The Day they Hung the Kid

 It was a rather nondescript day, the day they hung the Kid. I was there, but I wasn't exactly advertising my presence. There were several people at this blessed event that would have liked to had a "word" with me outside, and would have left me laying in a puddle of my own blood "outside". Either way the Kid, was the man of the season at this soiree, and this dusty, little town in the backwaters of _____ didn't have a lot of soirees, and I was just there in the back to see them do what they needed to do. ____ had saloons yes, whorehouses yes, and an oddly plentiful supply of banks, but they didn't throw a lot of parties for the likes of me or the Kid.  What is not to love about a town full of whiskey, whores, and money that just begs to be stolen? Two of thsoe things are just there for the taking if you have money, and well the third, if you were me and the Kid possessed the money we needed to get the first two, and we weren't the "taking out a small loan against next years crop" types.

I had the dubious pleasure of knowing the Kid longer than anybody, bar his parents.  I can't say that it was exactly a decision I had a lot control in making. We went to school together and our last names were one letter apart. Therefore we got sat together, picked to do random tasks together, and in no relation to our last names, punished together. Usually, such forced socialization results in random conversations in which most people find they have something in common, even if it just vices. The Kid and I, well, we had a lot of vices, most of them in common. The vices we shared (he had one that made me shudder, but that is not our concern here), were the usual ones of young, stupid men with no idea what they want to do with their life other than enjoy it too much. 

After school was through with us (which was long after we were through with school), the Kid and I went our different ways. I heard about him, and his "exploits" from all the usual sources, and I secretly hoped he would become so infamous that I could tell people I knew him "back when he was a nobody" for free drinks at my local bar (after all, a boy has to pay the rent). I figured that was all I would ever do, read about the Kid and his crimes, I never figured that I would be a part of them. But, life doesn't stop for you to think too much, life generally carries you along like drift wood on a raging river. 

It was in a riverside tavern that I ran into the Kid. I was propping up the bar, and making sure they didn't go out of business for lack of custom, when in walked the Kid. At first, I didn't really think of him as "the Kid." After all, we were the same age, and I wasn't going to call someone I had spent time trying to learn my letters and numbers with, "the Kid."  "Hello A____, it has been a while, I would ask what you are up to, but all I need to do to know that is read the paper." The Kid glared at me that is until he recognized me, then he broke into a wide grind, "GI, fancy meeting you here! Where have you been hiding yourself all of these years?" I shrugged "working, earning, you know being a good little Prole. Just like my father and his father and so and so." 

"Still playing the sucker bet GI? You know of all the reprobates we grew up with, I figured you to do better. You were my guy." I looked over at him with a bit of shock, "your guy? I am not sure that being your guy leads to a long and healthy life." He let out a small chuckle "aye, you've the right of it. My 'guys' have a bad habit of dying. But, you GI, you're a lucky cunt if there ever was one. You'd beat the Maid at her own game, and few, few people beat the Maid." 

"I was very,very lucky to beat the Maid, it took exactly zero skill." He laughed "see that's me point, even after winning the jackpot, you're too stupid or humble to admit that it took a fair amount of skill. Humility, is what they call it, and since I've none and you seem to be awash in it, I decided to bring you along." I smiled at him, "well since that jackpot has long since been used upon the vices we used to (and probably still do) share, I guess I am "volunteering" to be your partner, unless you've a better option." He slapped me on the shoulder and said "good lad, I knew that I could count on you. Now here is the idea." With that, I became his 'second'. His partner in a fair amount of crimes, that if caught and convicted of, would see us spending a fair few years of our lives in stir. 

The law was thin on the ground in those days, and the Kid and I made a lot of hay while the sun shined. We stole a lot of things, and money. We tried to justify it by saying that we stole from the rich and gave to the poor, and that we were the poor, but that was bullshit. We stole for the sake of stealing, and for the lifestyle we lived off of it. We tried very hard to steal just from the banks, not from the people, but sometimes a large diamond ring is just too pretty to resit. These days were happy in their own way, and I don't regret them per se, but I realized that perhaps the Kid had different ideas.

The Kid was, not to sound gay or anything, a very pretty man. He had the indecency to couple his good looks with a charisma that would make a nun blush. I was just basking in his reflected glory, and counting the money we stole. We never actually had to shoot anyone, which was great because for the most part I handed the Kid a shotgun that was as empty as his head. I figured the Kid would never pull the trigger on purpose, and I didn't want him pissing himself and accidentally shooting some poor fool that we had no grudge against. We weren't going to retire to the south of France with the money we took, but it was enough to keep us in a semi-fancy lifestyle. 

It was that semi-fancy lifestyle, and the Kid's natural charisma that changed his, and by extension, my life. It seemed that people just naturally liked the Kid, and he ate that admiration up like a kitten with a bowl of milk. I, on the other hand, just cared about the dollars. I wasn't trying to win a beauty contest, I was just trying not to have to go back to mines and work for a living again. Over 12 years, the Kid and I robbed 15 stagecoaches, and 4 banks. The banks were the harder of the two, and twice I rode away with a bullet in me from a over eager bank guard. The Kid, as one would expect, rode away unscathed.

 Living what people would later call a 'double' life can get confusing after a while. Getting names straight when you have to change them as often (or more often) as you change your underwear, can be very confusing. Add a fair amount of whiskey to the equation, and a fair maiden or two that just needed one more fancy lie to fall into bed with you, and you have a prescription for disaster. The Kid didn't partake of much of the former, and his good looks and charm made the telling of the latter less necessary, However, those among us (i.e. me)  who possessed less beauty and loved more than his fair share of john barleycorn, had to tell a few tall tales to those fair maidens to convince them that we were the heroes of the day that they had been waiting all their lives to meet. 

As one would expect, eventually one of those fair maidens would take more than a little offense to my convincing lies, and would find her way to the gendarmes to explain that at least of the fellows who had recently robbed the stagecoach to ____ was, at present, snoring the remains of the morning away in her bed as they spoke. It was only because the Kid had remained less than black out drunk the night before, that he was able to rouse me out of my death slumber, and get us the hell out of that particular town. The Kid was a happy go lucky type, but he was not amused. "Your love of the bottle will be the death of us one day ___," he would say with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "mark my words." 

I did mark his words, but whiskey has a call that's easy to hear and hard to resist, and fair maidens well they have a certain allure that I didn't even bother to attempt to resist. After all, life is short and you might as well dance while the music is playing, because eventually you'll die dancing on the end of a rope. Which was why the Kid decided that maybe the outlaw life wasn't for him anymore. I suppose besides those pretty looks, the Kid was also the brains of the outfit. Looks and brains, why did I hang out with such a loser? I suppose it was inevitable that the Kid and I would eventually go our separate ways, which one day in ____ we did. He shook my hand and said "____ we have had a good run, but there is just no future in this for us, you're either going to drink yourself to death, or your drinking will be the death of us, and I am just not quite ready to feel the Devil bite me on the ass as they pull the lever on me because your drunk ass couldn't keep his story straight."  I nodded "fair enough Kid, I don't really understand why you've stuck around this long, but no harm done, and I hold no grudge against you and wish you well." With that, I went west and he went east, I found out eventually he went very, very far east.

I kept the big iron on my hip, and went about the business of trying not to starve to death. Honest work had long since lost its allure to me, and I decided that without the Kid at least my percentage of the take would double. The main problem is robbing stages and banks is a lot harder by your lonesome. I had some near escapes, and wound up with a lot less of a "take" than I had hoped. Several weeks would pass when I did have to bite the bullet (so to speak) and perform what people would call "honest work" just to keep body and soul together. I didn't like it, but I figured that dying of hunger was a lot less fun.  

