As I get punched in the face for the first time tonight, I can’t help but relax. Both as a survival mechanism, it’s important to flow with the punches if you don’t want to be badly injured, and also because it has been far too long. And when I don’t get beat down somewhat regularly, things can start going pear shaped fast.
“Really, that it?” I taunt as I swing a wild, weak haymaker towards the guy. It isn’t meant to make contact, to do damage. It’s meant to open me up, and draw the guy in. The guy leans back, then pops me in the side. Not quite what I was hoping for. Then as my fist continues its momentum, he steps into the now empty space and starts unloading. Better. Two shots to the ribs, then another cross to the temple. Pain. Rage. I hold it down. It’s harder than I’d hoped. Too many, in too quick a succession, I’d guess. But I’m in control. Even if I don’t want him to realize that.
With the cross, I spin out, falling to my knees then using that momentum to disengage fully. “Whoof, rang my bell a bit there,” I say, standing up with a bit of a wobble. I’d love to say that was all a show, but he actually did ring my bell a bit, and that wobble was genuine.
He looked slightly confused as to why I was talking. Makes sense. He came out here to beat me down for some offense, I honestly don’t know what. I could remember if I tried, but I spent most of the evening trying to provoke someone into doing this. That confusion gives me time to lock that box in the back of my mind back up. Can’t let it out, not in a fight I start. That was one of my rules. Also really shouldn’t let it out in a fight I’m out here trying to lose. People might get the idea that I can fight. And it’s always better that they assume the opposite. “You gonna apologize?” the guy asks me. I feel like I picked right. He’s aggressive enough to want the fight, strong and skilled enough to rock the crap out of me real quick, but good enough of a person to make sure this fight doesn’t go too far. Except the whole point for me is pushing that limit. I think I can go at least a bit longer.
“I’m not really sorry, and I don’t like to lie,” I say as I reset myself and begin to move in. I go for a couple of light jabs at his solar plexus. Try to put enough force behind it to make him feel the impact, but not so much as to break anything or cause any real damage.
He exhales heavily, then instead of a strike goes for some kind of grapple using my arm. It’s not a peasant feeling as he wraps himself around my arm and pins me to the hard ground. “Maybe don’t be a dick then,” he says as he pulls.
I can feel my arm is unhappy. Pain. Just a crack. Need to get out before that becomes any more than just. Jerking my body slightly, I shift him onto his side. Not much, just enough to slide out from under his legs. Then, using the arm he’s holding onto between his legs, I grab him and begin to push him across the ground. It’s not the most pleasant feeling for me, but it seems like it actually hurts him. He lets go, but not before kneeing me in the head. I use that, and his letting go, as an opportunity to stumble back and reset myself. To seal the box once more. “I’ll try my best,” I reply to him, “Still not going to apologize if I can’t mean it.” I give him a little smile and shrug.
He decides to go on the offensive this time. Launching himself up off the ground at me and driving me into the wall in the alley. One two three four. He punches me over and over, using his opposite shoulder to keep me pinned. Pain. Not good, I don’t know an easy way out without hurting him badly. Rage. I go limp. Maybe, just maybe, if he thinks the pain has gotten to me that bad, he’ll stop before I stop him. Emptiness. He notices my dazed expression and my lack of movement and stops. “Think before you speak next time,” he says as I let myself fall to the alley’s dirt. Emptiness. He heads back into the bar. Good. The box is broken open. I can only keep it at bay so long. And I don’t let it out in fights I start. I don’t let it out against people who I wronged.
The calm rage. The meaningless pain. The all consuming emptiness. My mind is numb, but not from the blows. It sees, it understands, it knows. For the moment, until the box is closed once more, it just cannot feel. It is not a feeling I’d wish on anyone. But it’s one I need to keep under control. Because I am abrasive at times. And I do rub many people the wrong way. But when push comes to shove, I like to be able to pretend that I’m the good guy. At least when I’m looking at myself in the mirror come morning. No one comes to check on me. The other locals around here know better than that. And evidently I irritated all the passersthrough enough to warrant their ignoring my well being. I suppose I was fortunate to not irritate anyone so much that they wished to kick me while I was down. Otherwise, I’d have to go on a midnight ride into the gulch once more. And with all the riding, the digging, and the lack of being able to sleep, that sort of thing made for a rather unpleasant morning.
Eventually, my normal senses came back to me. Once I could feel anything but pain and rage once more, I stood myself up. Ear against the bar’s side door told me the outsiders were still in there. Which means I need to head elsewhere. The gambling den should be up and running well this evening. Untying my horse, I walk her across town. Could have ridden, I suppose, but fresh air is good for me. And the walking gives me more time to breathe, to uncalm myself, and to reseal that box.
