Marksman Short Stories One
'1st of April 1906
In Salvania there are a lot of crooked men, and not enough straight men, nearly everyone are out for themselves, not me, I have my reasons.
I'd recently found the home of John Durrell, I had some business with him.'
The lone house sat in a large desert, all that was there to show civilisation was a light in the window. John Durrell was sitting in the chair with his arms chained "I don't care who you are mate, you aren't going to get anything from me"
"Oh really?" The man in a red uniform and bandages moved into the kitchen, the rather sloppy state was detail enough about how the man lived, by the stove was a can of gasoline.
"You think you storm into my house chain me up and expect me to speak?"
"I didn't expect you to talk first hand" The man carry the can in his hand walked back to the chained up Durrell who was now concerned "What are you doing with my petroleum?"
"It is call a proportionate response"
"You link with someone or something?"
"The Benton family?" was the reply.
"Look that was only a job that me and my friend were ordered to do, I know who the guy was who ordered us, but that all" the petroleum started to pour as the bandaged hand began to lift the can's bottom up "Talk"
"His name was Theo Clements, big name crook, I don't know what those people did to offend him and I didn't want to ask questions. That's all I know. Why are you still pouring that stuff?"
"It my type of justice, I find that the law out here is not too good, so I walk outside it" The man emptied the can and threw to one side. From his pockets he took out a few gun cartridges and a knife.
"A vigilante, had a feeling you weren't a law man" With the knife the bullets were taken off the cartridges and the bandaged man began to pour the gunpowder from the puddle of petroleum to where he was standing moments before, Durrell looked both afraid and mystified "Hey what are you doing with those bullets? If the police get here and find you you'll be in some deep water."
"I don't need to be worried" the man got up, took out a box of matches from this red coat pocket "especially in this area, the Marshall only does the jobs that pay well" He took out a match and closed the box.
"So what?" Durrell pounded "You're going to have a cigarette and clean up?"
"I don't smoke" was the stern reply, fear took control of Durrell "Oh no, no please" he cried as the stranger put the match in a crack in the floorboards, right at the start of the powder "Have mercy, I beg you"
"Mercy? Did they beg for mercy?" Durrell looked down in remorse, just as a gun click, the warped stranger was holding a hand gun, with the barrel pointed right at the match head. Durrell looked at his visitor "You know Clements is smart, he'll know it wasn't an accident."
"That's the idea… Any last words?"
"Yes… Now comes the mystery" and with that the gun fire, and the bullet hit the match head and it lit, and with that the man walk out of the house.
'1st of April 1906 23:18
You may think my methods are barbaric. But it's a barbaric world I live in.
Who am I?
You can call me, The Marksman.'