I would get news of the Kid from time to time, seemed going east had agreed with him, and he had become some nob banker type. The irony of that was not lost on me, and I figured the Kid was just playing the long game before he robbed the bank from the inside for a change. The allure of ____ like the allure of hard work, lost its luster, and I decided that maybe east would be as nice to me as it was to the Kid. Which is why I was there the day they hung the Kid.

I was surprised that the Kid hadn't ended up in some big Eastern town, but I guess he wasn't as sociable as one would think, maybe all those years of hanging out with me had rubbed off on him. The dusty little town of ____ would not have been out of place a thousand miles west, but it was this town that decided that day that the Kid needed to be hung. I am not much of one for parties, and parties that require me to play dress up are even lower on my list of things I want to do, but I figured I owed it to the Kid to be there when he was hung. But here I was, wearing what passed for my Sunday go to meeting clothes, waiting for the guest of honour to make his appearance. 

Eventually he did, he swanned into the room flanked by two fellows who were clearly strapped, all smiles and with the same woman melting grin on his face that I had seen a thousand times. He didn't seem to have changed much, except his Sunday go to meeting clothes were a lot nicer than might. Seems getting hung required everyone to play dress up. The actually act of being hung took a lot more time than you would think. A few people had to give speeches about the Kid and what he had done and whatnot, and then someone would remember a story about him, and would just start talking. It went on, and on and on. I was begging to wonder if I had came to see the Kid hung or to some sort of rally in support of the Kid becoming governor. 

I stayed as far back in the crowd as possible. I ain't much for mingling with strangers, and I didn't think this lot wanted to hear MY stories about the Kid. Seems most of their stories made the Kid out to be some gentleman who loved his mother, Jesus, and walked on water. I knew that the Kid's mother was a whore in a parlour house on Utah Street in El Paso, and that he didn't much care for Jesus, and that he couldn't swim. I also knew that my stories making the Kid the human bastard that I knew him to be wouldn't exactly win the crowd over to my side. I decided, for once, that keeping my gob shut was the best plan, at least until the Kid saw and recognized me. 

He was in mid-conversation with some overstuffed fellow in a suit, and his eyes raked over me, and expressed only a moment of surprise before he looked away, if you hadn't been paying attention, you wouldn't have thought anything of it. Lucky for me, I happened to be paying attention. Robbing places on your own makes you pay a lot more attention than if you have a partner. I didn't make any move to talk to the Kid, I figured as he was the star of this show, he would find his way to me in his own time. O

For once, I was right. A few minutes later the Kid sidled up to me and said loud enough for some people to hear "Henry Mckinney!!! As I live and breathe. Last I heard of you, you were in the frontier prison of ____ for conning little old ladies out of their egg money. When did they let you out?" My face reddened as I gave him the best "fuck your mother" glare I could manage under the circumstances and "Replied, You sir are confusing me for my brother Dick, the shame of the family he is, and we try not to talk about him in polite society." Nonplussed the Kid walked closer and grabbed my elbow and steered me to a quiet corner. "You sir are correct, I apologize and beg a moment of your time." 

The Kid was not longer a Kid some grey had reached his hair that I could see now that he was up close and personal with me. "You miserable Son of a Bitch what are you doing here? I really did figure you to be dead or in prison by now. How have you managed to maintain both life and freedom at the same time?" I shrugged "well Kid, I guess they" I pointed to the crowd "don't know you by that name do they?' He smiled "No they do not, and I would ask you not to tell them. It might shock their tender sense of decorum to know about the things we did together." I laughed "Oh don't worry Kid, your secrets are safe as houses with me, not like this lot would believe me anyway. Besides I just came to see you hung."

Before he could reply, some fat fellow in a suit two sizes too small for him called for everyone's attention. I figured that we should at least pay some attention to the fellow as he seemed to be making the announcement that I had came for. It was the big moment for the Kid, and here he was caught off guard and out of place (in the back talking to me) seems the east had dulled his sense of timing, and I was secretly thankfully that I wasn't robbing the place with him, he would surely get us killed with timing as bad as that. 

The speech came to it's big finish and cries of "George Rawlins, George Rawlins" rang out from the crowd. I quickly figured out that "George Rawlins" was name that these people knew the Kid under (it wasn't close to his real name, but I wasn't Henry Mckinney either).  With a flourish, the fat fellow pulled a rope, and a silk covering fell to the floor. "It is my pleasure to unveil this portrait of George Rawlins, the youngest director of the Bank of _____, and all around good egg. I looked over the heads of the crowd, and there on the wall hung a fairly well done picture of the Kid, all dressed up and smiling like the cat let loose among the pigeons. 

I suppressed a large laugh, and looked at the Kid "It's a perfect likeness, really catches the je ne sais quoi of you. Don't you think? He hissed back between firmly clenched teeth "we will talk later you SOB!" Then he plastered that pigeon eating smile on his face, and made his way to give the speech these people had come to hear. Not me though, I shook my head one last time, and gave the Irish goodbye to the Kid. Maybe one day we will talk again, but for today's purposes I had heard this town was famous for a certain brand of whiskey, and I was anxious to find a bottle of it to climb into. And that is the story of the day they hung the Kid. 

P.S. for those poor savages that don't know. Things are hung, People are hanged.

Powers' Gate

 Fresh off the victory of Brock's Pass the collection of reprobates that deemed to call themselves Claudell's Marines staggered away drunk both literally on a lot of pints, and figuratively on its own sense of power. I say we called ourselves Claudell's Marines because, well we did, none of us had managed to figure out a new name to attach to our mast, and therefore we wandered around as Claudell's Marines. We were just missing Claudell, and as mentioned before none of us were in any shape, form, or fashion marine material. Hell, I couldn't even swim. We had won the battle of Brock's Pass, and we thought that maybe this fighting thing wasn't so tough after all, and therefore, full of piss and vinegar we stumbled onto Power's Gate.

By this time, Wilson had managed to find a new 'leader' to be the semi-loyal second in command to. His name was Apple, like the fruit. He was far, far from a fruit. He was a hard man, tough as a two dollar steak, and as dumb as a box of hair. Perhaps, that was what endeared him to Wilson. Hard but stupid is a lot easier to control than a thinking man who doesn't really want to die, but realizes that he has to fight for a living. I wasn't involved in the command decisions of the group who by now had decided that Lobar's Wolves had a intimidating ring to it. Therefore we were newly christened Lobar's Wolves. No one had to know that Lobar was the cook of the outfit, who it seems had one goal, which was to poison us with his terrible cooking. Perhaps, we could wreck terrible revenge forcing Lobar's 'stews' upon the unsuspecting populace of the world. If the stew didn't kill us first. 

Victory, no matter how easily achieved, has an affect on people. Win one, and you start to think maybe you are a lot tougher than you really are. I mean after all, Brock's Pass was a walk in the park wasn't it? Maybe Hester's Reach was just a mistake, an anomaly that wasn't a true expression of our fighting abilities. Yes, that had to be it, Hester's Reach was just a foolish mistake made by that damn fool Claudell and now that he was rotting, unmourned, in his grave, we could move on to victory after victory, and become the men our mothers wanted us to be. Of course the problem with becoming the men our mothers wanted us to be just meant we were becoming our fathers, a terrible idea for a lot of us. 

 Avoiding falling into the trap of "becoming my father" was the main reason that I took the King's Highway away from the small, small town that threatened to "swallow me".  But, as I have said, victory does crazy things to people, and despite our most fervent sputtering to the contrary. We marched the direction they told us to march, because that's what dogs do, they follow the path the master has pointed out. Apple was a bastard, but he marched right with us, no fancy high horse for him. Apple ordered you to march with him, not for him. That makes a very, very large different once things that can kill you start getting thrown around. 

