December 16, 1948

Kalgoorlie, Western Australia

A dying man once told me that those who have the blood of the convicted are destined to live a life of adventure.

Granted, the man was piss poor, drunk, and probably not in the proper mind set to make philosophical statements as such, but the man was my Pa, and I never took my Pa to be wrong.

It was true, you know, that bit 'bout adventure. A shame if my life be described as something less than that, and it didn't dawn on me 'til just the other day that my life was exactly that—an adventure.

I like to think that the life I got to live is envied by the young and old, the rich and poor, and even the saints and sinners. Could maybe go as far as describe it as a piercing scream compared to 'em soft whispers most unfortunately have. I left a mark in this world, but I could never tell if it was good or bad.

Grew up with the blood of an outlaw—your blood, you know, and that's all I needed to live, I mean truly live. And maybe that was all it took.

You'd like to hear a story, wouldn't you? You were always telling me your life stories; wouldn't feel right to not return the favor. This here is my own story, one that you'd like, I know you would.

Remember back when Pa was still here in this town? That's when it all began, back when we were still a family—a family with the blood of a convict.