The Reward
by
POW and Ferdinando Neri
Disclaimer
The following story is a purely
fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental.
The narrative deals with male-on-male sexual themes and with torture and
death. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and
for whom it is legal to do so.
Copyright (c) 2009 by Ferdinando
Neri and POW. For spam prevention, animal names have been added to the
authors' e-mail addresses. Remove the animal name to get the actual address:
ferdinandoneri zebra at yahoo dot it, POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This
story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its
entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer.
The authors welcome feedback.
Vultures. Three
of them, circling over the hill. There's a carcass there. An animal. Or a man.
I'll go and see. The town's not far and I'm not in a hurry. No sane man
would be: Boca Caliente is an asshole, the last place where you would go.
But I'm not here for pleasure.
I'm tired. I
spent the last three days riding. My ass aches and my nuts too, as if
thousands of red ants were feasting on them. But when I get to that damned
town, I won't have any time to rest.
I ride my horse
towards the hillside, where a vulture is slowly landing.
Yes, there's a
carcass, two carcasses. Men. I approach and I dismount. The vulture is
slamming his beak into one man's belly, but when he sees me, he flies away.
He doesn't go very far. He knows that the prey is his. He'll come back.
Food for vultures never lacks near Boca Caliente.
Two big men,
naked, one over the other: the one on the top has three holes in his back.
Here in Boca Caliente you usually don't die in your bed, unless you are
stupid enough to sleep when some "friend" is looking for you.
I can't see
their faces, so with my foot, I turn the man on the top over and I let him
drop near the other one.
I know them
both. Dutch and Dan. Two bounty hunters, like me. They were after English
Paul. They found him. No, he found them. I laugh. They won't claim their
reward, now. How much is it? $10,000, I think. For the Jackal it's twenty
grand.
They have a lot
of holes in their bellies and chests, but they both died hard... I mean,
they were both hard when they died! A few hours ago, no longer. They
haven't begun to rot yet. With the tip of my boots I play with Dan's nuts.
They're large and hairy. Too bad he won't use them anymore. I laugh again.
I leave the
corpses where they are. I hide between some rocks, not far from the
corpses, and I wait. I want to see the vultures devouring them.
The vultures go
on circling above the carcasses and finally one of them lands. He begins to
cut into Dutch's belly. A second one. And a third. Now they're hurrying to
land. They're afraid to be cut off from the feast.
One of them is
severing Dan's big cock with his sharp beak. It's not easy, but he manages
to do it. At last he's got the tasty morsel. But a second vulture wants it,
too, and he tries to take it from his rival's beak. I laugh.
There are five
vultures now. They have opened the men's guts. One of them is devouring
Dutch's balls.
It's been fun
looking at them, but it's time to go. I get up, fish out my cock and I
piss. I mount on my horse and I ride towards Boca Caliente, the paradise of
all the outlaws, murderers and cutthroats coming here from the States. Less
then fifty miles from the border.
The Jackal is
here, I know it. I followed his tracks. It won't be easy to capture him.
Does he know I'm hunting him? If he does, I could become the hunted
instead. The Jackal has killed two sheriffs and three bounty hunters. But
he's the best prey from California to Texas. And I'll have him.
Boca Caliente
was a Spanish town, but when the river dried up, it was abandoned. Now the
old town is in ruins, and the new one is little more than shacks and tents.
It's a perfect place to hide. Nobody here asks you where you are from or
what you are looking for. Dangerous questions.
I reach the
saloon. The Jackal is more than likely inside.
It's a Mexican
place, but a lot of Americans go there. The bar is dirty and the floor is
covered by mud, but the place is full of people. I look around and I go up
to the bar.
I take a glass
of whiskey. My throat is parched. I drink and pretend to enjoy what has to
be the worst whiskey on the whole continent while I look at the people. I
don't see him, but there are too many people. I could ask to the bartender
if he saw a man like him, but it would be a mistake and in this game a
mistake means death.
My glass is
empty. Just as well.
I have to spit,
but there is no spittoon. I spit on the floor, like all the other men.
I look around again. There's a
large-ish group at the poker table. I walk over, pretending to be
interested in the game, but of course I don't give a damn.
I see him here,
playing. I know him, I saw him in Santa Fe, two years ago, when they were
going to hang him. During the night he managed to strangle the deputy and
he fled. Yes, he's exactly like I remember him: a tall, strong man, between
thirty and forty, with fair hair and beard and blue eyes. I avert my eyes:
I don't want him to notice that I'm looking at him.
OK, now the
game begins.
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Boca Caliente, Mexico, September 1873. Not
exactly the pinnacle of civilization, the man currently known as "the
Jackal" thinks as he gazes down from a nearby hill at the barren
little town. The dusty brown hovels and dusty brown tents are hard to
distinguish from the dusty brown sand of the surrounding desert. Beautiful
it may not be, but it would suit his needs for the moment.
He picks his
way slowly down the hill, pondering as he goes. The details of Boca
Caliente may be unique to this stretch of northwestern Mexico, but the big
picture is one that has repeated itself over and over throughout human
history. These little outlaw havens keep popping up in all times, all
places, because in any human society there are always those who can't force
themselves to live by the rules. Sooner or later, they break free, floating
like driftwood on the sea until the currents wash them up into places like this.
The thing the
Jackal always keeps in mind, though, is that these places are not lawless,
despite what the governments in far-off Washington and Mexico City say.
True, they do not live by the laws of the conventional world, but they do
have codes of behavior of their own - codes that are very strictly
enforced.
The Jackal
knows the rules. As he walks into the town, he makes sure the dried blood
is visible on the cuff of his jacket. He meets the eyes of the men he
passes but does not speak, neither challenging them nor allowing himself to
be challenged. The easiest way to get killed in a place like this is to
hide weakness with a facade of strength, like a rooster strutting and
crowing proudly when in truth, under all the bluster there is only a clucking
chicken. The kind of men who gather here can see through that kind of
pretense in an instant. Better to actually BE strong, like a lion, or a
wolf... or a jackal.
He walks
through the swinging door into the shade of the saloon and pauses to allow
his eyes to adjust to the dim light. His pursuer is, of course, not here
yet. The Jackal hopes that he has chosen well, that the man he picked is
bright enough to follow the clues he has been given, but not so bright as
to question why those clues were left for him at all.
The Jackal
knows many of the men here, but not all. New driftwood constantly washes up
on this shore, and the Jackal has lost interest in learning the names and
backgrounds of every new face that shows up in town. So many of them either
wander off or get themselves killed within their first year that he now
only bothers to learn about the men whose faces he sees twice.
He greets
Miguel at the bar with a nod. Miguel pours him a shot of Cuervo from the
stash that he keeps in his locked safe. Almost everyone else who comes in
here gets the usual rotgut, but Miguel knows to break out the good stuff
when the Jackal comes to town. The Jackal may be willing to forego many of
the comforts that life has to offer, but good tequila is not one of them.
A lithe,
brown-haired señorita appears next to him in a whisper of rustling fabric.
He glances over at her and is not surprised to see an unfamiliar face. The
women who make their living working the saloons in these parts usually
learned quickly to avoid the Jackal because of his appetite for more than
just a quickie in the back room. Clearly this creature with the
nineteen-year-old body and the forty-year-old eyes has not yet heard the
stories.
Sometimes, the
Jackal welcomes the distractions that a woman can provide. But not today.
He shrugs her off and she drifts away.
Time passes. A
poker game gets going, and the Jackal eventually joins in. As soon as he
sits down, two of the old-timers stand up and leave the table, but the Jackal
is not out to take anyone's money today. In fact, those who know his
reputation for cardplay would be astonished at the amount of US-minted
silver he manages to lose over the course of the game, almost as if he is
trying to give his money away...
It is during
the game that his target walks into the saloon. The bounty hunter is forced
to spend a few minutes at the door while his glare-adapted eyes adjust to
the dimness inside, giving the Jackal plenty of time to look him over
unnoticed. He has arrived a bit earlier than the Jackal had expected.
Perhaps he did not notice the gift left out under the broiling sun? But
that's impossible; he must have seen it. The Jackal rubs his thumb absently
over the crusty patch of blood at the end of his sleeve. Perhaps he has
misjudged the hunter's temperament and tastes? Or perhaps the man is just
fast. Time would tell. If things didn't work out today, there would always
be other opportunities.
The hunter
moves to the bar and grimaces at the taste of the whiskey Miguel pours for
him. He looks around the saloon, trying just a bit too hard not to be
obvious about it, then wanders seemingly idly over to the poker table. The
Jackal suddenly raises the pot to two hundred dollars, and offers only a
shark-like smile when the queen that he needed fails to appear and he loses
it all.
"Well,
looks like Ah'm out," he says, then stands up and heads for the door.
Outside, the blazing sun is finally heading toward the western horizon.
Soon the night will come, bringing darkness with it.
The Jackal
lopes unhurriedly down the dusty street. He makes his leisurely way out of
the inhabited part of town toward the old Spanish ruins. Few of the locals
ever visit there - rumors of ghosts and vengeful spirits keep them away,
even during the daylight hours. At night, when inky blackness smothers the
huge stones, it is all but certain that no one will intrude.
He does not
need to look back to see if the man he has chosen is following him.
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I have to wait,
so I'll wait. I'm in no hurry, even if I don't like this place.
The Jackal is
betting a lot of money. He likes to gamble. Today he is risking far more
than he knows. He's risking his life and he is going to lose it.
He'll lose his
life and I'll gain $20,000. Or I'll lose my life and he'll gain his. We'll
see when the game reaches its end.
Like the poker
game, it seems. The Jackal has lost and now he stands up. He's going out. I
breathe deeply. Now, now. My cock is stiffening, as it often does when the
time of killing is approaching. Killing or being killed.
Slowly I move
towards the door. When I'm outside, the light almost blinds me, even though
the sun is going down and the shadows are starting to grow.
I look for the
Jackal. He hasn't gone far. He's walking slowly down the street. I follow
him. There are a few men moving and others sitting or squatting in a group
along the front of a store, but I don't look at them. I look towards the
end of the street and the setting sun, but I keep an eye on him, too, while
I lead my horse to an out-of-the-way spot and tether him there.
The Jackal
turns into a side street. It leads to the ruins of the old Spanish town.
The perfect place for killing him.
Because I have
to kill this bastard here, in this town. I can't let him get away: I could
lose his trail. And I know better than to try getting him alive out of Boca
Caliente and back to the States. He's too dangerous. They want him alive or
dead. Dead is better, much better. Killing him and getting his corpse out
of this asshole will be difficult, but from the Spanish town it would be
far easier: usually you don't meet anyone there, they're all afraid of the
ghosts. It's silly: grown men afraid of ghosts, like children.
I move slowly
and finally I turn, too. It's a little street, some huts on both sides and
the ruins of old stone houses ahead, but far away.
I can see him.
Nobody else in the street. That's good, since nobody can see me following
the Jackal; but it's dangerous, because if he turns, he'll see me alone in
this desert street and he'll suspect.
I walk slower,
so the distance between us increases. I stay against the walls of the
shacks on the right side of the street and I keep my hand on my pistol. If
he turns, I'll have to kill him immediately, but here it would be an ugly
affair. He has some friends in this town, I know. If a son of bitch like
him can have friends...
He doesn't
turn, he doesn't look around: he seems to be very self-confident, but my
situation is still tense.
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The Jackal picks
his way across the uneven ground. Along the way he occasionally thinks he
hears noises produced by his pursuer, but the hunter is skilled - the
sounds could equally well be natural. He does not turn around to look.
At last he
crosses over the dry, heavily-eroded bed of what was once a small river. On
the far side are a few adobe homes, open to the elements and slowly
decaying. At one time, the Jackal remembers, it was impossible for a man to
walk as he just did without getting his feet wet. The river never ran dry;
cattails and desert willows grew lushly along its banks. The Spanish
mission and the town around it thrived, the center of an extended clan of
landowners and their ranching operations.
But those very
same ranchers sowed the seeds of their own destruction. For thousands of
years, the grasses that grew richly throughout this territory had soaked up
stormwater in their roots, slowing it so that it percolated gradually into
the rivers, which ran all year long. Then the landowners brought cattle, far
more than the land could support, and soon enough the grasses were gone.
With no vegetation to slow it, the water from the infrequent but intense
storms washed straight into the streams and rivers, flowing immediately out
to sea and leaving only eroded gullies and parched ground behind.