Swaggering away from Brock's Pass, our newly christened band of idiots now known as Lobar's Wolves, decided to go north. I mean on maps north is up, and we all want to get "up" in the world right? We packed our death dealing baggage and hit the road. Thankfully for us, the powers that be had built a fairly easy road north. Striding north, on good paved roads, led us to getting what was, for us, considered "happy" not the smiling, giggly type of happy that most people experience, but a brief lifting of the gloom which is what passed for happy for us.  When things seem to be too good to be true, they probably are, it was on that gentle walk north to nowhere, that Lobar's Wolves ran into Powers' Gate. 

The flatness of the road was a lie, a trick played by the god(s) of geography into making us think we had a easy run in front of us. As usual, we were wrong, it wasn't Apple's fault per se, but a few of my fellow 'wolves' weren't best pleased with him. Flat land does funny things to time, climbing up, or falling down a hill or mountain has a way of making time flow a bit differently. It slows at some points, and speeds up at some points, but when walking on flat grass and seeing nothing much more than flat grass all around, time drags. Eventually, the fattest among us started to complain. It seems that the fatties of the group could tell when they were walking uphill. 

As we topped the rise that the fatties had told us we were climbing we stopped for a second. Most people, if they are actually human, stop for second at the sight of Powers' Gate. The South River tore a great, gaping hole in the landscape in front of us. It made zero sense that the South river would be north of where we had been, but who are we Mercator? The South River had at least one unique quality about it. For reasons none of us could figure out, drinking from the South River made about 1/3 of us puke our guts out. We had a doctor with us, and one would think he would have sorted out what made the water make some of sick, but when he was sober (which was one day in three) he would say it's in Gods hands. 

A religious doctor was as useful as tits on a boar hog, but he was all we had. And when it is the only opinion you are given, well then it has to be true. The power that the South River threw against Powers' Gate was amazing to behold. The cannoning of hateful water against the iron gates of disdain was enough to make a man deaf as a post. The news that we were dreading, but assured of, happened within minutes. Our task was to force/take those gates to slam into those gates like the South River, but with the added benefit of capturing the gates for the Empire. 

Powers' Gate didn't fuck around, it was very tall, very solid, and very much storm proof. The son of a bitch that had designed Powers' Gate was a real bastard of engineering. I don't think the Empire was ready to pay the bill that it would cost them to have us force Powers' Gate. But, funny thing about Empires they pay those costs all the time, need a garrison of men to die for the cause in some desert wasteland? The Empire can provide, need a band of heroes to die in the flat grasslands of the East? Ask and the Empire shall provide. Want to launch a winter crusade? The Empire will provide a multitude of men wearing crosses on their armor prepared to die for whatever God you are crusading for, and a few for the God you are crusading against just to make it interesting. 

However, Empires be damned, we weren't Empire men. We were Lobar's Wolves, and Lobar's Wolves didn't want to get sent home in tiny, wooden boxes to the few loved ones they had left behind. But we had been paid, and Lobar liked to say that "once I've been paid, I always see the job through." It would have made a nice epitaph for his tombstone, problem was we never found enough of Lobar to bury, so he received no tombstone. The main problem was we weren't experts at this fighting business one crushing defeat, and one walk over victory do not make hardened mercenaries out of farm boys, shop clerks, and degenerate gamblers. Powers' Gate was very much a bridge too far for Lobar's Wolves, and it was at Powers' Gate that Lobar's Wolves ceased to exist.

I somehow managed to stagger away from the disaster of Powers' Gate, one of the few of us that did. I don't remember much about it. I take that back, I remember way too much about it, but every time I think of it, I go and get mind numbingly drunk to make myself unremember it. It is not a pleasant memory, nothing about the massacre that happened at Powers' Gate bears remembering or repeating. Apple died, Lobar died, and most of Lobar's Wolves died. I almost died, there were and have been many, many times that I wish I had died there, and Wilson almost died, which is saying something, because Wilson is not the dying kind. 

Powers' Gate was the kind of life altering experience that most men don't walk away from intact. I damn near didn't. Powers' Gate made me consider the priesthood, and I don't believe in any of the Gods. That's how bad it was.  I counted the steps away from Powers' Gate in inches, not miles. Every inch away was a minor miracle. It was nasty, brutal, but not short. Time has a way of elongating when you think you are about to die, and I felt that the 'battle' of Powers' Gate lasted as long as the Trojan War. 

I did manage to make it away from Powers' Gate alive, I had no dignity, I had no pride as a fighting man left, I was a husk. Someone who the battle had ripped open, and sucked out all but the very last dregs of life. It was a massacre, it was a disaster, and to this day we do not speak of it. All of all the bruises left on our collective souls, Powers' Gate is the biggest by far. It has never healed, and I doubt it ever will. It was nearly the end of me (us), and the less said about it the better. It was many years before I even considered re-entering the lists again. Many, many times after Powers' Gate, I considered joining my fallen comrades in the most simple of ways. It took a lot of will power that I didn't know I had to not just end it all, but I figured I owed the fallen something. I owed them the chance at redemption. It just was going to take a while to achieve anything close to it.

 

She loves

 She sits down next to me, and tells me she's fallen in love with me. "I love you" she says as she stops her thoughts and turns her head. "I guess I am not suppose to care but I do, I love you."  It is said in an almost apologetic voice, as if falling in love with me is something to be sorry for. If only she knew the truth of the matter. However, who am I to tell her? She's not a classic beauty she's not the tall, willowy type that has a walk that makes traffic stop, and grown men feel underage. Yet, she is still miles out of my league, and has no business being in love with me. She just sat down and said "I'm in love with you." Not something one expects whilst drinking himself into yet another stupor on a random Tuesday, but nevertheless, here we are. I glance over at her to see if maybe, just maybe, she's taking the piss out of me, but no she is looking as earnest as can be, and seemingly quite serious about her declaration of love. 

She  glances back at me and says "don't laugh, it isn't fucking funny. Do you think I had any intention of falling in love with you. YOU of all people. You're a self confessed bastard, and that is putting it mildly as to what you really are." She lets out a small laugh that could have been confused for a madman's giggle. "It makes exactly zero sense to be in love with you, after all you seem to only capable of loving yourself and no one else. The shitty part about that is, that you told me that, and I wasn't clever enough to believe you. Why, I don't know. What it is about you that made this happen? You bastard, do you have any idea how alive you make me feel?" I looked at her with something approaching panic, and said the only thing I could think of which wasn't clever. "I've no idea what that means, am I supposed to?"

She calls for a drink, which I think she desperately needs, and looks at me with those muddy brown eyes, and repeats "I am in love with you, you stupid son of a bitch. Do you have any idea what this means?' I shudder a bit as the reality begins to sink in. "Well, I guess it means we need to think things through a bit more than we have so far." She chuckles a bit at that, and replies "think things through? What the actual fuck do you think I've been doing for the last month, you ignorant bastard? I've spent hours telling myself that there is no possible way that I love you, that you're the most self-centered bastard I know that you always take the hard way to get what you want. That I love you in spite of yourself." 

I take a very thoughtful swallow of my beer, "you will get over it, I promise." Her eyes flash at that and she very, very calmly says "fuck you, you dumb son of a bitch. This isn't something to 'get over' like the flu, I am IN LOVE with you. Do you have any fucking idea what that means?" I look over at her again, her eyes are virtually shining with feeling, "no I don't think that I do, and I think I might be afraid to ask." She glares at me again, and says "well let me clue you in Shakespeare, it means I am in love with you, you with all the faults you tell the world you have, and all the faults that you refuse to admit that you have. All that shit you spew out to the world to convince them you're a terrible person, I don't buy, I see past it. I see the large "R" romantic in you that refuses to die, no matter how hard you try to kill him. I see the not only the man you are. Which, godsdamn me for saying so, is pretty amazing, but the man you can so easily become if you just get out of your own way just a little bit."

