My pa' was a big guy.
I knew this very well. He certainly reminded me of such, aided by his trusty belt. But I don't resent him - he was only making a man out of me.
To him, beating me was a necessary evil. I felt the depths of hell, when I told him I didn't want to go to college. And the truth is, he got it his own way.
Years later, I was an accountant. I had a stable job, and I would have a family - if I wasn't so god damn miserable. But I was making an honest living, I was making good money. His job as a father was done. He was proud of me, no longer a lost teenager but a productive member of society - living, breathing in the fabric of society he had worked so hard to maintain in the little town we came from.
That little county's sheriff department, rotting old. The chipped paint showed clearly that the town's order was more of pa's will than the state's resources. It didn't care much for us back home, and we didn't care much for the state. Pa' was the only order we needed - and he brought that sense of duty home with him, every day. At least since mother passed away.
Last time I saw him, it was in his office.
I remember the fateful day like it was yesterday. It was pa's birthday, and I picked him up for lunch in my new car. He admired it - said he liked the red paint. We had lunch at the diner we would so many times eat at. He ordered my favorite meal, for both of us. I gave him a little gift, a snub nose .38 special with beautiful antler grips. This all feels so vaguely distant, looking back. Unreal, almost. Despite being only a few months ago.
The only vivid memory I have of that lunch is when we were walking back to the car and he told me he was proud of me. That I had surpassed ever expectation he had for me, and that my mother would be very proud. He hoped he had been the best possible father he could, and he loved me with all of his heart.
None of this mattered to the goons robbing the liquor store.
Pa' was shot in the back, by the getaway driver. Right after he blew the other guy's head off with his trusty Winchester shotgun. He died instantly, and the getaway driver was shot by the store owner, died somewhere along the interstate. I never cared much. In the following months, I sold the house, pa's old car and moved to Seattle. I only kept his vast collection of revolvers.
Seattle was kind on opportunities.
Seattle was a booming city, overcoming the depression quickly. The city's determination was astonishing, and the whole thing seemed like a living organism, feeding off the crisis and growing at an astonishing rate. I quickly found many clients, but the small companies weren't making the big numbers I aspired to manage.
Yet the validation of my work continued, and I started scoring the big fish I was hoping to reel in. But with added work, came the stress. And with the stress, the need to have an escape from my daily life. I took up the shooting range, since it reminded me of my early days shooting in the backyard with pa'.
But it didn't really help. I was just feeding a need for violence that I had repressed for far too long. Shooting was fun, but I still had to work my ass off for scrap. If anything, I was getting less sleep. It was in a small speakeasy near my office that I was approached by someone I wasn't expecting.
Walking with 𝕋he 𝕎alker 𝔹rand
A man called Benito Russo came to me, saying he worked for a very peculiar company and wanted to know if I was up for a difficult - but rewarding enterprise. And I did. Of course I did. I wanted to work less hours for more money. I wanted the prestige this man had - everyone knew his name, doors opened for him in places I would have never dreamed of.
He made me jump through a ridiculous amount of hoops in order to get somewhere concrete. I had to manage all sorts of things - cash intake, fuel expenses. But I couldn't understand why would I be so well paid - after all, this was a ridiculously simple job. At least until the day he asked me to meet him in a wharf. He had taken notice to the .38 in my hip, long before I realized it. And he wanted to know if I could use it.
The sound of gunfire left my ears ringing.
Like pa', I'm a pretty big guy. But let me tell you, shooting someone for the first time shakes you to the core. From there on, you are a killer. It matters not if it was righteous or just - you have killed. The choice was on your hands and you did it, and you will forever have to bear that burden. However, you'll see it's easier than most people make it out to be. It's like we're all in in a big secret - we're murderers, united by a chain forged in blood and gunpowder.
And it feels amazing.
I only pulled the trigger because I knew what was on the line. The snub nose forced itself through it's mouth and I knew this was no real choice. I would either shoot the man or be shot. But the reason why I kept shooting it was entirely different. It just felt right. Hell, I was still shaking when I met WilliamWalker. Pure excitement and ecstasy were roaring through my veins and I was so ecstatic I could barely talk. From there on, Luckies started taking me places. I was the family janitor, cleaning up the act both indoors and outdoors.
I kept the feds out of our books, and the competition in the bottom of the bay. We were burning through so much cement, William decided to expand into the construction business. I would bet my bottom dollar you could find some bodies in the foundations of the stock exchange building. Business is booming and the boss is happy. That's all I care about. Now, where was I?
