Darkness is my Blanket
By Tony Floyd
Chapter 1: Torture
She's screaming things like bastard and sonofabitch as he drags the colored man by the hair and his feet twist and bump off rocks and a cloud of tanned air is rising behind them.
"Please Auron! I love him!"
He lets greasy wet hair slip through his fingers and the man hits the ground in a puff of dirt and a symphony of hoarse coughing. Auron spins and faces the teary-eyed blonde and her big brown eyes pierce that thing hidden deep within his chest.
"And what about how much I loved you? I worshipped the fucking ground you walked on and made you my priority. And for the past year, you haven't even been able to show me a lick o' damn kindness."
He turns away without waiting to see her reaction and reaches back down and yanks up a handful of slippery dark hair and the man yelps and some blood runs into his eyes.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU! I JUST CAN'T!"
He doesn't turn back again. When he gets back to his horse he drops the man again and takes up some slack from the rope tied around the bastard and makes a firm double knot on the back of the saddle.
"Please, mistuh," the man wheezes. "I dint do nuthin'."
"Say that again when you've got your pants pulled up and maybe I'll be able to take you more seriously."
"I caint pull nothing' up! You gat me tied!"
"Then I suppose I won't be taking you very seriously," and Auron chuckles heartily as he mounts the spotted horse.
He rides for several hours and the man wails for every one of them and soon his face is an unrecognizable, bloody hunk of flesh, and his legs and waist are a mess of equal proportions and a long curving trail of gore stretches out behind them. He slows the horse down when the screaming abruptly stops and dismounts, the spurs on his boots twanging gently as he makes his way to the twisted, stinking, sun-baked and half-dressed mass of crimson. His nose has been sanded away and his genitals are torn off. The bastard lays still and takes shaky breaths, looking up at his torturer with only one eye as the other has been welded shut. Auron draws his six-shooter and the man's eyes go sleepy with relief as Auron puts a hole in his stomach. He doesn't pause or stare or even acknowledge his atrocious masterpiece but simply mounts his horse once more. Before the bastard's eyes flicker and go closed he can see his angel of death lean over his horse and spit in the dirt before the morning sun swallows them whole.
When he stumbles into the saloon his ears aren't ready for the upbeat music jumping from the piano keys. A chorus of drunken voices call out his name and he lifts a hand in the air while his head remains low. He sits at the bar and the bartender leans in close to him over the counter so their eyes are level. Auron knows he's seen him before but he can't think of a name. He smiles a crooked smile from under the brim of his hat and the glass that has been planted next to his left hand slowly fills, the bartender's eyes never moving all the while. He drains the glass and demands a another.
He drains it.
Another.
Drains.
He asks for another and the bartender clasps his shoulder and laughs.
He wakes up in the corner of the saloon with his hat tipped forward and the sun is gone and the saloon is engulfed in darkness. A candle flickers on the counter and the bartender is sweeping under the tables. He reaches into his pocket and draws a fifty-dollar bill.
"You ought to be sober, by now. S'quarter past twelve."
Auron presses the bill into the bartender's hand before departing. He still can't think of a damn name.