I shake my head, "sweetheart you are much too smart for this, this is a decision that someone like you just doesn't make." She puts up a forestalling hand, "no dumbass stop talking. You just don't understand it, and I am not sure you ever will. To be honest, I am not sure I can put it into words, or at least words you could understand. And you know what, fuck that why do I need to? Why do I need to break this feeling down for you? Why can't you just accept the fact that, for reasons passing understanding, I am in love with you. It defies logic, it makes exactly zero sense, it is perhaps the worst decision I've ever made, but here I am madly, passionately in love with you. All you have to do is just accept it." 

I take another long swig of beer, and smile at her. "You're as mad as a March hare. There is no way anyone like you can possibly be in love with someone like me. It makes as much sense as chickens learning the polka. I am not quite the bastard I make myself out to be, but I am still not worth all this emotion." She snorted at that, "don't you think I know that you, you idiot. Of all the men I know you are the least likely..." What I was least likely to do, I never found out, because at that moment, the front door of Sully's swung open and in walked the dynamic duo of Mutt and Jeff. "Boss wants to see you dickhead, come along nice and quiet like for a change." said Mutt or was it Jeff? Who the fuck knows, and at that moment I gave exactly zero shits. I nodded at her. "Well, sweetheart, it would appear that my dance card has been filled by another. Fear not, I shall return, or at least one hopes I will. With these ladies" I pointed at Mutt and Jeff, "one is never exactly sure."

She glared (she is a great one for glaring) at me, then at Mutt, then at Jeff. I winced because I had been on the wrong end of that glare before, Mutt and Jeff, well they aren't smart enough to understand the meaning of that glare, then again it probably didn't bode as ill for them as it did for me. I stood up, and pushed enough money across the bar to cover my tab as well as hers. "I am sorry for the interruption, but these gentlemen, using the term very broadly, don't like to be kept waiting. Do you boys?" Mutt, or was it Jeff grunted, and replied "just get your ass in the car GI, we have other things to do besides retrieve you." I finished my beer, I am sure you do lads, I am sure you do, helping little old ladies across the street, saving children from burning buildings, and such other heroics surely take precedent over ferrying me back to your boss. Lead on MacDuff, off we go to pay the piper that is Felix." 

With that I walked, cheerfully for once, out of Sully's with Mutt and Jeff to find out what fresh hell Felix had cooked up for me. I suspected that when I walked in and all but kissed him on the mouth for rescuing me from the spot of bother I was in,  it would greatly confuse him. Which for once, gave me the upper hand with the bastard. However, I knew that at some point, he would let me go, and she would find me again. After all, all the Pipers must be paid. 

Visiting Day

My "cage" as Felix called it was pretty much that, a cage. Bars, poorly lit, and a bucket for a toilet. It wasn't my first time, nor did I expect it to be my last time, of having a sleep over in my cage, but it certainly perplexed me as to why Felix had caged me this time. I had given him a gift, and this is how he repays me? The ungrateful bastard should be buying me drinks, or at least giving me the coin to buy my own drinks. Not putting me in a cell to ponder my sins. I can ponder those just as well drunk as I can sober, in fact drunk me has a lot more to say about my sins than sober me cares to remember. There wasn't a lot to do in my cage, not a shelf of books to peruse while I waited for Felix to eventually let me loose again. I had no doubt that he would eventually let me loose, he always has before. I am more use of him out in the world bumping into shit, than I am in a cage. But, caging me on a whim lets me focus on who is the big dog in this particular kennel.

There wasn't even a tin cup or a harmonica in my cage to at least allow me to be the stereotypical prisoner with nothing but time to kill. When you are in a cage, time becomes a lot harder to kill. Felix thinks it makes you calm, Felix is a bastard who has killed a lot of time in prison himself. Maybe that makes him an expert, and my amateur opinion about the calming influence of being in stir is wrong. I have no desire to spend enough time in prison to find out that it has calming properties. Of course, the length of my stay was not exactly up to me, I couldn't call the front desk and tell them I wanted early check out. Sadly prison rarely cancels reservations. 

I was laying on the slab of wood that passes for a bed trying to kill time by not freezing to death (Felix somehow manages to lock me away only during the winter). The one blanket was doing a piss poor job of keeping the cold at bay, but Felix was a one blanket each is all you need, kind of guy. Other than plot my revenge on Felix (which I swear one day, I will have) there wasn't a lot for me to do while waiting for him to release me back into the wild. Therefore, I was quite surprised when a familiar voice came out of the gloom (other than cold, Felix also likes to keep my cage mostly dark, I know what a dime novel artifice, but I guess Felix likes dime novels, or maybe he's too cheap to pay the electric bill). 

"Well this isn't quite as palatial as your shit hole of an apartment, but other than a lack of books, it's not too far off." I sighed "fuck me, are things so desperate that Felix let you in here to remind me of my mortality?" My visitor laughed and walked closer to the bars and into the little light I was allowed to have.  "Hullo Nicklas, how are things? I queried my former drinking companion, but now to all appearances a respectable family man. Nicklas smiled slightly, "well things are a lot better for me than they appear to be for you, at least from where I am standing." I laughed "oh don't let the gloom and the cold fool you, I am quite comfy, pondering the nature of the universe, solving all of life's problems, and reinventing the wheel to pass the time." 

"Well, after my little chat with your playmate Felix, I suspect you might have more time to achieve all those goals and more." Nicklas tutted, he was a great one for tutting. "He seems to be quite put out about something you've done latterly than inconvenienced him, he doesn't seem the type to enjoy being inconvenienced." I laughed again, "oh that is just Felix being dramatic. I did him a favour, but I guess I made the mistake of making him do a little actual work for it, and he is pouting, and when Felix pouts I get to spend time here in my cage. He will get over it soon enough and let me go." Nicklas shook his head. "I don't think you understand how mad this fellow is at you. He seems the type to be able to suppress the outward appearances of rage, but it was radiating off of him when he had me in for a chat about you and your sins." 

"Why do you have to be your own worst enemy? Aren't there enough ladies out there who wish you dead, or fellows that you owe money to that would like to snap your legs like twigs?" Nicklas sighed "you really should let them take control of trying to ruin your life, if only for the sake of variety. There are a myriad of diseases out there both social and other types that could just kill you without you helping them along." It was my turn to sigh "did Felix send you in here to lecture me about the perils of living my life, or are you here to get me the fuck out of here?" He shook his head "you know as well as I do that I can't get you out of here, even if I wanted to. Which I am not sure that I do. After all, an invitation to chat with Felix about you isn't delivered with subtly." I peered into the gloom, and noticed the darkness under Nicklas' left eye. I barked a laugh, "you too huh?" He nodded "yeah me too, and unlike you when the goon squad arrived to give me my invite, I had actual people who love me there to see me invited to talk." 

I winced "yes, I suspect one of those people will be quite angry at me for that." He smiled what I considered to be a small smile of triumph "oh yes, she will want to have a little chat with you. If I were you, and I daily thank fuck that I am not, I would ask Felix to keep me in here a little while past the usual time just for your own safety." I nodded "well sadly for me, I don't think I get much say so as to when I am getting out of here, I usually don't and I doubt Felix's heart, if the bastard has one, has grown softer over the years." He grunted agreement "I am pretty sure you are correct, in fact I am for certain you are. That seems to be one reason I got the pleasure, using the term very broadly of seeing you. Felix didn't want you dying of boredom, so he gave me this to give to you. Some light reading, his words not mine, to occupy your time, and to help you understand your situation."  As he said this, he handed me over a slim book, that I took from him. "Well whatever it is, it will help pass the time."