Inevitably, the people left, the town died, the mission closed its doors.
The Jackal has
long since ceased to wonder at the magnitude of human folly.
The buildings
grow larger around him as he nears the center of town. On one side of the
central plaza stands the onetime mayor's house; straight ahead is the old
mission church. The Jackal skirts the edge of the plaza, staying in the
lengthening shadows as he angles toward the crumbling palacio. He
weaves through narrow alleys and smaller paths formed by fallen stone.
There have been no sounds for a long while from the hunter behind him. Has
he given up the pursuit, frightened off by the prospect of being caught at
night in the ruins? Or could he possibly have suspected the Jackal's agenda
in leading him here? There is no use in worrying; the hunter will follow or
he won't.
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The street
turns, he disappears and I stop. It's better to wait. When I reach the
corner, I see him crossing the bed of the dry river. I have to wait, once
more, but I can't risk losing him. These damn ruins are full of hiding
places and he could disappear in them.
I'm sweating,
even though evening is getting cool. And my cock is hard.
Now, time to
go. As he disappears behind the corner of an old stone house, on the
opposite shore of the river, I move quickly.
I reach the
Spanish town. Here a man can be killed easily: no witnesses. I walk quickly
and I see him skirting the ruins of an old palace. In a corner, concealed
from him by some ruins, I wait until he reaches the square. Suddenly he
turns and he disappears through a large stone front gate.
I approach. The
palace collapsed some time ago and through some windows I can see the
darkening sky. I take out both my pistols and I enter: if he sees me following
him here, he'll understand why. And the Jackal is a very dangerous man.
I stretch out my head and I look at
the entrance-hall. I can see the courtyard, full of stones from the fallen
palace, but I don't see him. I move quickly and I reach the courtyard. It
was once very large, but now it's much narrower because two wings of the
building collapsed and the ruins take up much of the space.
I don't see
him. Shit! Where is he? I'm sure he entered here. I look around cautiously,
then I enter the courtyard and begin to explore it. I'm on edge. I'm
sweating. But my cock tent-poles my trousers.
The courtyard
seems to be empty. Where is he?
I see an open
door in a far corner. That wing of the old house seems to be unsafe, but
the falling stones are not a big worry to me. Neither are the ghosts. The
Jackal is.
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He reaches the weathered front gate of the palacio
and steps inside. The courtyard, once a green and shady refuge, is now a
jumble of collapsed rock and dust, barely visible in the rapidly fading light.
He picks his way swiftly but carefully across the courtyard toward a
doorway at the far side and slips into the darkness.
He waits just
inside the door, hidden from view by darkness and the angle of the wall.
The hunter will come. And then it will be time for the blood to flow... but
not from tools so crude and impersonal as guns. The Jackal has something
much more intimate in mind. He thinks about the various implements he has
stashed away in this darkened chamber and the uses to which they might be
put. He smiles as he kneads the swelling bulge below his waist.
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He went in
here. He can't be anywhere else. But it's dark and I can't see. What if
he's waiting for me? I'm a dead man.
He didn't seem
to be suspicious, but he is very cunning, he's the most dangerous outlaw
I've known. And the best prey.
$20,000 is a
lot of cash and I'm not going to stop now, with the prey within my reach.
I pass my hand
over my forehead to wipe the sweat off. There is also sweat between my palm
and the pistol grip, but I don't dare put down the gun to wipe it away.
I go through
the door, but as soon as I do I feel the barrel of a pistol pressing
against my back.
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The wait is not long; the pursuer must have been close
behind him. The hunter pokes his head inside, takes a step into the
darkened hallway and, silent as a shadow, the Jackal moves behind him and
prods his pistol into the man's spine. He breathes, barely more than a
whisper, but it sounds like a shout in this place. "Drop yer pistols
and hands up, man, or I shoot."
He tries to
make the words sound convincing, even though he knows he would never pull
the trigger. Killing the bounty hunter would mean the pointless end to
weeks of effort. Still, it is essential that the hunter believe him capable
of shooting, and so he must believe it himself. Great acting is not acting
at all, but believing, becoming the role.
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I'm trapped. No
way to escape. I can't turn and shoot him. If I move, he'll kill me. He'll kill
me even if I obey. But perhaps I'll get my chance later.
I let my
pistols drop. I raise my arms.
"That's a
good boy."
He laughs.
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Apparently he
is convincing enough - the hunter drops his weapons and lifts his hands slowly
to shoulder height. The Jackal smiles, lifting his own hand up around the
hunter's left side. He presses his against the quivering man's chest,
embracing him from behind like a lover, pulling him into the barrel of the
gun. His stubble-covered cheek rasps against the skin behind the hunter's
ear and he inhales the scent of sweaty male skin, awash in adrenalin and
tinged with the crisp tang of fear.
He whispers
again, twisting the barrel of the gun as a gentle reminder to its target
that it is still there. "That's a good boy." He nuzzles his lips
against the hunter's ear as he speaks, not quite nibbling the tender lobe,
and allows a small chuckle out. He presses his crotch against the man's
hip, wondering if his captive will notice the erection or if the poking of
the pistol has captured all of his attention.
It's risky to
get this close with his prisoner still unrestrained - surely the hunter
will try to turn the tables on him, and so the Jackal grinds one final time
and lets go. "Now, walk. Slowly," he says. He keeps the gun
pressed firmly into the hunter's back, propelling him toward the room where
he sleeps when he's here in Boca Caliente. It's not a bedroom; in fact it
was the palacio's dining hall back in the Spaniards' heyday. He
sleeps in it now because it is one of the few rooms in the building that
has an intact roof.
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We march slowly
and we enter a large room. There is a table, a cupboard, a chair, a bed. A
towel on the back of the chair, a dish on the table. The palace is empty,
but this room is used by someone, by the Jackal, probably.
"Now take
off yer shirt. And don't get smart."
I obey and I
stand bare-chested.
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The smell of
musky sweat grows stronger. The Jackal breathes it in, nearly swept away by
the intoxicating aroma, then snaps himself back to alertness - surely the
hunter will make his move soon. He must.
The Jackal
speaks.
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"Put yer
hands behind your back."
Now, now or
never. If he ties my hands, I'm dead. Better to die fighting.
I pretend to comply
and as I feel him putting a handcuff around my right wrist, I turn suddenly
and lunge for him.
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And here it is.
The hunter lowers his arms and moves them behind his body, but then
suddenly lunges toward the Jackal's gun hand. Quicker than lightning, the
Jackal whips the pistol upward and smashes it into the bridge of the bounty
hunter's nose. The hunter's head snaps upward and back, bringing his waist
forward where it meets the Jackal's rising knee. He grunts, crumples, and
falls to the floor.
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But he has
anticipated my reaction and he's too quick for me. He doesn't shoot, but he
uses his pistol to hit me on my head. The blow is so violent, I almost
fall. I can feel the blood running from my nose. He kicks my balls with his
knees and I grunt. I double over and he knocks me down.
Before I can
react, my hands are cuffed.
I am a dead
man.
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The Jackal quickly cuffs the hunter's hands behind
his back, then flips him face-up with his chained hands under his body. Though
the hunter's actions are exactly what the Jackal expected, he still has to
play his role convincingly. "Stupid man," he hisses. He kicks the
hunter in the balls again. "Stupid, stupid man. I thought you were
smarter than that."
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He bends over
me and he unbuckles my belt. He grabs my boots, then my pants and soon I am
naked on the floor. It's dark now; I can't see his face well. He is just a
shadow.
Why did he
strip me? What does he want?
He's going to
kill me, this is the only thing I know.
My nuts ache.
My cock is not as hard now as it was.
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He tosses the
hunter's clothing, rank from days on the trail, out into the hall. The
hunter now lies chained and naked in the darkened room. The Jackal is pleased
to see the hunter's only-slightly-flagging erection in the dim light.
"Sooner or
later, someone's gonna git you, Jackal." The words sound faint and
weak, like a small boy trying to bravely confront the monster underneath
his bed. The Jackal laughs. If the hunter only knew.
But for now, he
has to stay in character. "Later, man, later," he says. Later
tonight, perhaps? No, squelch the thought. "Fer you, though, mebbe
it'll be sooner."
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OK, it's the
end. He's going to kill me. I don't understand why he didn't kill me right
away: some bullets in my back and it's all over. But he chose to capture me
instead. Just to see my face when he fills my belly with lead? He won't see
anything, it's too dark.
Even as I think
it, he lights a candle. He puts it in a space in the wall. Then a second
one. Why? What is he doing? I try to understand. He's lighting more
candles. It's like a funeral. Yes, a funeral in a church. This large room
really seems like a church. And it's dark, even with seven or eight candles
along the walls.
He approaches.
He lifts me. OK, time to die.
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The Jackal
strides back to where the hunter lies and lifts him to his feet. "This
way, my man."
He pushes him
over to a large stone table. In its day, it was a fine piece of opulent splendor,
a solid block of Italian marble, easily large enough for a man to lie on.
It had been quarried in the Apuan Alps and shipped at enormous expense
across the Atlantic Ocean and the Mexican deserts to grace the dining room
of a small-town mayor. After the river dried up, the block of marble was
too difficult to move, and so despite its value it was left to decay with
the rest of the town.
Now it sits at
the far end of the room, looking more like an altar than a dining table.
The flickering firelight adds to the impression. The Jackal spins the
hunter around and sits him down on the table, then pushes him down to lie
with his hands bound beneath his back. He half-expects more resistance, but
the hunter obeys meekly.
The Jackal sets
to work with more chains. He spreads the hunter's legs apart, fixing the
ankles to iron hooks that he had carefully laid in the feet of the table
weeks before, one on each side. One more chain goes between the man's
ankles, attaching one to the other. When he is finished, the hunter's
ankles are resting on the edges of the table, pinned in place by the chains
leading down either side and the central connecting chain. The chains are
heavy, almost comically so, as if they were designed to hold a rampaging
bear or dragon instead of a lone man.
The arms are
next. The Jackal removes the cuff from one wrist, unlocking it with a tiny
silver key, then works the hunter's arm around until it stretches up over
his head. He attaches the free end of the cuff to a waiting chain, then
repeats the process with the other wrist and a second set of cuffs.
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Now he's using
chains to secure me to the table. I could try to fight, but it would be
useless: what could I gain? Just a kick in my nuts. He spreads my legs and
goes on with his work.
While he's at
it, I wonder, what is this for? It's pointless. He has nothing to gain from
keeping me alive. I am a danger to him. If only I could free myself, he'd
be a dead man. But of course I can't free myself.
I want to know
and I ask him:
"What're
ya gonna do ta me?"
The bastard
smiles. He doesn't answer, he keeps working, freeing my hands. To open the
cuffs, he uses a little key that he leaves on the table.
While he
stretches my left arm to chain it as he did with my feet, I quickly take
the little key with my right hand and I close my fingers. He doesn't see
me. It's probably useless, but if I have a chance, I can use the key to
free myself. I won't have a chance, I know. He's not stupid.
He takes my
right arm. I keep my hand closed in a fist. I clench my left hand, too, but
if he looks for the key, he'll understand that I took it and he can easily
force me to open my hand. But he doesn't. Instead, he uses a second pair of
handcuffs to fasten my right arm and he forgets all about the key.
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The hunter lies spread out like an X, chained and
utterly helpless on the stone table. The Jackal pauses to admire his prize.
The hunter is perhaps forty years old, body once lean and hard but now
tending a bit to fat. He's hairy, with salt-and-pepper fur covering not
just his head, but his arms, legs, chest, and belly, as well. His muscles
flex and strain against the chains holding him in place as he tests the
limits of his mobility. There is not much. His sweat-sheened skin glistens
in the flickering candlelight. His hairy belly, which had protruded a
little when he was standing, is stretched so taut as to be almost flat
between his ribs and his pelvis.
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Now I lie on
the table, my legs and my arms wide apart. The key is completely useless, I
couldn't open the handcuffs, now. But I keep it.
I try to move
my legs and my arms, but it is impossible. I think I am about to discover
what he has in his mind, which way he wants to kill me.
I know there's
no hope. But I knew from the beginning that the Jackal was very dangerous.
$20,000 can change your life, but my life is not going to change, it's
going to end. Soon.
He is looking
at me, smiling, then he says:
"Damn,
don'chew look fine. Ah think Ah need me a li'l more light in here so Ah kin
git a better look atcha."
Yes, the light
of the candle is feeble. Only one side of his face is lit up.
