Justice for all.

A Story by AshMythic

A bounty hunter pursues a runaway murderer. Contemplates worth of human life while shooting people.

F**k me it’s cold.

You’d think that being in a desert might mean that being cold would be the last thing on my mind. Thing about deserts is that they are either as hot satan’s rectum during the scorching days, or as cold as a callgirls’ heart during the icy nights.

But I still love you Cinnamon.

I’m in northern Mexico, just below the Rio Grande, hunting some sick f**k who killed a couple of bankers. So I gotta shoot him because he shot some people, so I can set an example that shooting people is wrong. It’s how justice works.

I’m laying down on top of a small rock plateau overlooking a small clearing. I can see his campsite. There’s a group of animal hide tents, clustered together in a cozy manner around a campfire.

So the murderer found some friends. Does that make the associate murderers? I think I’ll shoot them anyway.

I’m not sure they’d pay me for killing these other dudes; the government’s a real hard a*s when it comes to paying blue collar workers. Then again, who isn’t?

I roll over onto my back to look up at the stars. I can see ‘em real good here. I don’t know any of the constellations. But it’s still pretty.

They always remind me of tears for some reason. I can guess why the stars might be crying. If I had to stare down at the human race, watching all the fucked up s**t we do, I’d probably bawl like a lil’ b***h too.

But ain’t no one up there but the all-mighty judgin’ me.

I turn back over and get back to focusing on the campsite.

I can see a wagon in the back, facing some kind of makeshift path. There’s a woman sitting in the back, her legs dangling out of trunk. She’s got a big a*s shotgun in her arms. That thing would tear me in half from six yards away. I think I’m in love.

I look around some more, eyeing for a weakness.

In center of the campsite is one of the crooks compadres, he’s chopping up some rodent next to the fire, an ugly little varmint. He’s a burly sort, and on the heavy side, he could probably pull out my spine if he got his fingers in there nice and deep.

I don’t know if my .45 sixshooter could get through all the muscle and fat to do any damage. But Samuel Colt never let me down before.

I spot the butcher himself, he’s sitting with his knees against his chest next to some large man with a handlebar mustache.

The butcher’s thin and scrawny like an urban rat. I can see his ribs poking out of his body and he’s got cheekbones like the ancient pyramids. His skeletal figure scares me. I think in all honesty I could probably just sit here and wait him out.

His buddy’s got his arm around him in a supportive loving manner. They seem close, best friends, maybe even lovers.

At least he won’t die alone. Not that I’d care if he did, but maybe god could deduct some points from my sins.

I’m worried that I might clog up the line waiting for Gabriel to list off all the s**t I’ve done. But I’m certain the big guy will back me up when all this is said and done.

I get to my feet and stretch. My body cracks like firecrackers; I feel like I’m popping every joint in my body, and it’s so loud I’m wondering if I’m shaking up hell. Once I relax I can feel the blood in my body flowing smoothly again, like the floodgates have been torn open. It’d been such a long ride following this f****r. I’m feeling achey. I swear he took the longest possible route he could to get here. It was like we circled the earth eight f*****g times.

On the plus side he’s probably as exhausted as I am and won’t be so fast on the trigger.

I’m never slow on the trigger.

I furtively make my way down from the rocky overlook down to the clearing. The tough bushes make it difficult to sneak; their coarse branches might as well be landmines.

The rocky terrain is perfect for hiding. Giant smooth stones jut out of the ground like the devil’s fingers, groping upward to tickle the angels divine nether regions.

I creep forward, feet silently gliding across the sand and dirt, right up behind the big burly man. He’s preoccupied with his rodent cuisine.

My hands are numb from the cold. I cup my hands against my mouth and breath into them. I can feel warmth return to my fingers.

I pull out my .45 from it’s leather holster. The ivory and metal feels cold in my hands, and I can see condensation forming from my warm hands. The cold stings at my hands like tiny bees and it makes me feel frustrated.

I take a last glimpse around; seeing the camp before I set hell loose. The calm before the storm. I intend to bring death upon all these lost souls.

I c**k the hammer back, the man jumps a little bit. I don’t give him time to turn around. I pull the trigger. The hunk of lead tears through his thick meaty body. I can faintly hear the sounds of his muscles and fat ripping, his bones and cartilage snapping and breaking apart.

The man lets out a bloodcurdling scream in terror and agony. Everyone in the camp, and probably within ten miles, is now completely aware of my existence.

Stealth.

I yank back on the hammer and fire again, then again, again, again and once more. He’s dead before he hits the dirt.