"I think you should look at the title before you get too excited." I looked down at the book, "The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan? What the blue fuck is this? Does Felix think that I am going to find religion or something? If so he is sadly mistaken, and I suspect that 200 pages of dribble about some Pilgrim isn't going to change my mind." Nicklas shook his head "I don't think Felix expects you to find Jesus or any other god in here, I think he's making a point." I laughed "and what point is my old friend Felix making with this nonsense?" Nicklas looked genuinely sad as he said "Bunyan wrote that while he was in prison, or so your boy Felix told me. Not like I have read it either." I raised an eyebrow "prison literature" what is he playing at?" That's when Nicklas sadly told me what Felix's point was. "According to Felix, it took Bunyan twelve years to write it, twelve years that he spent in prison."

Caged

 The knock at my door came at an awkward hour, it wasn't the 2 a.m. forceful knock of Felix's goons announcing to my neighbors that I was fucked again, the type of knock that would have me hiding shit in unusual places, or flushing torn up papers down the toilet. No it was an almost polite knock, and it was at a semi-respectable hour. Thus, I was quite surprised by the punch to the nose that greeted me as I opened my door. It wasn't a haymaker, not designed to render me unconscious just the type to draw a little blood and stagger me back a couple of steps. Holding my now bleeding nose, I glanced through splayed fingers to see Felix's 'collection party' stepping inside my apartment. I titled my head back to slow the flow of blood, and said "hello boys, what's the rumpus? Why not just say hello like normal people?" Mutt or was it Jeff it was hard to tell with my eyes still watering, replied "he wants to see you, and told us we could have a little fun just not to break anything." I grunted a muffled "well that's a small blessing I suppose" just as Mutt or was it Jeff decided to have more fun by punching me in the stomach. I guess having me doubled over gasping for air made it easier for them to frog march me out of my apartment, and to the car they had waiting outside. 

It wasn't the first time that Felix's goons had performed their retrieval of me from my humble abode to go meet the 'boss' as they called him. I had, in fact, moved several times since my last retrieval, but Felix always seemed to know how to find me, the bastard. As they shoved me into the car, Mutt or was it Jeff decided to give me a settle down punch in the kidney. I felt it was uncalled for since I was quite settled down. "That was unnecessary, I'm not making a ruckus, no need to have me pissing blood tomorrow." Mutt or was it Jeff just grunted some non-committal reply. They were not the loquacious types at the best of times, and this didn't seem to be the best of times, at least for me. 

After a few minutes to sort out that I wasn't going to need a new kidney, I said "as much as I love our little meetings boys, Felix could just call and ask me to pop around for a chat without all of this dime novel drama. Another grunt from one of them, and then the other said "but that wouldn't be as much fun for us, and the boss does like us to have our fun, now shut your gob, and sit there and ponder your sins quietly." For either Mutt or Jeff, this was damn near a soliloquy that would make Hamlet proud. They were not the talkative types. Preferring to punch first, and talk never.

For once, I decided to take Mutt or Jeff's advice. I begin to ponder what it was I could have done to warrant Felix's attention. Truth be told, and at least once a day I try to tell myself the truth just for variety, I knew exactly what my "sin" was. It wasn't a surprise that Felix had extended this invitation to chat to me, it was just I would have preferred to not come to the party with blood still dripping out of my nose, and concerned I might have a broken rib, but Felix does what Felix does, and the rest of us just dance to the tune he calls. Have I mentioned he is a bastard?

The usual pleasant drive later, Mutt or Jeff hauled me out of the backseat and shoved me to the front door of the building that contained Felix's public office. Felix had other offices, ones that were not so public, those were the ones you normally where dragged into kicking and screaming. Those offices were not places you wanted to put on your to visit 'bucket' list. Since it was the public office I was entering I at least figured the punching part of the program had come to an end. After all, Felix wouldn't want an honored guest such as myself collapsing on the front steps from blood loss, that might give the impression he wasn't the refined gentleman of sophistication and taste he liked to pretend to be.

The usual march down the usual hallway leading to the usual office later, I was seated across the massive desk that Felix sat behind with a slight smirk on his face. "Hello GI, I trust the boys treated you as well as you deserved in delivering my invite to this little chat." I winced a bit just for show "you know Felix you could try to house break those goons. You know teach them a least not to punch at first sight." Felix smiled, if you could call it a smile and replied "well yes GI, but then I think that it would dampen the effect of my message that they are delivering." I shifted in my seat and winced as my rib complained, "oh by now Felix I think I have the general gist of your messages, but I guess punching me for fun and profit does give them something to do to break up the boredom of working for you."

He raised an eyebrow, "why GI working for me, as you know is as rewarding a job as exists in the entire country. I offer good wages, rewarding work, and the chance at advancement." I laughed "advancement? as long as you knife or inform on the guy in the line ahead of you for 'promotion'. Some advancement." Felix leaned back and said, "details GI, details. All that aside, I think you know why I asked you ever so politely to come in and chat with me? You are, if nothing else, a clever lad, and I would hazard a guess you knew this was coming. Probably why my associates didn't have to try very hard to find you." I laughed again even though it made my rib scream in pain, "associates? is that what you call them? I think the word you are looking for is minion, or maybe muscle. You have a lot of things Felix, but I don't think you have ever had anyone you'd call an associate. But yes I know why you brought me here, and violence aside, I guess it was necessary we chat."

Felix nodded, tented his fingers, and said "your turn then wise guy, tell me why are you here this time?" I sighed, "I am here, Felix because I invited you to Sully's with the promise you'd learn something exciting, and I had you listen to a lovely chat between me and my bitch of an ex about boxes. All of which I doubt you really understood, though I am sure your vanity was assuaged when she mentioned your name as the solution to her problem, and I am sure you were even happier to hear her talk about you shooting people. Your reputation precedes you Felix. Does it feel good to be a living version of the bogeyman?" He nodded behind his tented fingers and replied "actually yes it does, it does warm the cockles of my heart to hear that people think I have that kind of power." I barked a laugh and felt like I had broken another rib, "heart? Felix my man when or where in the actual fuck did you obtain a heart? No, no don't answer let me have my moment of joviality."

Felix paused to let me enjoy my own joke, I'll give him a small amount of credit for having a sense of timing if not one of humour, but it was a brief pause. "You're here GI to explain to me why the flying fuck I should care about the fact that you released your bitch of an ex's dirty, little secrets out in the world. Surely you have to know neither me or her believed you little 'theft' story? I nodded "of course she didn't believe it or at least not completely, but she can't be sure, and that is the point. Besides Felix, come off the cross, you've used her against me several times before you figured out it wouldn't work any more. Don't play the aggrieved party here."

"Fine GI, yes I used her as a pressure point when I needed to, but I don't think that point exists anymore, so she is of little to no use to me." I smiled slightly "oh Felix, we have much to discuss. The point of you being there to hear that little passion play is my own reason, but luckily for me, I managed to grab this before I opened the door to your welcoming committee." I pushed an envelope across Felix's massive desk, "it's the same packet I gave her, but I feel that a man of your intelligent might find a fair amount of things to interest him in there." Felix took the packet, glanced at me, opened it up and read a few lines before looking up at me. A small smirk touched the sides of his mouth and he said "you know GI she was exactly spot on when she said that you are a true son of a bitch."