He goes to a
large hearth that I didn't notice before. He lights the fire. I'm already
sweating and now it'll be worse, but this is not my biggest worry.
He approaches
again.
"Aw, now
that's better. Now Ah kin see ya nice and clear."
And I can see
him, too. He takes a knife and I shudder. I begin to understand why he
chained me. He wants to amuse himself, to take his revenge because I tried
to capture him.
"All laid out
like one a them Aztec sacrifices, that's what you look like, y'know? Like
one a them sacrifice rituals the Mexicans used to do up afore they got all
Christianized. Shame Ah ain't got one a them obsidian blades they used to
use, but Ah reckon this here piece a steel would do a right fine job a
cuttin' yer still-beatin' heart clean out a yer chest."
He wants to
kill me, opening my chest and tearing out my heart! At least it's no worse
than being shot in the belly or hanged. It'll be quick. The Jackal's little
game will be a short one. It's better that way... for me, at least.
The point of
the knife is pressing against my chest. He's smiling. It's only a prick, a
little pain, some blood oozing.
"What say?
Yew wanna give that a try?"
That's not
where my heart is, what does he want? He's just teasing me.
"If yer
gonna kill me, jes' do it. Ain't no call fer teasin'," I say.
He pulls the
knife away. His face and his tone change: he doesn't smile and he is
speaking in a different way, no Texan accent anymore. Now he sounds like a
man from back East, a gentleman, even.
"Oh,
no," he says. "No, I've spent too much time preparing this to
kill you right away."
What does he
mean? "Preparing this"? What did he prepare? It doesn't make
sense.
He puts a
finger on the little wound and then he looks at the blood.
"Do you
ever think about pain, Mr. Rendman?"
I look at him, speechless. How can he
know my name? He knew I was pursuing him, but who could have told him my
name? Who could know?
"Yes, I
know who you are, Silas Lloyd Rendman. You've been stalking me, but all
this time, I've been stalking you as well. You're a very smart man and a
very capable hunter, but you may have underestimated your quarry this
time."
The room is
warm, even hot, but I feel a chill in my spine. He's right, I certainly
underestimated him. But what does he want? Why did he stalk me? Why didn't
he kill me immediately?
"I'll say
it again: if yer fixin' to kill me, quit wastin' time and do it." I
reply. "You know this ain't nothing personal, Jackal. The only reason
Ah'm huntin' you is for the $20,000 reward. Ah got no axe ta grind with
you, Ah'm only in the game for the money. Looks like you win. Ah lose.
Ain't no call to draw it out jes' so's you can gloat. You do what you gotta
do."
He shakes his head,
smiling, as I were a little child who doesn't understand. He tells me:
"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple. I know you studied me, so you
know what I did to earn that bounty on my head. But I'm not sure if you
understand why I did it. In all your study of me, didn't you ever ask
yourself what could possibly cause a man to kill another man - a sheriff,
at that - in such a way that it took him four days to die? Especially when
the killer seems so otherwise sane and normal."
I shudder. I
begin to understand why he chained me. I hope I'm wrong, but I know I'm
not. I don't want to think about it, I don't want to hear his voice
anymore, I don't want....
I'm scared, I
know I'm scared. I'm not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of this man. I
tell him, almost shouting: "Ain't got no need to know that. Ah don't
care a damn 'bout the why. All Ah needed to know was how to find you and
how to get the jump on you. Which Ah failed to do, so Ah ask you agin -
hurry it up. Quit wastin' yer breath."
But he doesn't
stop. He goes on, speaking and speaking, no rage in his voice. He is almost
courteous, as if we were two gentlemen sitting in a drawing room, smoking
our cigars.
|
|
|
"I'm
sorry, but you'll have to indulge me, Mr. Rendman," the Jackal says.
"After all, it's not like you have much of a choice. Why are you in
such a hurry to leave this life, anyway? Could it possibly be that you
learned exactly what it was I did to that sheriff? Not the sanitized story
that made it into the newspapers, but the full, true details? Could it be
that you are afraid that I might have something similar in mind for you?
"Ah, I can
see it in your eyes. That's exactly what you're afraid of. As I said
before, you're a very smart man. It's why I chose you. It's why I chose the
sheriff, as well, only he didn't prove himself to be quite smart
enough."
He gestures to
the chains holding Silas in place. "I'll leave it to you to decide
whether you think you've been smart enough."
The Jackal
walks over to a trunk along one wall and lifts out a thick, sturdy lash of
tanned leather. He swings it around as he walks, testing its weight and
getting its feel. The hunter closes his eyes, trying to shut out the
intimidating image, the Jackal thinks. No matter - he can't close his ears.
"It all
comes down to pain, Silas. May I call you Silas? We're only meeting just
now, but I feel as if I've known you a long time." Crack! The
whip barks out a sharp noise and Silas's body twitches on the table. A
cloud of dust wafts down from the wall where the whip struck.
"I've
known a lot of pain in my life," the Jackal muses. "Taken a lot,
and dished a lot out. And you know what I've learned about pain in all that
time?"
Crack!
This time the hunter does not jump. "What's that?" he answers.
"Pain is
what makes me feel alive. In fact, pain is the only thing that makes
this life worth living."
|
This makes no
sense. What does he mean? There are a lot of things that make life worth
living. A good fuck. A good cigar. A good horse. A good whiskey. The
pleasure, first of all, not the pain. Why the pain? He strikes the wall
again, twice. I can't stand it. I almost would prefer to feel the lash on
my body. But I'll feel it, I know, soon.
|
|
|
Crack! Crack!
More dust spills down, clouding the orange-lit air.
"How old do
you think I am, Silas?"
"How
old...? Hell, I dunno. What's it matter?"
"Just tell
me. Take your best guess."
|
I open my eyes
and look at him. It's better that way: I want to see the whip, I don't want
him to take me unawares when he hits me with it.
How old is this
man? Not very old, younger than me, certainly.
"Thirty.
Thirty-five. Whatever."
|
|
|
"Hmm,"
says the Jackal. The whip swishes through the air. "Thirty-five. You
flatter me, but I gotta tell you, you're way off."
He takes
careful aim. Crack! This time the flame of one of the candles is
snuffed out, but the candle itself doesn't even twitch. The Jackal peers
over at the bound hunter to make sure he has noticed.
|
OK, man, you
know how to use a whip. And now?
|
|
|
"I'm a bit
older than that. Actually, considerably older. I look pretty good for my
age, wouldn't you agree? But I have got a lot of years under my belt, and
I'm finding that as more and more of those years pass by, I'm feeling
emptier and emptier inside. I'm becoming increasingly numb the older I
get."
Crack!
This time the whip makes contact.
|
I see the lash
moving just a second before feeling the burning on my chest. I manage not
to scream, but I almost jump.
|
|
|
"It used to
be that I could be satisfied with the normal pleasures in life. The company
of a woman. A mug of beer or a bottle of whiskey. Raising Cain with the
boys. Even something as stupidly simple as watching a sunset used to be
able to move me."
|
I see his arm
moving, just a flash, and the pain on my right thigh. Crack!
|
|
|
"But not
any more. It's like I'm living all wrapped up in fuzz, like I'm dead
inside. I can see things, I can hear things, I can touch things, but there's
no emotion left in anything I do."
Crack! A
red line appears just above Silas's waist.
|
I'm yanking
hard on the chains now, but there is no give to them at all.
|
|
|
"The only
thing, the only thing at all that gives me any kind of feeling is pain.
Like the pain you're feeling now. If I were you, chained to that table
there..."
|
It would be far
better for me, I can tell you, goddamn bastard!
|
|
|
"...and
you were slashing this whip down on my bare skin, it would hurt, sure, but it
would reach" - crack! - "me, it would touch"
- crack! - "me, I would actually feel" - crack!
- "some goddamn emotion for a change!" Red welts appear in three
new places on Silas's body.
|
I'll die on
this table. This son of bitch is completely insane. Whipping me gives him
pleasure.
Three slashes
and I almost scream, the pain is too strong. I close my eyes again.
Three more, I
grunt with each.
|
|
|
Crack! Crack!
Crack! The Jackal pauses, the lash poised but unmoving while
Silas recovers. When Silas opens his eyes and looks up at him, he leans
down and whispers in his ear.
"That's
what you're here for, boy. You're here to make me feel alive again."
And now the
blows fall down like rain. They land all over the bound hunter's body, each
one leaving a line of fire in its wake.
|
I shudder as
the storm begins. One blow and a second one, and more, more. My chest, my
belly, my arms, my legs. I can't stand it anymore. I scream and I scream,
until I have no more voice. I am drowning in a ocean of pain. I...
|
|
|
... falling and
falling, over and over until the Jackal finally has to take a break because
his arm is so tired he can't lift it any more.
|
|
|
"Come on back.
Come back, Silas. Come on, boy. Wake up. Waaaaake up. Wakey, wakey,
wakey," the Jackal sings.
|
My brother is
calling me, but I can't move. I think I fell off my horse, I can't move.
And he keeps calling me...
I wake up. I'm
not... The Jackal!
|
|
|
At last Silas's
eyes flutter open. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings, and then
it all comes crashing visibly back to him.
"I didn't
want you to miss the best part," the Jackal says. "You've had an hour
to sleep it off, now it's time to get back to work."
"Please,"
Silas whispers, "Ah cain't take no more. Please stop."
"They
always say that," the Jackal muses. He moves to the hearth and busies
himself there, his back to the table. The fire has burned down to a bed of
red-hot coals, blue flames licking upward from them. "'Ah cain't take
no more.' And yet obviously, you can, because you're going to. Unless you
can stop your heart from beating from sheer force of will, then you've got
no choice but to lie there and take whatever I dish out to you. You can't
take it? Bullshit. Of course you can!"
|
If only I could
stop my heart, I would do it. My heart doesn't stop, but it jumps, because
the Jackal turns and he's holding a branding iron, glowing red-hot at the
end.
I scream, I
can't stop myself. I scream again and again. "No! No! Don't do that!
Oh, my god, no!"
|
|
|
Silas's body
explodes, trying in vain to break free of the chains, but he is trapped. His
eyes are white with fear as the Jackal lifts the iron over his exposed
chest and begins to slowly lower it down. He thrashes and flails, heels
scrabbling uselessly at the edges of the stone table.
"Now, this
might sting a bit," the Jackal says. He watches the hair on Silas's
chest begin to curl and singe as the blazing iron nears. Lower and lower,
until contact is made halfway between the nipple and the neck on the right
side. He ignores Silas's screams, making sure to apply even pressure across
the entire surface. Smoke and the smell of burned flesh pour out into the
air.
|
I can feel the
heat of the iron on my chest. I scream, a long, animal noise. I can't take
the pain. My flesh is burning, I can't see anymore, tears in my eyes, the
stink of burning flesh and the pain, the overwhelming pain.
He lifts the
iron, but the pain doesn't subside: it's pulsing in my chest, too strong to
endure.
|
|
|
He looks down
at his victim, inspecting the brand he has just seared into his chest. It
looks good, a triangular shape with a few extra lines here and there: a
stylized canine face. It's an angry blur of blisters now, surrounded by
red, burned skin, but he can tell that, given time, the brand would heal
cleanly.
"You wear
the mark of the Jackal now," he says. "You'll carry that mark for
the rest of your life."
|
The rest of my
life! A few minutes, a few hours, perhaps. If I'm unlucky, a few days.
As if he is
reading my thoughts, he tells me:
"However
long that might be..."
He turns back
toward the hearth and says "Now let's just wait a few more minutes
here until that iron heats back up. I want you to have a matching set, one
on each side."
A wave of
terror swallows me and I scream again. But there is no way to escape. And
it is a second branding, the flesh burning, the overwhelming pain. I am
completely defeated. My only hope is for death to come soon.
It doesn't. The
branding ends. He frees my feet and then my right hand. He chains it down
again in a different way, forcing me to turn. I try to struggle, but I am
trembling from shock and exhaustion. Soon I have my feet on the floor and
my arms stretched out on the table. He had to take a second key from the
bag to open the handcuffs and I realize that the little key is still in my
closed hand. Useless. Completely useless. I fainted, I slept, but I kept
it.
My chest
presses against the surface of the table and the cuts from the lash ache.
|
|
|
The Jackal
greases up his cock, long and hard and achingly stiff, and prepares to
drive it home.