Everyone reacts quicker than I anticipated, Buck-shot Woman scrambles off the wagon and takes aim. Her hands are shaky.

Caught up in my moment of zen, I realize I just spent my cylinder dry.

I try to jump away, trying to head for cover behind a nearby rock, but it’s too late. She fires the mean a*s double barrel, and soon I’m hit by a load of fiery shotgun pellets. I feel them burn into my shoulder, tearing through my flesh. I call out in shock and pain.

I fall to the ground, thankfully behind the rock, so Ms. F**k you up, doesn’t get a second shot at me.

I’m alive.

I grab my shoulder and wince, it hurts like a m**********r. Like somethings biting and gnawing at my shoulder. Blood leaks through my fingers until apply pressure to the wound. Its warm like fresh piss, but somehow not as pleasant.

I hear the woman call out to the butcher.

“Johnny! Are you alright?!” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. She’s not used to killing. That’s a turn off.

“Did you get ‘em?” I hear the butcher call back. He sounds unstable and in shock. Good.

“I got ‘em! I got ‘em!”

No you didn’t you stupid c**t.

I unlock the hatch on my gun and begin to unload the empty shells. I’m pretty fast, but with my shoulder wounded, I’m not fast enough.

I hear the woman getting up and walking towards me.

I load one, two, thr--

“Oh, s**t!” She sees me. She tries to back up and get away.

I slam the last shell in, and rip back on the hammer.

She lifts up her shotgun to protect herself.

She’s got it pointed at me before I can pull the trigger. For a moment I wonder if she has it in her.

BLAM!

Her tiny body launches back and she drops the shotgun.

I see her blood spray out of her body, like a geyser of human juice, spray through the air. It looks beautiful against the night sky, but the moment is soon over.

I force myself to my feet.

She’s on the ground, still alive. The woman can’t move; but she’s convulsing violently. Seeing her lying there, her limbs all spread out like that, reminds me of some sketches by Leonardo DaVinci, of a naked man in the same position. I think she’s more beautiful like this.

Her breathing is shallow and shaky. She’s going to bleed out alive.

For a moment I consider putting a mercy bullet in her skull, but I need to conserve my resources. Sorry little lady.

“Mary!!” I hear the butcher call.

“Wait here” I hear his friend say. I can hear his boots against the dirt, he doesn’t surprise.

He comes from ‘round the tent, this tells me that's where the butcher is. He’s got a dainty pocket colt in his hands. It’s kind of cute compared to a big ol’ .45 like mine.

I shoot him down before he even sees me. He screams at the top of his lungs, it’s kind of annoying. He drops his gun and puts his hands on the gaping hole I put in him. He begins to cry.

I walk over to him, pulling back on the hammer.

He looks up to me with his wet eyes, hands still on his wound.

“Please!”

Damn, he used the magic word. Looks like I can’t kill him.

I shoot him again, finishing off the last of my bullets.

He spins around, and falls on his stomach. I’m pretty sure he’ll be dead in a few minutes.

“Joey?! JOEY PLEASE!” I can hear the murderer, jump to his feet as he runs out of hiding to be with his friend. He slides to his knees next to his cadaverous friend. He puts his arms around the corpse. He begins to weep pitifully.

Why are you ignoring me? So rude.

“Five hundred, dead or alive. What’s it gon’ be, kid?” I ask the butcher.

He looks at me, tears and blood in his face. I see all the hate and anger on his face dissipate. More tears flow down his rosy red cheeks.

The butcher looks back to his dead friend, I load my sixshooter. He turns back to me, his face resolute.

“Dead.”

That’ll make things a lot easier bringing him back to the states.

He goes back, hugging his dead friend, holding onto him for dear life. But only death is the only answer. I can hear him crying into the cloth of his friends back.

I walk over and kick him off his friend, rolling him over onto his back.

“Wait--” He doesn’t get a chance to finish.

I unload my remaining bullets into his chest. The butcher’s blood spurts out of him, coating me in a thick layer of warm gore. His chest ends up looking like freshly grinded meat, it makes me hungry. I couldn’t put one in his head because I need them to ID the corpse when I bring him in, so his face is completely untouched. He better not f*****g rot before I can get him back.

Tears stream freely down his dead face. His eyes and jaw are wide open. He’s drooling blood. I can see the stars reflection in his glossy eyes.

Things are quiet again. Nothing calls out. Nothing makes a sound 'cept the wind against the rocky landscape. The crickets don’t even chirp. This is justice.

“Justice for all.”

Written by Roland C. Phillips 2015