I nodded, "coming from you Felix I'll take that as a compliment." I stood up to leave, "I figure that little package will give you at least two or three people you've like to 'invite' to a little chat with you at some point." Felix nodded, "I would suspect you are right about that GI, but in the mean time..." I quirked an eyebrow "in the mean time what?" Felix just smiled, pressed some button on his fancy desk, and in came Mutt and Jeff. "In the mean time GI, I think we need to put you back in your cage."

Too late, as usual I realized what Felix was on about, but by then Mutt and Jeff each had an arm of mine and were frog marching me out of Felix's office, down the familiar hallway, past the familiar foyer, down the other, darker hallway that led to the 'cage' Felix referenced. Thus the best laid plans fall to shit when you involve Felix. To his credit, Felix was not lying about "my cage" it was the exact same cell I had occupied upon several occasions. It gave me an odd amount of comfort to realize that Felix had saved a particular cell just for me............................

Boxing Day

 She slid into the seat in my booth across from me, a look of obvious distaste on her face. "I've never liked this shit hole you call your local, and I never will." She had said that plenty of times before, but she came back at least to visit, but not to stay. I gave her my winningest smile, "well, if all goes according to my brilliant plan, this might be the last time you darken Sully's doorstep, so it's a win/win for everyone." She glared at me (she was a good one for glares) "and what does that mean, you drunken reprobate?" "It means" I said with another smile, this one less winning, "that after our little chat here today. I expect I shall not have to request your presence again." She laughed, "that suits me right down to the ground, I have moved on with my life, and am tired of these  'matter of life or death' summons from you every time you get drunk and remember things you should have said to me while you were sober." She foisted another glare on me at the end of that sentence just to make sure her point had gotten across. It had, but not in the way she intended. I wouldn't need  to tell her much of anything after this conversation was over, and that also suited me. Some lessons have to be rinsed and repeated on "the hard way" to finally get through to me. It's a personal failing of mine, one of many.

"I took the liberty of ordering you the one drink you can have without getting tipsy" I said. I figure it would do you some good, and you'll forgive me for wanting to have one for old time's sake." She nodded at the drink, and at the blond girl that sat in down in front of her. "As long as it's one drink, and nothing else, fine." I nodded my thanks at the barmaid, and smiled again. "It's just one drink, but there is a small something else." She shot another glare at me, "I knew something was up when you said it was important and couldn't wait, but I had hoped it was just you being dramatic, again". I shook my head "no, my dear, you beat the drama out of me, we are here on a type of business proposition. You see, a little while ago I had an awkward conversation with a fellow that we both know. One I used to call a friend. I say used to because I am not sure that he is a friend after our difficult chat."

She snorted, "Why do I care if someone finally figured out that you are a son of a bitch, that only thinks of himself first, and everyone else after, if at all?" I sighed, "we both know that isn't exactly true it is just the way I like to present myself to the world, and to the wide world it might be true. But to the select few (and I mean few) I call my friends, it quite simply isn't true. You know that, they know that, and I know that. It's an affection, I try to be unapproachable to the weirdos that I run into on a day to day basis. Now thanks to you, the number of actual friends I possess seems to have dropped by one. To most people losing one friend is sad, but not really a big deal. I've heard that most people have a lot of friends, some claim to even have hundreds of them. Well, that's just dandy, but I am not one of those people. The number of friends I can truly lay that label on wouldn't fill up a jury box, which is a bit of irony that isn't lost upon me."

She laughed "and that is exactly one person's fault, yours, and yours alone you know this, have known this for years. So why are you bothering me with this sad sack story today?" I lost my smile. "The reason I am bothering you, as you put it, you self centered bitch, Is that you and your lies cost me a friend. Something I don't have an overabundance of, and I feel you should be able to relate, since you don't have nearly as many friends as you like to think you do, and we are going to fix that problem here today as well." She narrowed her eyes, "what do you mean?" 

I replied "let me tell you a quick little story, I know you hate my stories but this one is short, and at the moment, I give exactly zero fucks about what you hate." She raised her eyebrows, she wasn't exactly used to the peasants (me) talking to her like this, and didn't really know what to think. I never really lost my temper with her, and so this display of temper, while not exactly authentic, confused her. "This story is simple, it is about someone named Steve. Steve wasn't exactly a friend, but we knew each other and would raise a glass from time to time, and Steve liked to talk. I can't say that I liked to listen but sometimes you have nowhere else to be, and will let a fellow ramble on about his life, maybe he will say something useful. It's rare, but it does happen. Steve wasn't an honest fellow, he didn't punch a clock, or draw a salary, he was a burglar. He broke into people's houses, took what he could move by himself, and sold it for whatever he could get. He wasn't was going to retire to the south of France on the fruits of his "labours" but he got by alright."

She sighed, I raised a forestalling hand. "I know, I know. Anyway I asked Steve how he managed to make a living doing what he did, and he replied that "everybody has a box." I queried "a box? like a safe?" He nodded back "yeah yeah like a safe, but not really a safe, most people can't afford a safe, so they just get a box. You find the box, you find all the goodies you need to make a living." I nodded, "and you are good at finding these boxes?" He nodded back "yeah, it ain't that hard most nobs keep them in one of about three places. I ain't going to tell you where, but it's usually pretty easy." I said "whatever you say Steve, you're the expert." He smiled, and repeated "yeah expert, that's what I am."

"Well one day Steve the expert burglar picked the wrong house, and Steve got himself unalived, the homeowner came back early and in addition to his 'box' owned a pistol which he used to send Steve to the great beyond. Thus ends Steve's sad tale." She glared again "is there a point to this nonsense, I don't care that some cheap thug buddy of yours got himself killed stealing what wasn't his in the first place, and I am very certain you didn't cry at the funeral, if you even bothered to attend."

"Patience, my sweet, the point of Steve's sad demise is I thought about the box idea, and decided it sounded a good one. Therefore, I made myself up a box. I don't have anything physical that has any real value, I am not one to collect trinkets or heirlooms. I collect books, books not too many people want to read, but that's their problem. No, my box wasn't jewels, or deeds to a country house. My 'box' contained documents, documents that consists of other people's secrets. She grimaced as if she knew where this was headed, she was a bitch, but she wasn't a stupid one. I continued "and of course as you are aware I like to preserve things like conversations, photos, and the like. We had a lot of those, chats that is, talks about our plans with each other back when we were "in love" and shit. There also exists a lot of photos, as you are aware. All of these things, and others were safely tucked away in my box as of yesterday."

She arched an eyebrow (we could have a discussion about her eyebrows, but that would be rude) "what do you mean "were." I smiled back "well you see after the loss of population in the village of my friends, I got to thinking, and I decided that my box, or at least your compartment of it really didn't need to be quite as protected as the rest. And in an awkward turn of events it seems I was burgled, and wouldn't you know it, the thieving bastards stole my box, or at least the part with your name on it." Unlike our dear, departed Steve's victims, I keep several boxes, I feel it's safer that way. Good thing too, since all the other boxes remain safely hidden, but yours, well yours is gone." 

"GONE! what the blue fuck do you mean GONE!" she hissed a little too loudly. "You know gone as in poof! I am sure it is in good hands, and nothing bad will happen, but I thought I should let you know, just in case something tragic happens." She gave me a death stare "tragic? like what?" I shrugged "well everyone has their own definition of tragedy, but in this case I guess something like your mother, worst enemy, current paramour, or employer getting a full copy of the contents. That would, I guess, constitutes a tragedy, for you at least." 