Silas is now
facing downward, bent over at the waist with his feet spread wide apart on
the floor and his arms pulled across the table to the far end. He looks so
delightfully appetizing like that, chained and helpless, his ass
practically begging to have a thick cock rammed into it.
There was a
brief problem when the Jackal was turning him over, when he could not find
the key to the handcuffs and had to dig out a second one from his bag...
no, don't think about that now, focus on the pain he is about to deliver.
|
I don't know
what he's planning, but then I turn my head and I see he is greasing his
hard cock.
He's going to
fuck me! When I was a boy, I was fucked sometimes: there aren't a whole lot
of women out West, and men often fuck younger men when there are no whores
or the men can't afford them. And I've fucked my share of boys. But since I
became a man, nobody has fucked me!
This can't be
happening! And yet it is, and something else is happening, too, something
worse: my own cock is growing and stiffening. I am blazing with rage,
against him and against my body.
He approaches.
His cockhead touches my asshole. I say:
"Yew
goddamn faggot!"
I am furious at
what he is going to do. But his hand touches my hard cock and he simply
says:
"Takes one
ta know one, Ah guess." I hate him more than ever.
|
|
|
The fire has
died down, and only three candles are still guttering in their niches. The
room is dark and stuffy; though the desert night outside is cool, the stone
walls of the palacio have soaked up the sun's rays all day long and
are now radiating that heat into the interior. Both men are sheened with
sweat.
The Jackal
pushes and pokes, testing and probing. He meets with resistance, but rather
than forcing himself in with one brutal stoke, he instead teases his way a
little further in each time. A little further, a little harder, until at
last he stretches the tight hole enough to thrust himself completely in. He
slides forward until his long shaft is buried to the hilt.
"Ohhhhh,
yeahhhh, that's gooooood..." he moans when he has pushed himself in as
far as he can go. He holds himself there, pressed close up against the
hunter's hot skin, enjoying not only the sensations coursing up from the
nerves of his dick, but also the knowledge that he is taking this pleasure
by force. He bends himself down over Silas's back until their bodies are
pressed so tightly together that their combined sweat is squeezed out the
sides, locked as intimately together as it is possible for two men to be.
|
I want to
resist, but he tries again and again and I can feel that the time will come
when my body will betray me. I will yield. And finally it happens, my
asshole accepts this rod and it enters, invading my innards. His cock fills
my ass.
His body bends
over mine: he is leaning with all his weight on me. I can feel his sweaty
skin against my skin and his warm flesh against mine.
I hate him, I
hate him.
But my cock is
stiff.
He bites my
shoulder and he teases it until I grunt. Then he begins.
He moves slowly
and I feel his large cock almost leaving my ass and then coming back in,
filling it. Each stroke gives me pain and pleasure, too, a pain that makes
me grit my teeth, a pleasure that fills my body. I can endure the pain, but
not this pleasure.
"You
picked the wrong man to fuck with, bounty hunter," he growls.
No, I chose the
right man, because no other man could fuck me and make me hard.
The pain is
fierce: my ass, ravaged by his large cock; the burns and the wounds of the
lash, rubbing against the stone table.
It's hell.
But my cock is
stiff.
The pain
increases at each thrust and I begin to grunt.
|
|
|
Each thrust
drives the length of his shaft from nearly pulled out to completely buried,
sending electric sensations tingling throughout his body. He knows that at
the same time, each thrust is rubbing the tender skin inside the hunter's
ass and grinding his branded, whip-marked chest against the stone of the
table. The sound of Silas's grunting is music to the Jackal's ears.
"That's
right, hunter boy, sing for me. Take that hard dick up your tight ass.
Swallow it down. You fucking pussy-boy, not feeling so smart now, are
you?"
|
I don't stop
grunting. I can't. Or maybe I could, but I don't.
I realize I'm
doing it for him, because he is really the winner. When he captured me,
when he tortured me, I was his victim, but I was a man. But now he is
fucking me, my body aches and yet my cock is hard. And I don't want him to
stop.
What is
happening? Am I going to say "More, more!"?
I'm already
saying it: that's the meaning of my grunts. But I don't stop, I go on
grunting.
Something is
breaking inside me. I'm not a man anymore. I want this. I want his cock
ravaging my ass.
|
|
|
The thrusts gradually
build in intensity, though the process is a long, slow one. Ten, fifteen,
twenty minutes pass by while the Jackal gradually picks up the pace. At
last he is pistoning in and out at full speed, lost in sensation, shouting
and clawing his nails into Silas's back.
He grabs the
hunter by the hair and yanks his head backward. "You fucking piece of
meat! Take that dick up your fucking ass! Not such a big man now, are you,
you flat-headed ape!"
|
He goes on and
on. His thrusts become stronger and I feel hell in my ass. Hell in my ass
and my cock is hard. I can feel his nails scratching the skin of my ass, my
back. He grabs my hair and he shouts. The words are hard to understand.
I can't stand
it anymore, the pain is too strong. I begin to shout, too.
"Give it
to me. Harder, Jackal, harder!"
I can't believe
the words coming out of my mouth. I'm lost.
|
|
|
The Jackal is
too far gone to hear what Silas is saying. He is lost in his own private world,
a world of simple, primal lusts and sensations, where language is
irrelevant and only power and domination matter.
He is far, far
away even as he continues to power-fuck Silas's ass. The words coming out
of his mouth become more and more garbled until they are no longer entirely
English, but some guttural-sounding language punctuated with occasional
English words.
"... teach
you now ... die, die, die ... beetle-browed monkey ... fuck you ... whole
clan ... dead and rotted ..."
At last he can
feel the end approaching. He tries to force himself to slow down and draw
the moment out, but then he looks down at the hunter's inert body, sees the
stretched muscles, the blood, the torn and broken skin. A volcano wells up
inside his belly and he erupts in an explosion of white-hot light, the seed
of his body pouring forth in jet after jet of violent heat. His body
quivers, electrically frozen in place while the orgasm courses through his
system, muscles spasming, fists clenching, head thrown back in ecstatic rapture.
|
He's saying
something, but I don't understand. There are some English words, there are
words I don't know.
And then, I
feel he is about to cum. He moans and his cum fills my innards. And the
pain and pleasure becomes one and I cum too, on the table.
|
|
|
The moment
lasts forever, and when it ends, the Jackal takes no notice of his captive.
He pulls himself out, stumbles over to the table where he downs half the
canteen of water that sits there, and collapses into the bed. Seconds
later, he is asleep.
|
He leaves me
and I almost sigh when I feel his cock pulling out of my aching ass. He
goes to the bed. He falls asleep.
I remain here,
on the table, with my shame. The room is getting very dark: the fire in the
hearth has gone out and there are only two candles left. But from the
window I can see that the night is clear. The moon is shining.
I calmly
register every detail. I'm completely spent, but still alive. Why didn't he
kill me immediately after fucking me?
I look at my
hands, closed. I open them. From the right one the little key falls to the
table. I look at it. Half an hour ago I would have tried to free myself
immediately, but now?
Some of his cum
is dripping from my ass. His cum and my blood. And against my belly I can
feel my own cum.
Slowly, very
slowly, I take the key with my right hand and open the left handcuff. Then
I free my right hand and I can stand, my feet still chained to the table. I
look at the Jackal, sleeping in the bed, just a darker shadow. I look at
the table. I touch my fingers to the wet spot where my shame lies.
I sit on the
floor and I try the key on the cuffs that bind my ankles. It fits. I open
them.
I'm free.
I should take
the Jackal's pistol and kill him, now. It would be easy. But I stand here,
in this silent room.
Then I walk to
a side door that opens on a small court. The open space is brightly
moonlit.
There is a dead
tree and a well. I realize I am thirsty.
There was some
water in the room, I saw a canteen. I come back. The Jackal is asleep, I
can hear him breathing.
I take the
canteen and I drink. All the water.
And then I go
out again. I sit on a rock and I look at the moon. It's large and almost
yellow. Beyond the wall of the courtyard I can see an ancient stone church,
whose ruined bell tower gleams spectrally in the moonlight.
I tell myself
I'm crazy: if the Jackal wakes, he'll take his pistol and he'll look for
me, to kill me. Death doesn't frighten me. But he'll go on torturing me and
that I know I can't take.
I remain in the
courtyard. The night is silent. Very silent. Far away the howling of a
jackal. A warning? A funeral lament? For whom?
I shrug.
Some night bird
is flying: I can see its outline against the sky. It isn't a bird: it's a
bat. The jackal howls again.
It's cold here.
I enter the
room. There is only one candle, now. I approach the bed. The Jackal is
sleeping, face down. I look at his body, at his ass.
And suddenly I
am raging. I don't try to reason, I act on impulse: no caution, no
deliberation. I just grab him by the hair and throw him on the floor. Then
I'm on him, I take his head, I slam it against the floor, once, twice,
three times. I can hear the sound of his nose breaking. He moans.
|
|
|
The Jackal is dragged
from sleep by the feeling of his nose breaking against the floor. White
pain explodes in his head and he is too stunned to fight back coherently.
He puts up his arms to fend off a series of blows, but they come too
quickly, landing on his face, his chest, his neck. He reels under the
onslaught, then the blows strike him lower down, expelling the air from his
lungs and, finally, doubling him over as a foot slams itself against his
balls.
|
I turn him,
there is a lot of blood on his face. I beat his face and his chest with my
fists, until they ache, then I rise. I begin kicking his stomach and his
crotch with my feet. Then I grab him again, I drag him to the table, I slam
his face against the edge. He moans. I take his handcuffs and I lock his
hands against his back. I put a chain around his ankles.
I lift him. He
is standing against the table, leaning on it for support. I kick his nuts.
He bends and I kick again and again.
We don't say a
word. No lack of noises, but not a word. He twists and spins under my
attack. Eventually he falls chest-down on the table. I fasten his ankle
chain to the hooks at the base of the table.
|
|
|
The onslaught
continues. Blow after blow pummels his body, pounding him into dazed
submission.
A tiny part of
his brain rejoices, almost drowned out by the adrenalin-induced fighting
rage of the rest of his system.
At last there
is a break in the beating, allowing him to catch his breath and his wits.
There is blood all over the table from his broken nose, and his nuts feel like
they have swollen to the size of watermelons. He hears the wet, squishy
sound of flesh pumping flesh and realizes that the bounty hunter is trying
to stroke himself to an erection.
|
I want to fuck him, to show him who is
the man here. I stroke my cock, I look at his ass, at his hairy asshole and
I tell myself that I'm going to fuck him. I stroke my cock, but it remains
flabby.
Nothing.
I try again. No
result.
|
|
|
Despite the
pain, the Jackal chuckles softly.
"The spirit
is willing, but the flesh is weak, huh?"
The words have
the desired effect.
|
I grab his head
and I slam it against the table. He moans.
I try for the
third time. Useless.
The fury
subsides. No, it doesn't. It becomes a cold rage.
I leave him on the
table. I go to the hearth. No flames, only the embers. I add some small
branches and they begin to burn. Then I add some wood. Soon the flames are
blazing again. I smile.
I take the
fireplace poker and put it in the flames.
|
|
|
When the stars
clear from his vision, the Jackal looks around to see where his tormentor
has gone, spotting him over by the fireplace. He tries to run over to bash
Silas' brains in, but his legs don't move. Why not...?
Oh, they've
somehow become chained to the table. He realizes he is well and truly
fucked; even with his abnormal strength, he cannot break the heavy chains
around his ankles, though reflexes beyond his control force him to try,
over and over. With each unsuccessful lunge, the tiny part of his brain
grows bolder and bolder in its gloating and brings a smile to his face.
|
I turn and I
look at the Jackal. I can see him better now. He's looking at me, grinning,
even though his face is covered with blood.
I wait a few
minutes, then I take a rag, I wrap it round the end of the iron rod, to
hold it without burning my hand.
"Ready,
Jackal? This hot cock is for you."
|
|
|
He braces
himself when the bounty hunter starts to move, knowing the pain is about to
become much worse.
He has some clue
from the hunter's remark where the iron is going to strike. Even so, when
the skin of his ass begins to register heat, he barely has time to flinch
before the burning brand plunges into his ass. Fire lances up to engulf his
entire body, and he screams in agony. His legs tremble and twitch as he
strains to flee, but there is no escape from the sizzling, searing,
interminable pain. Eventually, he runs out of air and blackness covers him.
|
The stink of
burning flesh and the scream of the Jackal give me such pleasure! I push
and I push, forcing the rod inside his ass. He doesn't scream any more. He
has passed out.
