The man's boots echo hollowly in the empty sanctuary as he walks over to the body slumped over the pew -- a body that, moments before, evidently had intended to welcome him. The man hadn't waited to find out.
He pauses for a moment in the aisle beside the preacher's lifeless body, staring silently up at the bloody figure hanging like a masochistic judge on the cross above the pew.
Then he turns once more to his victim, lifting the preacher's chin in his rough hand. The two brown eyes are still wide with surprise at the sudden appearance of the third red one between them.
The man lowers the head gently and turns to go.
"Oh, my, my, m-!"
That's all the sneer Loche can manage before the man spins about and puts bullets in his head, chest, and guts. Loche manages to look even more surprised than the preacher's corpse as he slumps lifelessly to the ground, silvery ichor running freely from his wounds.
The man looks at this new corpse with no more emotion than all the rest. He glances up again at the Judge on the cross.
"Some of them don't know," he says quietly.
It's a simple statement. Not a plea for understanding, not a desperate excuse. Just the truth.
He turns and walks away, closing the door of the sanctuary behind him.
Loche smiles as cruelly as only Loche can as he steps out from the vestry, strolling down to the communion rail to stand by his own dissolving corpse.
"Oh, -my-," he coos, looking after the man. He clasps his hands to his chest in an obscene parody of passion. "Oh, my, -yesssssss-...!"
*****
*snick!*
*snick!*
*snick!*
Joe pauses in his whittling. The dry planks of the covered porch creak as he leans back, angling his chair against the wind scoured wall of the sheriff's office.
He examines his handiwork, and he chuckles. The small hunk of mesquite in his hand is a passable semblance of the Comanche chief Joe'd met some years back... with a healthy dose of imagination.
Mrs. Johnson smiles and waves to him from the walk on the far side of the dusty street, her three youngsters in tow following suit. On her way to the General Store, no doubt. Joe returns her smile, tipping the brim of his fedora. (And he'd -have- to get a proper hat one of these days, he reminds himself. What, he wonders, had possessed him to buy that damn fool thing?)
Further down the way, Reverend Martin is chatting with Billy Jones, the tailor's boy. Good ol' Billy! Always with a load of questions about Sunday's sermon. And Rev. Martin always with a ready answer.
Oh, but it's a grand morning. The wind that had blasted the town since Friday has finally settled itself, and the cloudless sky's a brilliant Texas blue. The horses tied to the hitching posts nicker and stamp as if eager to take advantage of the fine weather with a good flat-out run across the prairie.
Joe shades his eyes as he turns his gaze away from town, over the sunbaked grassland, past lonely stands of mesquite trees where cattle huddle for shade.
Hmmmm... -Does- look a bit stormy way off on the horizon, though...
"Hey! Good afternoon, Joe! How the hell are ya? Haven't seen you in, what? Coupla months?"
The man nods as he settles onto the barstool. Sets his fedora on the bar beside him. Leans his elbows on the bar. Hangs his head.
"Yeah, Jimmy. Been a while."
"You okay, Joe? You look down. And don't try t'fool me about it, neither: bartenders can -smell- the blues a mile off."
The man doesn't look up. "Rough week."
"Ah... yeah, well, we all have'em. So! What'll it be? It's on the house, just for the hell of it. And 'cause I probably owe you for a favor or two I've forgotten about. Want the usual?"
"Coffee, Jimmy."
"Coffee? Heh... you turnin' teetotaler on me, Joe?"
The man looks up. Holds the bartenders gaze. "Coffee, Jimmy. I'll have coffee."
"Oh... right! Well, sure, Joe! Customer's always right, etc., etc., right? Let me get a fresh pot going here..."
The man nods. And waits.
Customers arrive. Customers leave. The man never rises from his seat, never really turns his head. But he sees them all. Each and every last one of them.
-Sees- them.
Jimmy arrives with the coffee and an uncomfortable smile. He deposits it in front of the man, then hurries off to pursue other duties without further attempts at small talk.
The man sips his coffee in silence.
Watches.
Sees.
He works his way through three cups of his eponymous beverage before he finally rises. Tosses a few coins on the bar. Puts on his fedora.
Jimmy looks up from cleaning a glass. "You headin' out, Joe?" he asks, smiling with more relief than he intends to show.
"Yeah, Jimmy. I'm headin' out.
"But I'll be back."
*****
Life in Mercy, Texas, Joe decides, is a fine thing indeed.