At Pete’s Poker Den, I tie Diabla up out front and head inside. Pete sees me coming in and greets me with a hardy, “You look like shit.”
“Felt the need to get myself beaten up,” I reply with a smirk, “What’s your excuse?” I take off my coat, then my holster. It has a revolver and a rather large hunting knife in it.
“I have to deal with you on the regular,” he shoots right back as I hand him my holster and coat. “Boot too,”
I shake my head. Pulling out the stiletto from my boot, I add, “So does Hiram and he manages to look great.”
Pete smiles and shakes his head. “Hiram could be beaten half to death after a week without sleep and he’d look fine,” Pete half jokes. He’s right, of course, Hiram is a very attractive man.
“Which table is least likely to end in a murder?” I ask with a smirk.
He shrugs. “No real problems here tonight.” I head over and sit down at one of the open tables. Poker’s my game. Not because I’m overly lucky or great at reading people. But because win or lose, looking someone down and trying to get them to believe something without telling them what that might be is always a fun time.
I play into the night. People come and go from the table, some up, some down. Pete was right, no one got overly problematic. By the time Pete started to look ready to close up, I was up almost a hundred dollars. Good haul for an evening of gambling. Probably lose half of that right here tomorrow evening. Certainly spend a good chunk buying drinks at Hiram’s. I never like holding onto cash for too long. Draws the wrong kind of eyes. I head out to the alley beside the den, to relieve myself in the ditch there.
“Unclip your wallet with your left hand and pass it over,” a voice says from behind me. Confident. Not their first time. Too bad. I was hoping to have a rest this evening. I probably won’t have the energy to gamble tomorrow then. I shift my coat as I let my left hand move slowly out wide to hide my right arm coming in close to grab the large knife’s handle.
“Just walk away,” I say to the robber.
“Give me the wallet. If you go for your gun, I’ll shoot you dead,” he says. He’s not lying. But he got irritated. Got closer. That was unwise of him. I unhook my wallet from my belt. As I move it out wide and slightly behind me for him to grab, I slide my knife out cleanly, silently. And I open the box. Emptiness, all consuming.
He grabs the wallet. Rage. I slide the knife into his opposite armpit without turning around. He drops the gun. Pain. Then I remove my blade and stab the robber into his other side. I wrench my wallet from his grip, reattaching it to my belt. I turn to face the robber. He’s covering his face, but I don’t recognize him. Makes sense. None of the local bandits would be dumb enough. He likely saw me get beat to shit, then win a hundred dollars, and figured me for an easy mark. Too bad for him, I mused. My face unchanged, I kneel on his chest. “Embrace the nothingness to come,” I tell him calmly. He seems to breathe in, readying himself for a scream. I stab him in the throat and pull down. The well sharpened blade slides with ease through the throat, though requires some force once it hits his sternum. Will need to be sharpened tomorrow. Cleaning the blade on the dying man’s clothes, I stand up and resheath my knife. I walk to my horse and pull out my bedroll. Wrapping the now or soon to be dead man in the canvas, I breathe. Always remember to breathe. I remember to grab the man’s gun. A moment to breathe helps with such details. I take the cylinder of canvas, now larger than normal, and reattach it to Diabla’s saddle. I untie her from the post, hop on, and ride out into the gulch.
The ride is rough for me, but the pain and strain is an old friend. It is likely worse for Diabla, having to carry two people’s body weights. She will need rest tomorrow. I go through the deep valley to the small cave. Most of the time, an old friend lives here and appreciates my occasional gifts. When the bear is denned up elsewhere, I need to dig. I hop off of Diabla and walk into the cave’s entrance. I look around the space. No sign of the furry black ball. Which means I have to dig instead of feed. Heading back to my horse, who knows better than to enter the cave, I remove the wrapped canvas and pull out the shovel. I unroll the canvas to check his body before I put him in a shallow grave. After all, the extra change or a couple more bullets never hurt me before. I take his bullets and his cash, place his gun back in his holster, and get to work digging. I do so for two reasons. The practical reason is simple: someone might recognize the gun. But there’s always a deeper reason. Just in case I’m wrong, and there’s something to come, I never would want to leave a man unarmed.
The night is quite dark and the moon has already finished its journey across the sky by the time the bandit’s buried. I make a quick meal for myself and for Diabla, then we head back to my tent on the outskirts of town. Because even a few hours of rest is better than none at all.
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