I leave the rod
in his ass and I lift him onto the table. I free his hands and I chain him
exactly as he chained me, arms over his head. Then I climb on top of the
table and I stand there, my feet on either side of his head. I begin to
gently kick his head.
"Wake up,
Jackal."
He moans and he
looks at me. I smile, I put a foot on his neck, pressing. Then I begin to
piss on his face. He closes his eyes.
|
|
|
The Jackal
barely has time to take a breath before his throat is closed off and he is
cut off from the air. A stream of warm piss rains down on his face. He
shuts his eyes, but the liquid still spatters into his nose and mouth,
running down his cheeks and into his ears.
|
"Now,
we're gonna have us a little fun. Pain, you said, pain is... aw, what'd you
say? 'The only emotion...' All that shit about pain. Ah s'pose the hot rod
in your ass ain't enough, so Ah'll git you some more pain."
I laugh. I walk
on the table. I press my right foot on his nuts, I play with them, gently.
Then I play less gently, I kick them.
Then I jump
with both feet onto his belly. I hear the crack of his ribs and his scream.
Great!
|
|
|
He tries to
take a breath to scream and realizes that the boulder that has fallen onto
his chest... no, it's Silas... has cracked his ribs. The scream comes out
like a faint whistle. The pain is unbelievable, and yet, as bad as it is,
at least it's not that relentless emptiness. Anything, any sensation, is
better than that endless, yawning blank. He dares to hope that the end
might finally, finally be near.
|
"Yer
right, Mr. Pain. Inflicting pain is good. Yer a damn fine teacher, Jackal.
Yer last lesson was a valuable one."
I climb down. I
extract the rod from his ass. He screams again. I put it on the fire and I
see there is a shadow moving in a corner. I'm startled, but it's only a
large rat that disappears in the courtyard.
|
|
|
The Jackal
strains to breathe with his damaged chest. Already, it seems, the pain is
lessening, but that could just be his imagination. His nose definitely
feels better, though it remains clogged shut so that he can only breathe
through his mouth.
|
Then I look for
the lash. I find it and I pick it up.
I approach. The
Jackal is going to feel it.
I whip his
chest, his belly. Slowly, so he can savor each one.
"What'd
you say... 'If I was you... some goddamn emotion for a change!' You feelin'
any goddamn emotion yet, you sumbitch?"
And I go on lashing
him, speeding up and putting more force into it.
Now there are
red marks all over his chest and the tender flesh of his belly is bleeding.
But I don't stop and the marks become wounds, growing larger and deeper. I
see his body jerking and I like it. But I don't know if he's enjoying it.
|
|
|
Oh, it hurts,
it hurts. Each stroke by itself is not so bad, but very soon they begin to
blend together into one huge wound across his entire body. He flails and thrashes
under the blows, held fast by the chains no matter how hard he struggles.
The rain of lashes continues and the Jackal shouts and screams in torment.
A final few
land between his legs and he practically erupts off the table, nearly
wrenching his shoulders out of his sockets as he strains to pull free.
|
Perhaps now he
has had enough pain to satisfy him. I let the lash fall to the floor.
I take his cock
and I begin to stroke it. I can see the red scars of the lash. He lifts his
face, a mask of blood, and he smiles.
|
|
|
"Who's the
faggot, here?" the Jackal goads.
Oh, yes, he has
chosen well, indeed. Despite the pain, despite the blood and piss soaking
his eyes, despite the burns and the bruises and the fractured bones, the Jackal
feels his cock slowly, slowly begin to stiffen until it is as hard as it
was when it was buried in Silas's guts. Then the gentle massage stops and
he looks up to see what has happened. He catches sight of Silas returning
from the hearth with the glowing branding iron in his hand and he knows
what is coming next.
His dick has no
time to soften and thus is still swollen rock solid when the red iron meets
its purple head. The Jackal's entire body lights up like a thunderhead. The
iron sears its way through the skin and into the meat beneath, every nerve
ending singing in a chorus of fiery pain. The blackness creeps in at the
corners of his vision again and he welcomes the brief relief that it
offers.
|
He was right.
Giving pain is good.
"Yew wear the
mark a Silas Rendman, now," I tell him. He doesn't hear me.
I put the rod
on the fire again.
While he's
unconscious, I free him and I turn him back onto his belly. I chain him.
Then I press his face in the pool of my piss.
I look at his
strong body, his ass and the burned asshole. I can see the burn, but I
thought it would be worse. Ah, well. His nuts are pressed against the
table.
Then I take the
hot rod and press it against his nuts. He wakes up screaming.
"Hey,
Jackal, ya shouldn't sleep during the show! It ain't polite. Ah'm doin' all
this fer you, y'know. Least you c'd do's try ta stay awake!"
|
|
|
He twitches and
jerks in the chains. The fire in his nuts blazes hot as the whip begins to
fall again, this time striking his bare back and shoulders and ass. The
Jackal's whole body is one lump of tortured flesh, and he begins to wonder
when Silas will notice that any normal man would have long since gone into
a coma or even died from the shock of such massive trauma.
Silas is too
absorbed in his revenge to catch on, though.
|
At last I stop.
His back is a patchwork of bleeding wounds.
I am satisfied.
"Know what
Ah'm fixin' to do, Jackal?" I tell him. "Ah'm fixin' to cut your
cock and your nuts off and make a nice li'l cunt in your belly. Think that'll
give you pain enough?"
I laugh.
|
|
|
He leaves then
and returns with the Jackal's knife. It's large and heavy and wickedly
sharp. The Jackal feels its point teasing his seared, charred ass, then
feels it slide straight in. He screams, noticing as he does that his ribs
don't hurt nearly as much as they did. His nose feels much better, too.
Even the whip marks on his chest don't feel quite so raw rubbing against
the stone table.
But the cost of
all this rapid healing is steep - the Jackal is exhausted. He needs water
and food or he is going to lose consciousness. Not just yet, though. Silas
has yet to clue in, but surely he'll notice soon. The Jackal grimly hangs
on, fighting the sleep that threatens to claim him.
|
That scream...
what music to my ears!
Satisfied,
Jackal?
I take the
knife out. A stream of blood runs from his asshole, but it stops soon.
I free his
hands and his feet and I turn him. He is too feeble to react. I chain him
again, his back on the table.
I look at his body
and I'm stunned. There were a lot of wounds and red marks, but now all I
can see are some bruises. All the cuts have closed up. It's not possible.
How can the Jackal's body heal so quickly? I look at his cock: even the
brand I did on the dickhead is fading.
I look at him
and I see he is smiling. A tired smile, but he is smiling.
I don't
understand.
"Fuck!
What's..."
|
|
|
The Jackal
answers. "Silas," he croaks, "if you'd be so kind as to
refill that canteen from the well outside and bring it over, I'd be much
obliged. And some of those biscuits and jerky? And the sugar? You don't
have to, of course, but if I don't get some food in me, I'm liable to pass
out and I have a feeling you might like some answers before I do
that."
Silas slowly
brings the food and water over to where the Jackal lies chained like a
sacrifice. He trickles the water into his mouth and feeds him the jerky and
biscuits, each bite covered with a heaping mound of sugar. The Jackal eats
and drinks and regains his strength, and when he is nourished, he begins to
tell a tale.
|
|
|
Once there was
a little boy (the Jackal says). Maybe seven or eight years old. He lived
with his tribe, twenty or so people who lived off the land, hunting and
fishing and gathering what they needed. It was a good land but a cold one,
with brief summers and long, frigid winters. Still, there was plenty of
game to hunt and the tribe was content. The little boy was even happy, in
his small way.
But his people
were not the only ones who lived in the area. There were others as well,
others who looked like men but weren't. Their heads were sloped, their
bodies were large and stocky, and their eyes were shaded by huge ridges of
bone. They could not speak as men spoke, but instead grunted and growled
like animals. Yet they were as smart as men, and that made them dangerous.
The boy had
never seen one of these not-men, but he had heard stories of them. The men
of the tribe occasionally met with not-men on their hunting trips, and usually
clashed with them when they did.
One spring
morning, the boy was out exploring along a stream when he heard a horrible
commotion. He ran back to his tribe's campsite but stopped before he got
there, peering out from the bushes at the sight of his world turning upside
down.
A pack of
not-men was attacking his tribe. There were many of them, at least two for
every one of his family. The men tried to put up a defense, but the not-men
were stronger and there were more of them. The boy watched as his parents,
uncles, aunts, cousins were butchered without mercy and left to rot in the
warm sun.
The boy was
terrified, but there was nothing he could do. He stayed hidden in the
bushes until long after the not-men had left. Only when he was sure they
were gone did he venture out to face the devastation of his world. He sat
and cried for a long time, hoping that someone else might have escaped the
destruction and would return to care for him. No one did.
As
night neared, the frightened boy was confronted by yet another stranger. He
stood to flee, but this stranger turned out be a woman who looked like a
radiant goddess and spoke to him kindly in the language of his people. She
led him away from the ruins of his former life and spun a wondrous story
for him. In this story, the boy learned more about the two kinds of men,
which the goddess called humans and Neanderthals, and of how they were
locked in a struggle for control of the land, a struggle which the
Neanderthals were winning.
"But
how?" the boy asked. "They can't even speak."
True, the
Neanderthals could not speak, she told him, but they were as intelligent as
humans, and they were stronger and tougher and better adapted to the land.
If things continued as they were, the Neanderthals would win control of
this continent, then expand to other lands until the true humans were
driven into extinction. And that, she stressed, would be a terrible thing.
This the boy
could understand. He had just lost everyone in the world he had ever known;
to contemplate the death of everyone in the whole world was not a great
leap. In the way of children, he immediately reached the conclusion that he
was already the last human on earth and burst into fresh tears. The goddess
consoled him and assured him that others still lived, though in the long
run they were ultimately doomed... except for one hope: him.
"Me?
You're joking," he sniffled.
But no, she was
serious. She told him of how, if he agreed to help, she would use her
powers to make him even stronger than the strongest Neanderthal, and
smarter and faster and tougher as well. More importantly, she would change
his body so that he could never be killed, no matter how badly he was
injured. He would become the champion of the true humans. It would be his
duty to make the land safe for his people by eliminating the Neanderthal
threat, and in return for his labors, he would receive eternal life in an
indestructible body. But only if he agreed to help her. If not... she
turned to look back down the path toward the devastated camp site.
Of course the
boy agreed.
And so the boy
was brought to a place like a cave, but with all straight lines and flat
surfaces, gleaming with white and silver. There he met the goddess's
helpers, all of whom took the form of humans though obviously they were spirits
in disguise. The goddess herself departed, only dropping in on very rare
occasions to check on his progress. The very infrequency of her visits only
made him adore her all the more and strive to please her with his
dedication.
The process of
his transformation was a long one. Over and over, the spirits would cast
him into a deep sleep while they made a change to his body, then let him
wake and heal and adapt to the change, then repeat the process all over
again. There was discomfort, even pain, but that didn't matter; he had a
purpose.
At last, five
winters later, the changes were finished. The boy was perhaps thirteen
years old. They spent the next two years training him to be a one-man
Neanderthal-killing machine, teaching him to fight barehanded and with
weapons, to hunt and gather and cook his food, to hide and spy and learn,
to evaluate the best way to inflict maximum damage on the enemy while
taking minimal damage to himself. For while he was assured that his body
could never be destroyed, it could still feel pain and be injured and even
become temporarily incapacitated until it had a chance to heal itself, and
so he was taught to avoid pain and injury.
With the
changes they had made, he was unstoppable. He had the strength of three
ordinary men, unbelievably keen vision and hearing, inconceivable stamina,
inhuman speed. They had given him an enormous memory and the ability to
rapidly learn new languages, concepts, and ideas, the better to be able to
fit in to the human societies he would encounter.
Bright-eyed
idealist that he was, he was eager to get started on his mission and repay
the goddess who had saved his life. In his adolescent way, he even harbored
fantasies that if he performed his task well enough, one day she would
return for him and take him for her own, saying "you have done well,
my true and loyal servant".
She did come on
his graduation day to wish him well and reiterate that all of humanity was
counting on him. She kissed him, a chaste kiss on his forehead and he
beamed under her admiration. Then they turned him loose to begin his
mission.
He never saw
the goddess or any of the others again.