He walks down the dusty main street at the leisurely pace of a man doing his job by just -being-. The good people of Mercy tip their hats or nod their heads as they pass, with many a "Howdy, Joe!" or a "Mornin', Sheriff!"
Granny Wilson has a couple of her famous pies cooling on her windowsill, the smell making an apple orchard of the whole block. George the blacksmith sings a tune from the last show to pass through town while he works, keeping time with the ringing of his hammer while Leo, that little colored boy he'd hired, works the bellows. A trio of young soldiers from Fort Brackenridge, their fine tan uniforms doing their best to hide the trail dust, chat with a couple of local cowhands.
Joe pauses to pat old Buford, Farmer Gibbon's crotchety bloodhound -- the least he can do, since the poor thing went to the trouble of lurching out of the porch shade to say "howdy". Joe chuckles, reminding himself to scold Gibbons about letting the old dog wander off again.
*****
The man in black puts a bullet through the hound's head as he passes its hiding place beneath a parked taxi. The dog's owner, an elderly shopkeeper in Hasidic attire, rushes down the steps of his brownstone two minutes later, brandishing a shotgun and swearing vengeance in Yiddish. A round through both arms and legs puts him off his plans.
*****
The stagecoach out of El Paso rolls into town up ahead. Joe tips his fedora to the driver and exchanges knowing smiles with the slender Mexican woman riding inside. It's been quite a while since -that- one's passed through Mercy.
The day's looking up.
*****
The '57 Chevy screams around the corner ahead even as the old Jew drops moaning to the ground. The hood ornament centers on the silver star on the mans' chest, and engine growls as the thing in the driver's seat hits the gas. Other things lean out the car's windows, their clattering submachine guns wildly spraying tracers in the man's general direction.
The things are supposed to be human.
*clickclackBOOM*
The man calmly blows a hole through the driver's skull.
The car careens through the spot the man had been standing a moment before, the gun-weilding things in the windows screaming and shooting. When the Chevy smashes into the lamp post, the things go flying. One squawks as the man's Winchester catches it in midair. The other two smack into a wall and crumple to the ground, broken bones quickly rearranging themselves in obscene ways to let the things flee crab-fashion. The man puts a round in the Chevy's tank, letting flaming gas and hot metal do his work for him.
*****
*crack!*
Joe smiles at the sound. Billy Jones had been proud as a Comanche chief when his daddy'd bought him that second-hand .22, but the poor kid couldn't hit a barn at 10 paces. Now he's taking shots at a row of cans he's set up on the fence on the far side of the stables, and doing a damn fine job of ventilating everything not made of tin in the general vicinity.
Joe pats the lad on the shoulder, gently taking the rifle from his hands to show him how it's done. The boy watches Joe with awe in his eyes.
*crack!*
*crack!*
*crack!*
*****
*clickclackBOOM*
*clickclackBOOM*
*clickclackBOOM*
In some remote part of his mind that cares, the man decides that this is meant to be a kind of psychological assault.
They fill the street beyond the car's burning wreckage now, from one side to the other and at least 15 rows deep.
And they don't attack. They don't flee. They don't even move.
They just stare at him, silent judgment in their eyes.
The young Skrill woman.
*clickclackBOOM*
The old man in the tuxedo with the withered corsage.
*clickclackBOOM*
The portly Saurian in mechanic's overalls and a name tag reading "Mike".
*clickclackBOOM*
The little girl with the flower print dress, teddy bear clutched to her chest.
*clickclackBOOM*
*****
*crackle-BOOM*
Joe looks up from his sharpshooting and scowls, the afterimage of the lightning still burned into his retinas. He hands Billy back his .22 and sends him running off home.
That storm's getting closer all the time. And damned if it doesn't look to be a bad one.
*****
The man looms over the cradle in the darkened nursery. The full-moon glow of his eyes and badge crawl over the cradle's squirming occupant. Somewhere down the hall, the laughter of those who spawned the thing in the cradle joins a sitcom's canned amusement.
The thing in the cradle looks up at the man with wide, guileless eyes, quietly sucking its fingers.
The man's fingers settle around the ebony handle of his revolver.
*****
"Telegram for ye, Sheriff!"
Old Mikey-Tom waits for Joe to take the message from his hand with that beady-eyed look of his that says you'd better damn well take heed.
Joe scowls as he leans across his desk to accept it. Mikey-Tom -always- has that look when he's delivering a telegram, and it never fails to rub Joe the wrong way. You'd think every damn telegram he gets is the Word from On High.
