Gunsmoke

The sun rains down mercilessly on the vast expanse of sand, drowning everything in a heat that is inescapable. However, despite this torridity that brings with it nothing but death, a plant grows from the infertile ground. But, dusty, dry, brittle, never to bear fruit, living only by devouring the scant drops of rain that Providence allots it out of mercy, one must ask, is such a plant truly alive, or simply taking a long time to die? Jagged thorns coat it, protecting it from exterior harm. But it is the inside that is truly in danger; in danger of rotting away, bit by bit, from the innermost point outward, until not even the thorns are left.


Not a single cloud above defended those bound to the dusty soil, those damned to walk the barren earth of the desert, having taken the responsibility of taming the West. Truly, their purpose was to pave with their corpses the roads that their descendants would one day walk down. The dust had not yet settled where the drunk had finally collapsed, his back to the wall of a stable, the stench of manure unable to pierce his inebriated senses. He gazed up at the yellow-blue sky, a sad smile forcing back his stubble. Light danced on the liquid swirling about in the dirt-coated bottle of whiskey he clutched in his hand.

“We are at the end of man’s days,” he told the bottle. “It’s time to let the Hell rain down.” He put the filth-ridden bottle-neck to his lips and let the alcohol slide down his throat.

The rest of the town was empty. Or, at the very least, it looked that way. There were two men, one standing on either side of the desert town’s main street. Both of them were silent. The only sound was the creaking of a saloon door. There was about to be a showdown. In those days it seemed like there was one every day. Every other man, woman and child had locked themselves inside with the heaviest bolt they could afford. The guns would blaze at noon. The time was 11:59. Damned if they walked outside now.

The man on the northern side was covered in black, from his boots to the brim of his hat to the strands of hair hanging down over his bandanna. His eyes were black; they were the cold, unfeeling eyes of a killer. His hand floated over his holster, ready to withdraw his weapon when the time came.

The man to the south was no less intimidating; the torn brim of his hat put his eyes in shadow, sideburns plunging down either side of his face and meeting at the chin. A poncho hung on his shoulders, ripped to pieces by things that honest men should never talk about. Under that, a trench coat, perhaps from back in the city, dropped down, the ripped and frayed ends of it just reaching the ground. His hand also hung over his gun’s handle, ready to descend upon it like a guillotine descends on the neck of the convicted.

There are no heroes in this story; both of these men are wicked. No man’s vest shone with a silver star in that dusty city, its pores bubbling over with the black tar of sin. In this town, he with the most bullets and the best aim was God Almighty.

The twin knives on the face of the clock of the post office aligned on the letters XII. It was twelve sharp. For one minute, one glorious and blood-stained minute, the line between the sun and the earth and the line between man and man would be utterly perpendicular. A bell sounded. And again. The twelfth bell; that was when you drew your gun. Again and again the bell tolled, the ominous clang resounding for miles. 9… 10… 11… 12.

Both men’s hands dropped like falcons upon their guns, every miniscule ounce of their strength channeled into their arms. Both raised their pistol at the same time, twin silver barrels forever connecting the two combatants, in Earth and in Hell. The strength in their arms poured into their fingers, everything within them willing the trigger to tighten. Two hammers drew back and slammed down; the chambers rotated, and in an amazing feat showcasing the pinnacle of human engineering and foolishness, two controlled explosions propelled two smoking bullets. All of man’s mortality, everything restricting their access to eternity, infinity, all condensed into identical balls of lead, tiny angels of death, slicing their scythes through the souls of two men. Both of them found flesh, and devoured it, boring into the skin. The men staggered back and collapsed into the dust, hearts racing as that primitive fear of death overcame them in their final moments, lying there in the street. Their chests heaved once more; the heat scorched their skin for a final time. As a plume of dust rose about them there in the central street, the innermost point of that dry, brittle town, which was never to bear fruit, only death.


We are at the end of man’s days. Let the Hell rain down.