Those first few
decades, life was a glorious succession of victories. With every
Neanderthal he injured or killed, he found he got a furious rush of
pleasure through his modified brain, more intense than any orgasm. And the
rush was nearly constant, because all around him was a seemingly endless
supply of prey. Every double-handspan of days he was able to track down
another tribe of not-men and put them to slaughter. He quickly found that
the rush of pleasure was even more intense the longer he drew out a
victim's death; this allowed him to float for days on a never-ending
endorphin high if he found a suitably large pack.
There were
setbacks. Once a pack of not-men came upon him while he was sleeping. He
was awakened by the thrust of a flint blade straight through his throat. He
sat up, choking and gagging on blood, terrified that it had all been a
dream and that death had snuck up on him. He sat, disoriented and helpless,
while the not-men slashed at him with their stone knives until he lost so
much blood that he passed out, his last thought the fear that he would
never awaken. But awaken he did, some unknown time later, his body
miraculously restored to health. Within a few days, even the lingering ache
in his throat had faded and it was as if the incident had never happened.
Another time
one of the beasts managed to catch him by surprise and hacked his arm off
just below the shoulder before he could get away. He fled and waited, and
before the moon had completed its cycle, a new arm had grown in its place,
itching and burning as it grew until it was identical to the old. When the
new arm was as strong as the original, he tracked down the not-man who had
done it to him. He pinned the creature by putting its own arm under an
enormous boulder, then left its knife within reach. When he checked back a
few days later, it was clear that the not-man had not succeeded in freeing
itself before the arrival of the wolves.
He roved from
place to place, settling himself with a human clan for a time while he
cleared the surrounding area of enemies, then moving on to another hunting
ground when the supply of prey ran thin. He never stayed in one place long
enough for his ageless body to become an issue.
Inevitably,
though, the pickings became fewer and farther between. Some four or five
hundred years after beginning his mission, he found he was only tracking down
groups of his enemy once or twice a year, and instead of packs of fifty or
sixty, they were groups of five or eight or ten. After another few
centuries, there were almost none left. He had to range all across the
great icy continent to find isolated packs of survivors clinging to life in
marginal territories.
He spent more
and more time in human villages, sometimes staying long enough that people
began to wonder at his lack of wrinkles and his thick head of hair. Each
time it happened he would be forced to move on, roaming the land in search
of his increasingly elusive Neanderthal prey.
At last there
came a time when no matter how hard he searched, he could find no trace of
his quarry Some two thousand years from his birth (though his knowledge of
the passage of time was only an estimate), he reached the conclusion that
he had at last accomplished his goal. There were no more Neanderthals to be
hunted, because they were all extinct. And with that conclusion, thoughts
that had been churning around in his head for many hundreds of years
finally crystallized and he was able to articulate them.
He had been
duped. The great prize that he had been offered in exchange for his
tireless service - eternal life - was actually a curse.
He was an
immortal in a world of mortals. He could no more form lasting relationships
with any of the humans whose place in the world he had secured than he
could bond with a sparrow or a damselfly. Their brief lives simply blinked
by too quickly. By the time he had settled himself comfortably in with a
group, the young adults had suddenly turned grey and feeble, the infants
were grown into men and women with babies of their own, and inevitably the
questions would come: Why do you look so young? Why is your hair still
thick, with no trace of grey? Why is your skin so smooth and unlined? And
off he would have to go to start over again.
The worst of
it, though, was the complete lack of acknowledgement from the goddess
(though of course he had long since ceased to think of her as such) and her
minions. They had formed him and shaped him to be a tool they could use for
their purpose and sent him off full of their righteous zeal. Now that the
task was accomplished, he was of no further use to them, and they clearly
wasted none of their time thinking about him.
And so he was
left to drift through the centuries, growing ever more bitter at his
continuing existence and yet utterly unable to end it. For he found that
among the changes they had made to his brain to ensure his continuing
effectiveness as their tool was this: he could not even think about
suicide, much less act on such an impulse. There were some thoughts that
were simply unthinkable with his modified brain. It was only after many
years that he was able to come around to the subject obliquely, by thinking
about it in a hypothetical, abstract way: "What if there were an
immortal who wanted to die? How might he go about it?"
As the great
glaciers receded and agriculture began to flourish in Europe, he tested the
limits of what he was allowed to do and what was forbidden him. He found
that, for example, he could not cut himself deliberately with a knife,
though clearly he could be cut by accident or by someone else's action. He
was able to climb to the top of a high cliff to admire the view, but not
with the intention of throwing himself off of it. He could, however, fall
by accident, if he were able to distract himself enough so that his brain
didn't notice the danger he was in.
Achieving the
right level of distraction was a difficult task, as anyone who has ever
tried to not think of something can attest to. But every once in a while,
he was able to succeed in doing himself harm, and the results were as
dissatisfying as ever.
He fell off of
cliffs; his body throbbed with pain for days while he lay broken and bloody
at the bottom, but he healed. He contrived "accidents" that
resulted in the loss of arms or legs or both; they grew back, painfully,
over the course of several weeks. He rowed out to sea in a flimsy boat,
which fell apart during a storm; his body sank to the bottom and water
filled his lungs. The whole time he stayed conscious, constantly living the
experience of drowning, his lungs burning in constant agony but still able
to filter sufficient oxygen from the water to keep him alive enough that he
could crawl inch by inch across the sea floor until he reached the shore
again.
Once he even
managed to hurl himself into the crater of a volcano. His entire body
vaporized when it hit the lava. There was a brief moment of the most
intense agony he had ever known and then at last there was only blessed
darkness.
But it was not
to last. He later deduced that his skull, his indestructible skull, had
remained intact in the fiery cauldron. It floated to the top of the lava,
bobbing like a cork until at last it was ejected out with a molten stream.
Away from the heat, the lava cooled and hardened with the skull floating on
top of it. Slowly, over years, the magic that kept him alive scavenged bits
of blown leaves and rock and water and sunlight to rebuild his body. He
awoke some indeterminate time later, lying naked on the rock, ravenously
hungry, with every cell in his reconstructed body singing in agony. The
sensation took years to fade.
After that, he
gave up trying to kill himself, drifting instead from place to place,
settling in for a decade or two and then moving on, to India, China, the
Pacific islands, Africa, eventually the New World. No matter where he went,
he found nothing that could ever bring him the joy he had known when he had
a purpose to fulfil. He was left with no reason to live and no way to die.
|
I listen while
he talks. His story is a long one, very long. It sounds like it has to be a
fairy tale, but I can see his body healing with my own eyes.
I look at his
cock. The burn mark is just a purple scar, the flesh only a little swollen,
and while he is going on telling me things that make no sense, the dickhead
is regaining its usual look. It's slow, but I can see it changing.
I look at my
two brands and I can see the flesh still red and inflamed. On my body, some
of the wounds from the lash are bleeding, probably because I reopened the
cuts when I was moving around, beating and whipping him. His wounds are all
closed up. They're more recent, but they look much older.
I look again at
him and I see his cockhead is even better than it was a few minutes ago.
How does he do it?
It's getting
dark in the room again: the fire has burned down and only one candle is
burning. I light a second candle and I put some more wood on the fire.
I try to listen
to his fairy tale. If it is a fairy tale, we're in it. No, he's in it, I'm
not. My body still aches. I try to make sense out of his words.
I understand
that he wants to die. He found the right man: I'll kill him, that's for
sure. There's no way I'm going to let him live, not after what he did to
me. This was business at first, but now it's personal. I hate him. I want
to see him dying. Not a quick death, either. A long, painful, humiliating
agony.
|
|
|
"Quite a tale,
wouldn't you say, Silas?" The Texas accent is back. "Might Ah
have a few more drops out a that canteen? My throat's feelin' mighty
parched."
Silas feeds him
several swallows, then the Jackal continues speaking. His body feels strong
again. The pain is still there, especially in his balls and his ass, but he
can breathe through his nose again, and his ribs are merely stiff and sore.
"Now, Ah
cain't rightly say as Ah'd blame you fer not swallerin' a blamed word of
it. It sure don't sound like nothin' any man could believe. And yet Ah
would ask you to think very carefully 'bout what you might be fixin' ta do
next.
"Let's
s'pose, just idle speculation here, that you might be aimin' ta take the
body of a certain wanted man with you ta Santa Fe so's you kin claim that
reward."
|
You can bet!
That's exactly what I'll do. I've earned that reward, that's for damn sure.
The Jackal humiliated me, wounded me, branded me. That twenty grand is
mine!
|
|
|
Now, ordinarily,
it wouldn't be no business a mine how you might want to go 'bout that. But
since Ah'm currently usin' the body in question, Ah reckon that gives me
some say in the matter. And my suggestion to you would be that you might
want ta make abso-damn-sure that the body yer transportin' ain't liable ta
wake up mid-journey and knock you clean off yer horse.
|
I shrug my
shoulders: how hard can it be? When he has ten bullets in his guts, he
won't wake up... will he? There are almost no traces of the whipping and
the burning...
No problem. I
can kill him and then tie him up, so even if he wakes up, he can't free
himself. I'll give him to the sheriff, dead or alive, what's the
difference? This bag of shit is worth $20,000 either way.
|
|
|
"No, what
you need ta do is..." the Jackal chokes on the words, his lips trying
to move but no sound emerging.
"Let's
talk about something else," he says, the Texas twang gone again.
"Let's say that, hypothetically speaking, this boy I've been telling
you about, now grown into a young-looking but actually very old man, has
learned a thing or two since his dive into the volcano.
For instance, he suspects that the
magic that keeps him alive is probably not magic at all. Times have changed
since he was born to a primitive tribe in Ice-Age Europe. We don't live in
a world of gods and angels and spirits any more, do we? No, we live in an
age of science and machines. That woman was no goddess, she was something
else. He's not sure what, maybe an alien from another world with a soft
spot for our kind of human, or maybe a time traveler from the distant
future trying to make sure that history happened the way it was supposed
to. Or something stranger that he'll never understand.
"Anyway,
this boy has figured out that what she did to him was probably something of
a mechanical nature, and this has given him a new angle to approach his
problem with. He knows that the machines are too small to see, and far
beyond anything any man could build today, but at their heart, they're just
machines. Not spirits, not demons, not magic: machines.
"He's also
figured out that he's been thinking about the situation the wrong way. All
this time, he's been asking himself 'how can I end my life?', and that's
the wrong question. The right question, the question he should be asking,
is 'how can I end my consciousness?'. He knows from his volcano
adventure that if enough of his body is destroyed, if he has no brain left
to think with, then his consciousness goes away until his body is rebuilt.
So what he has to figure out is how to put himself to sleep and then dis...
disable the machines."
|
He seems to be
having trouble speaking. Why? It can't be his injuries, they're almost
gone.
It doesn't matter.
It's not my problem. It's the Jackal's problem. What, he'll wake up and
climb out of his grave? Great - I'll capture him a second time and get
another $20,000! But once I get the first $20,000, I won't need to hunt for
outlaws anymore: I'll have enough money to live worry-free. So, who gives a
damn about the Jackal, dead, alive, free, hanged, rotting?
He asks for
some more water and I give it to him.
|
|
|
"After
long, careful thought," the Jackal continues, "here's what he thinks
the key is: machines need fuel to run, right? No fuel, no function. They
shut down. If the machines can't rebuild his body and bring him back to
consciousness, then that's just as good as dying, wouldn't you think?
Hypothetically speaking, of course, since this guy isn't allowed to
actually think about such things really happening, much less tell anyone
else how to help him do it.
"So what
this guy needs to do is figure out how to convince someone to...
to..." he chokes and gags, trying to get the words out.
"... to
de... de... desssssssstroy his body as completely as possible, especially
his brain, then lock his skull awa..." here he breaks off and can't
continue.
There is a long
pause while the Jackal gets himself under control. Finally, he continues.
"It seems
like the things these machines need to rebuild a body are sunlight and any
natural material, like bits of plants or animals. Even dirt and air and
water would do, though it takes much longer that way. Metal, though,
doesn't work; they couldn't build a new body out of iron or steel. So the
thing he absolutely would NOT want to have happen would be for his...
his... brain to be dessssssssssstroyed. In a fire, for his indestructible
s... s... sk... skull to get l... l... locked in a... a fucking airtight
iron box, ah SHIT! And... and... and thrown OH, FUCK! down a goddamn mine
shaft!"
He is breathing
heavily, exhausted at the effort of forcing the words out. When he is
calmer he speaks again.