"Thanks," Joe says brusquely. He turns his attention to the text of the telegram, grateful to have an excuse to duck Mikey-Tom's gaze:
"When did you get this??" Joe demands.
"Just now, Sheriff."
"GodDAMMIT!" Joe swears, leaping to his feet and checking his revolvers.
"You shouldn't say things that-a-way, Sheriff," Mikey-Tom observes impassively. "Ain't right."
Joe ignores him. Pretends to, anyway. Instead, he rushes past the old telegraph man and out the door, squinting against a blast of dust pushed across the prairie by an angry sky. Seems that storm's picked about the worst possible time to show up.
Luckily, Joe doesn't have far to go, with his office right on the edge of town. His eyes strain against the sand and darkness, and the first spatterings of rain, as he searches for his quarry.
A stroke of lightning rewards him with the silhouette of the Outlaw in the distance. Damned if the bastard isn't just strolling into town like he owns the place! Well, Joe decides, he'll get the welcome he deserves.
He stalks toward the town, leaning into the lashing wind and rain from the storm that crouches over the place like a protective mother beast. The storm won't keep him out. The town needs him. Needs his protection. -Nothing- will keep him out.
But the town has a more immediate guardian: an implacable foe standing like a monolith in the center of the road, black duster whipping about his legs. Silver badge gleaming in the darkness.
At once, Joe's hand reaches under his trenchcoat, grasping for the cold reassurance of a circle of metal that is not there. His fingers clench on his shirt, dig into his skin. His face contorts with a nameless agony.
But his resolve does not fade. His steps do not falter. The town needs him.
*****
The man's hand hesitates as it withdraws the Colt, the barrel not quite clearing the holster.
*****
The storm ebbs as Joe approaches the town and its guardian. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it gives way before him, redirecting its force around Joe and his enemy in a cage of elemental fury. A cage, or a coliseum.
And on the far side of this coliseum, his foe's eyes flash like cold steel beneath a black stetson.
The eyes of the Lawman.
"I heard you were coming," he says, his low voice cutting effortlessly through the roaring wind. "You'd best go back where you came from. We don't have room for Outlaws here."
Joe's hands hover over his guns. "I'm no Outlaw, and you damn well know it. This is -my- town. -I- protect it."
The Lawman sniffs. "You don't protect -shit-. You -ain't- shit. Without me, you're -cattle-. Just like all the rest of'em. Cattle, waitin' to be led around. Needing lookin' after. 'Your' town? You ain't earned it. This is -my- town."
Lightning crackles through the roiling clouds above Mercy. For just a moment, Joe catches a glimpse of an ebony pyramid outlined in gold, piercing the firmament and crowned with an unknowable light.
*****
In the nursery, the gun clears the holster.
*****
Joe's hands flex beside his guns. That cocky son of a bitch hasn't even made a move yet... "Looking after the cattle... You think that's what you do? You're just a -tool-: a surgical knife, to cut away the rot. -I'm- the one holding that knife. -I- decide when to make a cut."
"Yeah? Damn fine job you've been doin' of -that-. -You- walked off the job, remember? Didn't have the stomach for it! How much 'rot' kept growin' 'cause of -that-?
"And -then- you slink around tryin' to pretend that I'm not always there. Not the -real- legend. What're you without me?"
"I'm a good man," Joe answers defiantly. "That's enough."
"A good man? You? That why you carry on with a whore with more blood on her hands than half the bastards I put down? You -know- what she's done. You -know- what she -is-. You're such a good man? Why won't you let me do what needs to be -done- to that rot-slinging trash? Why're you sufferin' a witch to li-"
Joe grabs his guns.
The Lawman calmly shoots them out of his hands.
Then he shoots Joe.
Again. And again. And again.
The Lawman walks forward casually as he fires.
"Weak." *BLAM!* "Weak." *BLAM!* "Weak." *BLAM!*
Joe staggers back. His life's blood spatters to the grass. He follows close behind it. The world reels above him.
The storm flashes and mutters its approval.
Then it is eclipsed by the looming face of the Lawman.
And the face of the Lawman, in turn, is eclipsed by the barrel of his Colt, slowly raised toward Joe's forehead until it fills Joe's vision like a tunnel.
A flash. A moment of pain.
The world goes white.
*****
The Lawman looks down at the body as if it is something that needs shoveling off the street.
Then he holsters his guns, turns, and walks back toward town.
*****
The man raises his gun.
*****
A soft sound behind him. The Lawman turns...
