and yet he is keenly aware of. So he stitches himself into a patchwork creature. Harvests the silver cord of others.
He is a stuffed animal. His seams are loose, stuffing pouring out.
A force of spite and defiance, he treads life underfoot.
He is a scythe. The gleaming edge separating wheat from the precious earth, severing mortal ties.
Existence is something to be earned. A trophy of those who could stand to grab hold of it. Those who cannot claim it never deserved it.
He is a dam. His diverts, halts, and welcomes new flows of a river, ones that go contrary to the river's wishes. And so he stands, at the precipice of eternity. Packing mud and wood into place.
Across from him, standing so far away, is a minnow being carried by the stream. A facsimile of life, hinting at potential, if only he would be allowed to pass by, to continue on down the river.
What does the wrathful force of hatred know about the potential of youth? Had he ever truly been given a chance to flourish or was he another casualty of neglect, scattered over rocky ground? The sand around him answers with a resounding yes, the blood he tried to bury rising up slowly, thick and warm, creeping up the world-worn boots.
He'd had potential, he could have been the silvered blade upon which injustice would have been impaled, but that life had been forfeited. The wiles of life took hold of him, latching onto his wild fantasies of violence.
Cruel mentors taught him that life was a grand lake, individual existences mere stones. When thrown, some will skip and others will plunge into the depths, but all inevitably succumb to the cold waters of eternity. Better to find yourself bounding across life's surface, awash in personal pleasure, than to be the one who sinks, striking down the stones around you to gain momentum, their fate be damned.
Money became his lifeblood, blood his pleasure. He took up arms with the oppressors of the time, slaughtering innocents with the simple flex of a finger, preparing for the next snuff with but a flick of a wrist, cycling leaden hatred into the brass chamber.
As the days of his perpetual horror wound on and on and on, a sickening numbness spread over his senses, dulling the exhilaration.
The moral soul would find such a creeping illness to be disturbing, betraying a settling complacency in atrocity or, more terrifying, the re-categorization of it all into the realm of normalcy.
All he could feel was disappointment. Not for his actions, but for the sole reason of sheer boredom. The loss of a passion that ran deep in his veins. He rode the wastes on horseback, a part of a cadre of soulless monsters, seeking out that elixir.
They tread the torrid sands, hunting down Mexicans and Indians, cracking open skulls and pulling teeth to keep as trophies. Ears, hair, scalps, tongues, and fingers.
Yet still that pervasive cold chilled his blood, depriving him of what was once a fiery passion, burning up all those that fell into the shadow of his wrath.
Bouts of apathy and listlessness led him to depraved places in his mind, newer and more ferocious lusts that would push him over the brink of humanity. Fantasies of flayed flesh and twitching muscles, playing out like a cabaret in his mind's eye. They're notions that he'd never get to indulge, yet he found himself willfully daydreaming possibilities, but they weren't enough to extinguish the smoldering boredom that festered in him.
When he decided to leave the troupe the commanding officer screamed at him that he was bound by law to remain, to serve out his duty. So he turned, measuring the distance between the two of them, and rested his hand on the grip of his piece. As if by instinct, the officer followed suit, both men well aware of what was to happen next.
Silence. Steady, calm breaths, awaiting a twitch that would signal the beginning of the end. A shiver down his spine sent him into a frenzy.
Standing in the camp, the barrel of his revolver smoking, his commander bleeding out on the ground, the numb soul found the addicting drought it'd been so longing for, the rush of life causing him to twitch and groan.
He chased that sweet nectar, reeling choleric jesters to stage, putting lead through skin.
Now he stands before yet another drag of opium, another chance to imbibe, that faint notion of potential soon to be spilled upon the ground.
That moment of suspense arises, his carrion brethren circling overhead, an omen of inevitability.
Flex, blink, breathe out, pull.
Writhing on the ground, afraid of the world around him for the first time since he opened his eyes, the minnow bared his belly, submitting.
The harvest is plentiful, slick, silvery thread looped around muscle and sinew, spooled on his young, slowing heart. The old man works a cosmic needle, sewing shut malaise abundant, cinching into place loose organs and drooping veins. Once more he is a stout and proud creature, standing so tall as to drink from the clouds.
The sweet taste of existence, like dollops of honey on his tongue, runs warm down his throat. Sensations' songs he's grown addicted to warble through his mortal form, plying away rust and detritus. A bolstering of the soul by proxy, rejuvenated by hallowed fluids roiling in his belly.
Then, it's gone.
A husk, chaff floating through the wastes, subject to the wiles of errant breezes. In place of the ecstasy, teeth sprout once more. Molars and incisors that slowly chew and gnaw at him, wearing him down from the inside, crying out for the substance, his sacred drug.
Two corpses come to rest, one far colder than the other yet still standing. Held aloft by rigor mortis.
Every execution, it took less and less time for the rush to fade away, leaving him more and more dissatisfied.