"That
would be terrible for him, if that were to happen." The Jackal looks
imploringly into the bounty hunter's eyes. "Terrible for all humanity,
for it would mean the end of his mission to defeat the Neanderthal
menace."
He holds the
hunter's gaze for a long moment, then drops his head to the table and
stares blankly at the ceiling. He twists his arms and legs, savoring the
pain of limbs gone numb from long restraint in one position.
"He's had
to look long and hard, our guy, hunting for a certain kind of man with the
strength of will to carry out the job. He thought he had found the right
one a few years back, a certain sheriff in Santa Fe. But it turns out the
sheriff didn't have the stomach for the task, and didn't do it the way it
needed to be done. Maybe he didn't believe that such a crazy, preposterous
story could be true.
"He found
out, though. The job he left unfinished came back and finished him
instead."
|
I realize.
Immediately. This is no longer about the reward. If I don't kill him, he'll
kill me. I mean, if I'm not able to kill him completely, he'll wake up
and...
Shit! I feel
trapped. He's the one chained to the table, and yet I'm the one who's
trapped! He goes on and I listen.
|
|
|
"Now you
listen close, Silas Rendman. If you do your job right, there won't be any
body for you to bring back to Santa Fe, which means you're out the $20,000
you're looking for. So I want to make it up to you. In that airtight iron
box" - he looks meaningfully into Silas's eyes with the words - "over
by the table, you'll find my notebook. In it there are directions to an
abandoned mine about thirty miles north of here. That mine shaft would be
the perfect place to... finishhhh y... your task, and you'll find something
there that should make your effort worth your while. Something to reward
you for your hard work, something a little more tangible than the pleasure
which, if you're the kind of man I think you are, you'll take in doing your
duty.
|
It makes no
sense. Bullshit, it has be all bullshit. What if he's stringing me on and I
don't find anything? Then I've got nothing, nothing from the Jackal and no
body to bring to Santa Fe. No, it's better to bring him to the US and...
|
|
|
"One last
thing... I'm not so naive as to think I'll never wake up again. But if I
can get ten or fifty or a hundred thousand years out of this, then I'll be
content. You may be in this for the money, but for me, getting to sleep for
so long... that's the kind of reward I'm hoping for. Maybe after that much
time the world will have changed enough that I'll find something in it to
pique my interest again. Maybe I'll even find a once-and-for-all solution
to my problem."
"But
Silas, mark my words: if you fail me, and you're still alive when I wake
up, I will hunt you down and make what I did to that sheriff seem like a
Sunday picnic."
He drops his
head to the hard stone again. "Now. Make it hurt."
|
I'm trapped,
alright. I don't know if he's telling me the truth or playing me for some
kind of fool, but I have no choice. There are no bruises, no marks at all
on his body. After everything I did to him, his skin is fresh and unlined.
He could be covered in someone else's blood instead of his own.
Shit! Shit!
Shit!
'Make it hurt,'
he said. Well, that much, Jackal, I can promise you!
But not now.
I'm spent, drained of all energy. I sit on the chair. I look at him,
resting on the table. He has no way of escape. But neither do I. Even if I
throw him, chained, into the pit, sooner or later he'll come out and he'll
look for me. I don't want to live with that nightmare!
I could bring
him to the sheriff, take the reward and then tip the gravedigger to have
his corpse back, but... what if something goes wrong? No, better to try
with the mine. He's in my hands, but I'm in his, as well. Shit! He'll pay
for this, I'll make him pay.
I'm exhausted.
I need sleep. Well, it's almost morning, and I've got plenty of time. But
before I go to sleep, I'll give him something to keep him busy while he's
waiting for the next round.
I go back out
to the well and fill the canteens again. In the growing light of the coming
dawn, I get a better look at the water, the same water he drank last night.
It's foul, muddy stuff. I wouldn't drink it, but it's fine for what I have
in mind.
On the other
side of the courtyard I see the remains of old wooden door. Long nails are
hanging from one hinge. I look at them. They are rusty. I manage to pull
them out. Then I pick up a stone.
On my way back
in, I see another rat in the corridor, but he runs away. I watch him go, an
idea forming in my brain.
I go back in.
The Jackal is lying on the table, his eyes closed. He opens them when he
hears me.
I make my
preparations. I pour the water into a metal basin and put it on the fire. Then
I take the stone and two needles and I look at the Jackal. He smiles. Does
he know what is waiting for him? Perhaps.
"OK,
Jackal. Ah'm goin' ta catch a few winks, but Ah don't want ta leave you
here all alone, without some token of my friendship..."
I look at his
large nuts. "We'll start right here." I grab the right nut and I
squeeze it, gently. "Ready?"
I don't wait
for his answer. I put the point of one nail against his right nut and I press,
until I cut the skin and some drops of blood fall. Then I hold the nail in
my left hand and with the right one I take the stone. I show it to the
Jackal. He understands.
With all my
strength I hit the nail with the stone: the nail goes through his nut and
he screams, he screams, he screams. Fuck! This is great.
I can't nail
him to the table: this white stone is too hard. But the point of the nail
appears on the other side of his nut.
"A little
pain for you, my friend!"
I laugh and I
add: "And some more!"
I take his left
nut. I can see his body tensing. Then I hit and again I can hear his
scream, but it's a shorter one.
|
|
|
Ahhhhh, the
pain! His balls had just started to feel normal again after the pounding
they had taken earlier, and now they're skewered like shish-kabobs on rusty
nails. The Jackal lifts his head to try to see what Silas has done to him.
He catches a glimpse of two meaty orbs impaled on brown shafts, blood
seeping out around the entry points, then has to let his head fall back again.
|
"Let's
jes' see how quickly you can heal up with them nails still stuck inside
you. Oh, and there's something else Ah want to leave you with..."
I take an empty
bottle and break the bottom against the table. Then I untie his legs and I
lift them over his head, bending his body. I chain his left ankle to his
left hand and do the same with the right ones. It's not a comfortable
position, but that's not my problem. It won't be his biggest problem,
either.
I take the
bottle. I go to the hearth and check the water. It's boiling. I come back.
I gently caress his asshole with one of the glass points of the broken
bottle: the point scratches his skin and I can see the blood running.
"Ready fer
some more pain?"
|
|
|
"The
fuck's wrong with you, boy?" the Jackal says. "You got a dick,
you got a fuckable hole right in front a you, and yer messin' around with a
beer bottle? What' you waitin' fer an engraved invitation or somethin'? Or
maybe yer dick only works when yer the one gittin' yer fudge packed?"
|
His taunting
words make my blood boil, but I stay in control. I push the neck of the
bottle into his asshole.
|
|
|
Trying to
ignore the pain in his balls, the Jackal shifts his voice to a higher
pitch. "Ooh," he teases. "Do it to me, you big burly...
bottle! Nothing keeps a lady warm on a cold night like the company of a
strong, handsome... bottle! Oh, Silas, you're my hero, my knight in
shining... glass!"
|
I don't answer.
When the neck of the bottle is completely down his ass, I go to the hearth.
I use some rags to lift the pot with the boiling water. I go to the table,
I smile to the Jackal, who suddenly understands what is going to happen,
and I begin to pour the hot water through the neck of the bottle.
The teasing
stops, replaced by a scream, while the boiling water fills his innards. I
like this scream. I love him. He doesn't faint. He goes on grunting and
moaning, sighing and wailing. It's beautiful music.
I take the bottle
out and I shove a stone in, sealing his asshole. I wrap some rope around
his waist, crossing between his legs and over his hole to stop him from
forcing the stone out. I look at him, at his distorted face, at his
trembling body. Good, very good. I am satisfied.
I lie down on
the bed and fall asleep immediately.
|
|
|
|
I wake up. It's
morning still, but much later, closer to midday. I look at the Jackal. He's
still bent on the table, in that awkward, absurd position. He certainly
couldn't escape. He's looking at me.
I smile.
"Hope you
slept well," I tell him.
I need to piss,
so I go over to the table. I look at his nuts, hanging almost over his
head. The nails are still in place. There is some blood on the skin, but the
nuts are not too badly swollen.
I smile, I
climb on the table and I piss on his ass. Then I bend and I take the nails
out of his nuts. He jerks, but he doesn't say a word. Some blood drips from
the wounds.
I untie the
waist rope and take out the stone plugging his asshole. Dirty water begins
to gush from his ass, flowing down both front and back, over his dick and
splashing onto his face.
I take the rope
and I make a noose. I put it around his neck and I tie it. He gulps and he
looks at me.
"Not yet,
Jackal, not yet, but we're gittin' close. Ah need a li'l somethin' fer the
last part a the show, so Ah'll jes' head down t' town, now. Yew wait here,
but since waitin' fer me could be boring, Ah'll help you ta pass the
time."
I tie the rope
to a leg of the table. If he tries to move while I'm untying his legs or
his arms, he'll strangle himself.
Then I free his
legs, but I quickly chain them together. Now he can lie flat on the table.
I give a sharp jerk to the rope and quickly, very quickly, I free his hands,
I turn him and I cuff his hands again, behind his back. He tries to react,
but the rope strangles him and he is forced to lie still.
Now he's lying
on the table, his face down on the pool formed by my piss and the filthy
water that has seeped out of his ass.
I bend his legs
and I tie his ankles to the rope around his neck. I pull the rope tight
enough that it lifts his knees up off the table, so tight that he is bent
into the shape of a C.
"You know,
Jackal, outlaws like you're s'pose ta get hanged. Now, Ah reckon this won't
do you in, but Ah still think you oughta get a taste a the rope. Right now,
you kin hold yer legs up and not get choked, but sooner or later, yer gonna
git tired. You won't be able ta keep your legs bent and then the fun'll
begin. Ah'll be back... well, whenever. Don' go nowhere, now."
I look at him,
stuck in that impossible position. I slap his ass, twice, grinning. He
grits his teeth.
I have a lot of
things to do. I get dressed.
"See you
later, Jackal. Lemme know how you enjoy this."
|
|
|
Silas's
footsteps grow fainter as he proceeds down the hall and into the courtyard.
For the moment, the position is not too uncomfortable. It is awkward to
lift his legs up because the motion goes against the natural tendency of
his muscles, but it's not impossible. He knows, though, that it's only a
matter of time before he tires.
He is torn. On
the one hand, his body has been put through hell. Even though he has
largely healed from the worst abuses, his nerves still echo the sensations.
He feels the lingering pain of the branding iron shoved up his ass, the
brutal flogging, the seared mark on the tip of his dick. The fresher pain
of the nails through his balls is still raw. He wishes he could look at his
nuts, see how they are recovering now that the spikes have been withdrawn,
but the angle is impossible.
On the other
hand, he is ecstatic. He has not felt so alive in years, since... well,
since that unfortunate incident with the sheriff from Santa Fe. He has
sometimes tried to communicate to normal humans how awfully isolated he
constantly feels. They never seem to understand. After so many thousands of
years, there is no experience that is new to him, nothing he hasn't done
countless times before. After so much repetition, it seems like the world is
not really real, it's like a vision lost in fog.
The only things
that can break through the gauzy veil that separates him from reality are
the extremes: pleasure and pain. It's hard to magnify pleasure to the
degree necessary to reach him, but cranking up the pain is much more easily
done. The only problem is finding someone to do it for him, since he is not
allowed to hurt himself.
His legs are
starting to grow tired. He finds he needs to relax his muscles. This means that
the pull on his neck increases, tightening the noose and threatening to
choke off his air. His head swells from the blood that becomes trapped in
it by the constricting rope. He rests his legs for as long as he can stand
it, then strains them again, providing welcome slack in the rope.
His thoughts
drift back to the Santa Fe sheriff. It had started out well - much like
this time, the Jackal had captured the sheriff, tortured him to give him
the motivation for revenge, then made sure he had the means to escape,
distracting himself from that "lapse" by focusing on the pain he
was inflicting on his "Neanderthal" victim.
Sheriff Palmer,
though, wasn't man enough to see it through. In hindsight, the Jackal
realized there just wasn't enough injury done to his too-quickly-healing
body for the sheriff to take his story seriously. Palmer wasn't as much of
a sadist as Silas; he was more interested in the fucking part. When he was
through, he sliced the Jackal's throat and as the blood drained from his
body, the Jackal welcomed the coming of the blackness.