*****
...and the man hesitates...
*****
...and staggers under the impact of the Bowie knife driven deep into his ribcage. His eyes express the shock his blood-choked voice cannot as Joe, wild-eyed and bloodied, bears him down like a jungle cat.
The gore dripping from the ragged holes in Joe's arms, chest, and forehead mingles with the Lawman's blood as he smacks to the ground. Joe wrenches the blade downward, slicing through bone and innards. Never does he take his eyes from the Lawman's face.
And what he sees there is pain... but above the pain, there is understanding. And, perhaps, acceptance?
Joe yanks the knife free, and a bloody gout of impossible force comes with it. Joe follows its course skyward with a scream of primal fury. And when it reaches its zenith and falls like crimson rain, he doesn't flinch.
He bathes.
He drinks.
He accepts.
And when the fount is spent, he rises to his feet. But not before taking the Lawman's revolvers for his own. And not before ripping the silver badge, with its remorseless promise to the world, from the Lawman's chest. He grips it in his hand, relishing and hating its burn.
"That's -my- goddamn badge," he growls at the unhearing Lawman. And to himself.
He places it on his own chest. Pierces his soul with its pin. Staggers under its weight, but does not fall.
The Lawman's body fades.
Icy resolve and fiery passion are two, and one.
The good folk of Mercy fill the street, watching him with silent faces devoid of expression. Joe meets their gaze with white-hot defiance, then tracks upward to the storm. And to the ebony pyramid that surmounts it, with its enigmatic ghost-light that plays across his face like winter rain.
Lightning flickers through the storm. Thunder sends angry shudders through the soil at Joe's feet.
The Lawman stares unflinchingly into the light.
"We do this -my- way."
The storm fades. The pyramid fades. Even the good people of Mercy and the town they call home fade away, leaving nothing but sand and grass behind.
Except for the telegraph man.
His bushy beard pulls up in a smile. After a moment, Joe returns it. The men meet each other half-way with a warm handclasp.
"Thanks again for the warning, 'Mikey-Tom'," Joe says with a smirk.
"Now, I'm guessing you -know- that ain't my real name, Josiah."
"I do -now-. But it's not all that far off." Joe quirks his head. "A -telegraph operator-?"
'Mikey-Tom' shrugs. "I reckon it made sense, under the circumstances. Preacher woulda been too obvious. So who else in town woulda had the job o' passin' along the Word?"
Joe chuckles and nods. "Guess you've got a point." His smile falters. "Just because I'm grateful doesn't mean I'm going back, you know. Or were you sent to come and -get- me?"
'Mikey-Tom' laughs -- a deep, wholesome sound, like waves breaking on rocks -- as his posture straightens, and as every flaw drains from his form. "I do not work that way, Josiah, as you well know.
"And besides," he adds, his golden wings unfolding behind him, "who says that you ever -left-?"
The beat of His wings stir not a grain of dust as He lifts into the air. In seconds, He is a mere speck in the clear blue sky.
Leaving to Joe stand there alone, staring thoughtfully after the Voice of God. The chittering of the pink armadillo at Joe's feet brings him at last out of his reverie. Thoughts not his own -- thoughts he cannot truly comprehend -- caper through Joe's mind. But Joe doesn't need to understand the thoughts. The intent behind them is clear enough.
"Don't you worry," he says, scowling down at the little creature. "The work'll still get done. -My- way."
*****
Joe holsters his Colt.
The thing in the cradle looks up at him and gurgles curiously.
The Lawman looks down at it, and sees. What is, and what will be.
He lays one gentle but firm hand across the child's eyes. Its mouth, suddenly toothy well beyond its years and species, snaps futilely at him.
And with a flick of Joe's wrist, his Bowie knife pops into his waiting hand.
*****
As He returns whence He came, He is met by another. A slight young woman-shape, who looks back the way He came. "He is nothing if not interesting," she remarks, with a gesture which makes it appear she is making some sort of annotation. "I would never have thought he could meet this challenge."
He smiles and claps her on the shoulder. "Joe? Joe is resiliant. And when it comes right down to it, you can always count on him to sort out the right of it from the wrong."
The woman shakes her head wonderingly. "These Kerubim...I just don't understand them."
Again, He smiles. "It is the Human you do not understand, Lucea. You have never been human." He glances backward. "But...if you watch Joe long enough, you will get the hang of it." He laughs at some private joke, and wings off.
Lucea merely shakes her head again, and continues her observations.
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