She sputtered a bit before she got out a stream of swear words about my character (lacking), my looks (also lacking), my weight (not lacking), and most of my family members, but mainly focused on the wolf that raised me raising a true son of a bitch, before she ran out of steam. It was impressive, and bar the things about me mother, it was mostly true, which I guess helped. I held up a forestalling hand, "I do have some good news, if you'd like to hear?" She snarled "what could be the good news?" I smiled "well being the careful fellow that I am, I keep multiple copies." I slid a package across the table towards her, "as far as I can tell from my careful examination of this unfortunate theft, these are the documents, that have been pilfered from my possession. I figured you deserved to know exactly what was taken." 

She took the envelope with barely concealed hate flashing in her eyes, "and what the fuck do you plan to do about this "theft"." I shrugged "do? why nothing. what could I possibly do?" She replied "ask your fucking friend Felix to find the bastard who supposedly stole this" she raised the packet "and have him shoot the bastard, isn't that what Felix does?" I laughed "sweetheart that's not how this works. Felix doesn't shoot people because I ask him. I dare say Felix hasn't shot anyone in years." She spat "you know what I mean, he has people do it for him, but either way he's the cause." 

"Whatever Felix does, or whomever Felix has do it, he does not dance to the tune I call. He owes me no favours, nor does he care about you in the least. Unless he can somehow use you against me. Which, I might add, he has done in past till he figured out it doesn't work anymore. I know his lack of caring about you, hurts your pride, but look at the bright side, being beneath Felix's attention is a pretty sweet place to be." She stood up practically vibrating with anger, "you son of a bitch, there is no way this was a theft you did this, and you did it on purpose." I drew back in mock horror, "why sweetie that hurts, here (I pointed to my heart), and here ( I pointed to my head), why would I do such a terrible thing? I am as horrified by this unfortunate event as you are, I have feelers out to try to find the bastard or bastards that did this, and am hopeful I will have a name soon." 

"When you do, I am sure you will let me know" she said as she started towards the door. "Why, of course I will let you know the miscreant's name when/if I find it out." She spat a "thanks you bastard" and made her exit. She was a good one for exits when she put her mind to it, she knew it, I knew it, and she knew I knew it we are a knowledge pair of people. I sighed and said just loud enough to be heard, "well that went well I think, all things considered." Felix stood up from the booth behind me and replied "GI, you are, in fact a true bastard, your mother must despair." I smiled "actually Felix, the wolf that raised me is quite proud of me, who would have thunk it?"

The Felsh of Felix

 Before he kills me, or more to his style,has me killed, let's us put some flesh upon our boy Felix. It's hard to do, because out in public you'd never look at Felix and think "that guy has the power to disappear me." However, he does have that power, and he carries it lightly. Not overly tall, not overly short, thin to the point of being a skeleton. Felix wanders around the world, his world, like a man who expects people to get out of his way. Strangely enough, people did get out of his way, sure he had Mutt and Jeff at his disposal to make sure his path was clear, but most of the time Felix when out among the people without those bruisers to make a path for him. 

I suppose it was just the aura of Felix that made people step aside for him, like the Queen on her royal procession, people just move aside for him when he wandered down the street. It was a talent that I hated him for, being possessed of the skill of being in everyone's way all the time, I very much wished I had the ability to walk freely down the street. I envied him for that skill, and even more so for the fact he had no clue that he possessed it. Felix sincerely thought that people would make way for other people that they thought had somewhere to be. 

Felix had spent a lot of time in prison, and those of us who knew where to look could see the scars on his wrists of previous times when he was shackled. He wore a lot of long sleeves to hide them, but if you were paying attention you could spot them. Of course, bringing them up was a particularly bad idea. Felix did not like to be reminded of his time "on the other side of the table." Trust me, that other side of the table from Felix was not a happy place to be. He is terrifying. What makes it worse is that he is a buck 50 at his heaviest, but still somehow scares the every living shit out of you.

It is not a physical fear, he has Mutt and Jeff for that. They are there to pound the shit out of you if Felix needs them to. But, he rarely needs them to. Mutt and Jeff have a easy posting, being Felix's muscle. Felix doesn't need muscle he's just Felix. If he asks Mutt and Jeff to make you their "playmate" for a while, it is not because he needs them to, he just wants to give them something to do. Felix rarely needs to "beat it out of you." You looked at his skinny, aesthetic ass, and felt some oddly overwhelming desire to confess your sins.

That is the beauty of Felix, he is an aesthetic. Tall without looming over you, thin without being skinny, and with cornflower blue eyes that would drill into you in search of the answer he wanted. Felix would say he was in search of the truth, and maybe that is true, but when Felix turned those bluer than blue eyes upon you, the truth became whatever you thought he wanted to hear. It is the glare of the fanatic, the look of a man who knows all your dirty, little secrets, and is willing to listen to you share them before he has to tell you that he already knows. It is the give you the rope and let you hang yourself theory of interrogation and he is a master of it. 

If you had a death wish, you'd look at Felix and tell him that "he needs to eat a sandwich." You wouldn't be wrong, but it is unlikely Felix would appreciate the comment. In fact, I am of the opinion that Felix eats like a horse, but it is the fervor for the "cause" that burns within him that makes him unable to gain weight. His internal engine is burning so hot that all that is left is the bare necessity to keep him body and soul together. That internal fire is what keeps Felix going.

At some point during his fanatical life, Felix obtained a wife and children. Bring them up to him to your cost. He is not the type to wax poetic about the woman who stole his heart, if he even has a heart. Good for her for stealing what may not even exist. Felix will tell you, generally as he is putting you in prison, that "prison will make you calm."  You take one look at the scars on his wrist, and the blueness of his eyes, and you can't argue with him. 

Make him mad, which is really hard to do no matter what he lets you think, and you will see the blueness of those eyes increase tenfold. They blaze, they burn, and they bore a hole into your soul that God itself couldn't repair, even if it wanted to. You have to be around Felix a lot, and to my sadness I have, to know that Felix has anger and he has being mad. Felix's anger is terrible to behold, and you'd rather it not be directed at you, but it is a lot better than making him mad at you. 

I've had the joy of both. I've had Felix's anger aimed in my general direction, and it was a physically unpleasant experience. I had a limp for about six weeks. Then I made him mad, and that is why I am here, in some dive bar trying to make a contact with a fellow that Felix wants deceased. It isn't the cleanest way to live, but it is a way to stay alive at least for me. 

Felix is of the opinion that he owns me body and soul, and he isn't far off the mark. But there is still a place inside of me that Felix can't touch. The beauty of it is that he knows this. It might be the only reason that he hasn't had me made unalive yet. In somewhat good news, I do have a few examples of Felix's writings. Writings that might take a bit of the shine off the armor of the knight of the revolution. I also, might have someone in his office that tells me things that Felix doesn't want people to know.

I wonder if maybe Felix knows this, Felix seems to know everything. Which is quite distressing when you have as much to hide as I do. This little sketch of Felix is just to let the world know what I am dealing with. If I write vaguely blame Felix. I do not like the late night visits from his goons. I certainly do not like sitting across from a self satisfied looking Felix as he tents his fingers and reminds me that "you know GI....."

Brock's Pass

 The hard part about losing a battle is the aftermath. I mean you don't really have a handbook for losing now do you? Few people, actually none that I'm aware of have written a "you've lost the battle now what?
 guides for groups like Claudell's Marines after the battle of Hester's Reach. Short of running away as fast as you can in any direction, and hoping you don't get your fool self killed, there's really not much in the way of best practices in losing a battle. I mean, who would want to read it even if it existed. I doubt many of us would want to say I read W____'s account on how to lose in the best way possible, and I've learned a few things about losing. Sure there is a school of thought that says you don't learn anything if you win only if you lose, but I suspect the son of a bitch that came up with that idea won a lot more than he lost. The majority of the lessons I've taken from losing (and I have lost a lot) is that it fucking sucks. Luckily if you lose bad enough, there isn't a lot of interest from the winning side in rubbing it in any further. Generally you leave the field in major disorder, and the winners are happy to see the backside of you. Let some other bastards finish you off instead. They are just happy, and maybe a bit surprised, that they won.