But it didn't
last. Mere moments later, it seemed, though it must have been a day or two,
he awoke in suffocating darkness. He clawed his way, over the course of
several painful hours, up through layers of sandy soil, tearing his fingers
to shreds until he reached the moonlit scrubland above. He waited for his
hands to heal, then made his way back to town and surprised Palmer in his
bed.
Even then, the
Jackal could tell, the man had not fully believed him. Even with the
evidence of a dead man come back from the grave and standing by his
bedside, he still was not convinced. Perhaps he just didn't have the
imagination to deal with something so far outside his expectations. Over
the next four days, very unpleasant days for the sheriff, the Jackal kept
questioning him as he worked. "Now do you believe me? Now are you
convinced?"
Long before the
fourth day, the sheriff had changed his tune. Near the end, when the Jackal
was in the process of slowly peeling the skin from Palmer's face, leaving a
mask of bloody bone and muscle, Palmer freely, even enthusiastically
admitted that the Jackal's story must be true and that he had made a
terrible, horrible mistake by not believing him the first time.
Of course, he
also admitted to being Satan's catamite, a voodoo priestess, and the crown
prince of Russia.
The Jackal's
legs are completely spent now, and it has only been a handful of minutes
since Silas left. How much worse will it get before he comes back? The
choking sensation is constant; he doesn't have the strength to lift his
legs and ease the pressure. Air rasps painfully through his throat, in and
out in effort-filled, straining breaths. His head is stuffed and swollen
from the trapped blood. His vision is clouded and limited to a narrow
tunnel straight in front of his eyes.
He tries
rolling onto his side to see if that position is easier, but it is merely
different. The pressure on his throat is no less. He flails and thrashes,
straining to break free of the cuffs. Nothing helps. All he can do is lie
there and not die.
|
I reach the
town. My horse is still there. A miracle in this place. He needs to be
tended, it wasn't good for him to be left here during the night, but I
didn't expect to be gone so long.
I take my time
caring for the horse and lingering over a meal myself. Then I go looking
for what I need. Here in Boca Caliente you can find anything: a killer, a
whore, a weapon, a gem. Everything is for sale if you can meet the price. I
find what I'm looking for.
When I am ready,
I go back to the Spanish town with my horse. I tend him and I leave him
near the palace.
When I get to
the courtyard, I set down my bag and take my pistol out. What if the Jackal
freed himself? The corridor is not so dark now, it's still bright afternoon:
he's not hiding there. Everything is still.
I approach the
door to the Jackal's chamber. I can hear a hiss.
I go in. He's
right where I left him. He's not dead. Any other man would be. But he's
still breathing.
The hissing
sound is coming from him, from his throat where the air squeezes past the
rope. His face has turned purple and is covered with sweat. He's drooling
and a pool of spit and sweat lies under his head. A larger pool has soaked
his belly: he's pissed himself. Not unusual when a man is hanged. His fists
clench and unclench. He stinks.
I stand in
front of him a long time before he notices me. I can see his hate and I
laugh.
I go back to
the courtyard to fetch my bag.
|
|
|
The world is a pain-soaked
blur. There is no sound but the whistling of his breath through his throat.
Nothing to see but the red fog that fills his vision.
All the
thousands of years he has existed, and the Jackal can remember none of it.
There is only the now, this current moment that has lasted forever and will
last forever more. Like a dog, he has no past, no future, only this moment.
This moment of impossible suffering. He keeps hoping he will lose
consciousness, but it doesn't happen - his body has enough reserves to keep
him uselessly alert.
From out of the
red haze, a face swims into view. Fragments of memory come back. It's a
face he knows... ah, the bounty hunter. Why is he here now? Isn't it too
soon? Has something gone wrong with the plan he has so carefully laid? The
Jackal stares at him with loathing through his nearly-swollen-shut eyes. He
feels a stirring in his loins. Oh, how he wants to fuck that arrogant face
into submission...
The face
disappears and he is alone with his pain again. Perhaps it never was there
at all
|
When I come
back, I take the knife and I cut the rope. His head falls to the table with
a loud thump.
He lies on his
right side, recovering, looking at me. I can see his large cock, as hard as
a stone. It was the rope. He didn't shoot his load like hanged men
sometimes do, but his cock is stiff. He's well hung.
Very well hung.
I can't stop
looking at it. My throat is dry.
OK, it's not a
problem. He's going to die soon, anyway. I grab his feet, I free them, then
I chain them, spreading his legs. He is forced to turn, his back on the
table, his hands behind his back. I tie the rope of the noose to one leg of
the table, so he can't move his head.
I look at his
cock again. I begin to undress, my eyes fixed on it. When I am naked, I
take my knife and I put it on the table, then I bend over him. I take his
cock into my mouth and I begin to suck it. I can hear his hoarse voice,
abusing me. Let him call me whatever names he wants, no one but me will
ever hear it, so what does it matter?
|
|
|
Slowly, slowly,
the red haze recedes and the world returns. His head throbs with pain, but
he is able to focus again. He is lying on his back. He tries to sit up, but
is stopped by a pressure on his neck, a pressure so familiar that he
immediately lies back down again. Memories return as he looks around the
room.
Silas is back.
He is bending over the table. The Jackal feels warm lips enveloping his
cock and braces for a bite, but instead feels only smooth suction. The
sensation is wholly unexpected and he moans in pleasure.
But he can't
allow Silas to be distracted from his ultimate task. He begins to goad him
again, striving to make his voice sound jaunty even though he is weak from
exhaustion.
"Still
cain't git yer pud pumped, kin ya?" he taunts. "Would it help if
I baaa like a sheep? Baaa! Baaa! That help git you in the mood?"
|
Then I climb on
the table, I sit on his belly, I raise my ass, I grab his cock and slowly,
very slowly, I impale myself on it.
I begin to move
up and down. He abuses me some more, but I don't hear him. I simply enjoy
the feeling of his cock in my ass, the pain and the pleasure. I grunt and
go on moving.
My cock is
stiff, now. I can see he is smiling. He won't be smiling for much longer.
I grab my
knife, I raise my ass, just a little, and I put the blade under his nuts.
|
|
|
The Jackal's
stream of verbal abuse ceases abruptly as he feels the blade dig into his
skin. He grimaces at the touch of the steel, then opens his mouth wide as
it works its way deeper into his body.
He feels the knife slicing upward
from the base of his balls, digging toward his dick, which is buried in the
ass of the man wielding the knife. He wonders if there'll be time for one
last orgasm before it's too late.
There isn't.
The sharp edge reaches the meat of his cock and works its way through until
it comes out the other side. He has been neutered, and though he knows he
could readily grow a new set of masculine equipment, he suspects there
won't be time for that to happen. He will die a eunuch.
|
I keep his cock
in my ass. Now I have two cocks and four balls. I laugh.
"OK, time
fer the last round, Jackal. Ah want ta leave fer the mine afore it gets too
late in the day."
Once again I
change his position, chaining him face down, his legs spread wide. The
blood is running from the wound where his dick once was.
I caress his
asshole, I put a finger inside.
"But we
still got time ta play a little..."
I take the
knife. I use the blade to widen his asshole. He shudders. More blood runs
down.
Then I take the
cage from my bag. I show it to the Jackal.
"Three
little mice for my friend..."
He doesn't get
it. I cautiously open the cage and I grab one of the rats.
"These
poor little bastards are hungry. We gotta feed the little beasts. No, you
gotta feed them!"
I force the rat
into the Jackal's ass, then I plug it up with a stone.
I see the
Jackal's bewildered look. The little creature is hungry and starts feeding
on the Jackal's innards.
Later I insert
the second rat, then the third.
|
|
|
The Jackal is nearing
the end of his endurance. The strain of repairing all his injuries has
taken its toll on his body. He knows he is in pain, but the pain is
becoming more distant. The gauze is dropping back down over the world.
"Claharr
di bakk tik shumahe?" No, try again. English. "Sure you wouldn't
rather eat my ass yerself?" Was that English? He's not sure. Silas
doesn't answer.
The world fades
away for a time, then comes back. Silas is putting a cage down next to his
head. He looks at it and sees two rats inside. They are eating something.
Why is this
important?
He looks again.
The rats are eating what looks like a man's dick and balls. He realizes
suddenly that that's exactly what they are - his dick and balls.
Somehow the thought does not have much as much of an impact on him as it
seems it should.
|
"Ah hope
yer enjoyin' my efforts ta satisfy you..."
He mutters
something. I don't understand, but it doesn't matter.
I leave him
there for a while, then I free his feet and I turn him on his back, without
chaining him. There's no need, now. He can barely move.
I take my
knife.
"Human
sacrifice, Ah think Ah remember you sayin'. Speakin' a which..."
I lift my knife
and I stab him in his upper belly.
|
|
|
The blackness is
overtaking him now. There is no way to hold it back.
One more
lightning bolt of pain breaks through the encroaching darkness. His body is
being torn apart. Part of his mind is still frantic with frustrated
purpose. The other part, much larger now, gratefully looks forward to the
darkness's coming victory.
He feels his
body trembling as it nears the end of its endurance. Should he try to croak
out some pithy final words? He has no idea what to say to this man who has
hurt him so badly and yet has done him the greatest favor he could ask.
Yes, he does.
In the end,
though, he can't speak. His lungs have stopped working; he cannot squeeze
air out of his mouth. He can only move his lips. He has to just hope that
Silas is watching.
"Thank
you..."
|
I open his
belly, completely, until the blade reaches the wound of the castration. A
lot of blood pouring, his innards coming out, his body shaking.
I sit on his
chest. His eyes are facing mine, but I can't tell if there is life in them
or not. Then I begin to cut his throat. I go on, until I have severed his
head from his body. I lift it and I look into his vacant eyes. Vacant? I'm
not so sure.
My cock is hard
and I know I'm going to cum. I lower his head and I put my cock into his
open mouth. I cum into it. My jism pours into his mouth and out through his
neck. I close my eyes and hold still, his corpse under my ass, his mouth
around my cock.
Then it's time
to clean up. I stoke the fire until it's blazing again, then toss the
Jackal's head into the hearth. The hair begins to burn, the skin sags and
melts.
I take the iron
box he told me about. I open it and take out the notebook. I read the
directions. They're plain, easy to read. It won't be difficult to find the
mine.
I drag the rest
of the corpse to the courtyard and come back in. I wash myself, then I sit
in a corner, near the window, and I look out. The vultures don't take long.
There are a lot of them. One lands and begins to feed on the carcass. Then
a second one. And a lot more. They feast on his body. By the time they're
done, there will be only scattered bones left.
I look at the
Jackal's head. The skin and flesh have burned completely away. What is left
surprises me. Instead of a skull of bone, his is some sort of metal.
I pull it from the
coals with a rag and examine it. The metal is hard and impossibly shiny,
like nothing I have ever seen before. I poke at it, then bang it against
the stone table. Nothing I do leaves any mark.
It doesn't make
sense. But nothing that has happened has made any sense.
An airtight
box. He said.
I take the
Jackal's skull, I look one last time at the place where his eyes once were.
I spit into his mouth and I put the head into the box.
"Here we
go, buddy!"
Then I
carefully close the box, locking it.
I saddle up my
horse, take the box, and leave town, heading towards the mine.
I stop only
when I reach the mountains. I find a place where nobody can see me, I eat
something and I sleep.
During the
night I have a nightmare: I see the Jackal's metal head coming out of the
box and moving towards me, using its jaw to drag itself across the ground.
I can't run away and I scream and suddenly, I wake up. The box is in the
saddlebag, where I left it. Closed. Locked.
I can't sleep
anymore.
I reach the
mine the following day.
I explore it a
bit. The Jackal left a torch for me to use. There's a long passage and at
the end, buried under rocks that look like they fell naturally, I find a
large bag. Inside there's a pile of gold coins, more than I can count.
Certainly worth more than $20,000.
I take the bag
with the gold out to my horse. It's heavy, but I manage. I carry the locked
box back to the rock pile and bury it among them. On the way back out, I
follow the directions in the Jackal's notebook. He has left a pile of
dynamite halfway back along the passage. I light the fuse and run like hell
toward the entrance.
It's good be
out of the mine, back in the sun again. I wait behind a rock shelf for the
explosion. When it comes, it brings the whole tunnel down. No one will be
going in that way ever again.
I am happy to
get back on my horse and leave this nightmare behind me.
Riding towards
the border, I think of how nice it is to be a rich man. Perhaps it's time
to retire...
And yet,
killing the Jackal was so good, such a rush. Perhaps I could go on being a
bounty hunter, just for the fun of it...
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