Claudell's marines lost very, very badly at Hester's Reach. Chasing the confused and demoralized survivors probably wasn't worth the trouble to the winners. At least that's how I figured it since they did not, in fact, chase after us. Since Claudell managed to get himself killed at Hester's Reach, Claudell's Marines basically ceased to exist. Not to say there wasn't a mob of us left, we just didn't have a leader, and a mob without a leader is dangerous, and useless. As a group we did shitty things together before Wilson imposed some sort of order upon us. It isn't my proudest moment, but I can't deny my participation in those crimes. One of the lessons of war is the only thing worse than the losing side, is the winning side. It brings me no confront that the winners of Hester's Reach did as many if not more shitty things that we did.

Ever mile traveled from Hester's Reach was unpleasant. The fact that the first few were done in a blind panic, doesn't make them any less awful. Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to be on the wrong end of a disaster like Hester's Reach. A lot of soul searching happens after something that bad, and it takes a lot of time to figure out if you have any soul left. Being young didn't help. They (whoever they are) say that you always remember your first, and in the main that is true. Hester's Reach left a very, very large bruise upon my soul, and maybe it never really fully healed. A lot of dreams got shattered at Hester's Reach, but sadly for me it wouldn't be the last time. Pity that.

In somewhat happier news, the pelting run away from Hester's Reach lead us to Brock's Pass. It wasn't too far of a run, but it felt a lot longer than it was. It was way too cold as well, but maybe that is a false memory. Maybe it was just my body wouldn't do what I wanted it to do, wouldn't work right, couldn't process the massacre it had just seen. I wish I could tell you I remember it all like it was yesterday, but thank fuck, I don't. Sometimes the brain shuts down and suppresses shit that will make it snap like a twig. 

In theory, Brock's Pass led somewhere, after all that is what passes do. It is kind of in the name. All I gave a shit about at the time was that Brock's Pass led away from Hester's Reach. I am sure it had other good points, but for me, that was the main point.  Passes are often found over the source of a river, and I guess it made geographical sense for Brock's Pass to be so close to Hester's Reach. Geography wasn't my main concern at the time, my main concern was to get away.  Like most passes, Brock's Pass was defended, I mean why wouldn't it be? It led somewhere, somewhere people wanted to go, and where there is a place that leads to somewhere people want to go, there is generally a group of people who want to stop them from going there.

That group of people, the ones that wanted the sad remains of Claudell's Marines from exiting stage left from the battle of Hester's Reach, weren't fighters. They were just a bunch of slack jawed yokels who had decided that Brock's Pass shouldn't be a freeway. The remains of Claudell's Marines would not pass for the Old Guard of La Grand Armee, and Wilson was far, far from being a Napoleon, but we had enough gumption to sweep aside the yokels at Brock's Pass. 

It was an odd feeling having my first taste of "victory" so quickly after a crushing defeat, but that is how life decided to introduce me to the "joys" of warfare. It was not a victory that the bards will sing about, it wasn't really even a fight. It was more of a spirited skirmish. Of course, I didn't really understand that at the time,  at the time I was just glad not to have to run. Winning is a odd feeling. You stand there so nice and look at the backs of your "foes" fleeing and think 'that was me about X amount of time ago'. You know precisely how they feel, but still you feel no sympathy for them. Thus losing makes hard bastards of us all. 

 

Hester's Reach

 Many years ago I referred to the "battle" of Hester's Reach. It was my first battle, and like many a battle since, it did not end well. I think I also mentioned my joining Claudell's Marines, which was a bad plan since I don't swim, I sink, but any way to get out of the small town prison I was in that threatened to kill my soul, was a way that I wanted to take. Luckily for me, Claudell's Marines did not require me to pass a swimming test, all they wanted was warm bodies. I met that requirement, and they handed me a weapon, gave me a modicum of training, and said "welcome to the Marines lad." I didn't care where I went just as long as it was away from the small, small town that was in the process of killing me. 

We spent a lot of time "marching" which to me seemed to be just walking from point A to point B for no reason, before our fearless  leader (and soon to be as dead as dead can be) Claudell decided which direction was the best for us. Claudell wasn't a natural public speaker, few of us are, and when he tried to rouse the troops to believe in the latest "cause" he had found for us, he generally  mumbled a few words, and asked his second to do all the real talking. His second was a fellow named Wilson, he was to become a major player in my life, and if I had known what he would eventually wanted to do to my sister, I would have probably contrived to kill him "by accident" in the battle that followed. However, since I can't predict the future and therefore remain poor, I did not shoot or stab Wilson. A decision that I came to semi-regret in the future. Besides, I figure killing the second in command might be frowned upon as treason.

  I was young back then, and dumber than I am now, if that is to believed. I had no idea what was expected of me, and the training in  Claudell's Marines was not of the highest quality. Mostly, it consisted of some older fellow telling me not "to get my fool self killed at the first pass." I took that to heart and resolved to attempt to make the other side have to work a little bit in order to kill me. Peace was not what we wanted, it was bad for business. Luckily for us, there was generally always some local asshole who wanted some other local asshole's land, castle or woman. 

For those uneducated. like I was way back then, a reach is a section of a river. It was not to be the last river that I had to face in my life, but it was the first. I probably should have realized later in life that rivers were not my friend, but I've never been accused of being the swiftest horse in the stable. This river lead to a rather large bay, that lead to some ocean who's name isn't important to the story. The important bit, if there is an important bit, is that it leads somewhere. When the clouds came, and the rain started to fall, it was more of problem for my fellow 'Marines.' One would think that a group called Claudell's Marines would be able to handle a spot of rain, but my comrades melted away like snow under a summer sun.

It was summer, that much I do remember of the terrifying, and terrible disaster that became known to history as the battle of Hester's Reach. Calling it a battle is granting more credit than it deserved, it was more of a massacre. Also, I doubt that history was paying attention. After all it's not like Cluadell was some sort of Alexander the Great conquering Persia. History is funny like that, it doesn't really care too much about your actions until they become world changing, and the battle/massacre of Hester's Reach was far from world changing. Well except for me, the battle of Hester's Reach changed my world in many, many not so good, ways. 

Claudell was a drunk, which isn't a crime, until you give aforementioned drunk control over thousands of men's lives, then it becomes important. Claudell liked Calvados, a particularly strong drink from France. It should have been a clue as to his ability to fight a battle that he was always blasted on Calvaods, but hindsight is 20/20. I suppose it was Wilson who was actually in charge. But like most seconds, Wilson could only offer advice, and it was unlikely that a piss drunk Caudell was in a mood to listen, and at the battle of Hester's Reach, Claudell was in no mood to listen. 

I managed not to die at the battle of Hester's Reach, but it was a close run thing. A lot of fellows I knew did leaves their bones on that watery graveyard. A lot of fine men watered the soil of Hester's Reach, and it was a pity. I said a lot of last goodbyes to comrades who had taught me better, and who deserved better than to die on a battlefield that would soon be lost to history. It was just a petty little battle in the civil war of people who gave no shits about the good men who died at Hester's Reach.  

Looking back on it, I should have never been anywhere close to Hester's Reach. I should have known better and I should have done better. Those are famous last words, luckily for me I survived (barely) Hester's Reach. It was a massacre, it wasn't the last massacre I attended, and it should have taught me more than it did, but the battle of Hester's Reach would be the first, but not the last, in a series of disaters that would eventually define me.