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Forward

My girlfriend wanted me to write this story because she feels I can relate well to the character. I think I can manage not to screw it up.

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As of late, all of my employers have been asking me to hand them my "résumé", like a man of my qualifications, never mind my profession, should require such a thing. In fact, I find it downright insulting to ask me for a list of everything I've done, every head I've ever turned into koins.

It makes me sick to think that these morons want me to leave a paper trail, basically an admission of guilt, for all the crimes I've committed against mankind. Well here it is anyway, my résumé for all of you idiots that wanted it.

But if I'm going to admit all the nasty deeds of my past, then I'm doing it right. You're just going to have to sift through my life's story if you want to know what I've done, how it can help you, and my motivations, blah blah blah. Consider this a confession, an autobiography, a résumé, or whatever fits the billing.

Back in the year of 1827 or so, some shit-head by the name of Isaac Black made the mistake of sticking a certain part of himself into another shit-head named Elizabeth Marsh, and about a year later, they got me. The shotgun wedding was on the coldest day of December, or so I was told, which is an odd way to put it, seeing that what's now called Nevada doesn't get that cold as I recall. Anyway, the wedding was far before I could remember, but I was told that I attended it. Just not by anyone's expectation.

My mother always used to laugh about me 'deciding' to be born right in the middle of the wedding. I didn't find it so funny, as that meant I was born to begin with, and to those wastes of space no less. A few 10 or so years go by, and my father was nowhere to be seen. My mother told me he had been shot just days after they wed, but if I had to take a wild guess, I'd say that she was the one who pulled the trigger. She always talked about how he was a smart ass, and how I reminded her so much of him, but the way she'd say it was like she was remembering something darker than quick wit and a sly tongue. Like she was remembering he escape from her own personal hell, in the form of a metal slug to his head. Or was it his chest…

Either way, at the time, I always wondered how it must have felt. She was always a nut case, but the strength it must have taken to end someone's life, especially her own husband's. I would never know that particular feeling of course, but I soon found out that ending a life for the safety of your own is easier than one may think. That year on my birthday, I opened a gift wrapped up in the finest of bottom of the barrel, probably-used-as-wiping-paper news print you would have ever seen, but would have never wanted to. What was in this hideous wrapping, however, was the greatest gift I have ever, and probably ever will receive in my life.

At the age of fifteen, I had since developed the skill to use my trusty six shooter, which I called the "Momma's Boy", to a pretty remarkable degree. I could juggle a can in the air, and with enough practice, I was able to reload a couple rounds between the first six and shoot it with nine total rounds before it hit the ground. Those days are far behind me, as I can now hit it with two whole chambers, or twelve for the slow children reading.

Anyway, it was early in the year, and the sun was setting on a mild March evening. I had for the first time juggled a can with ten rounds, and I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Seeing as I had only one last bullet, and probably wouldn't be getting more for a while, at least until I could save up for more, I decided to call it a day. I packed up my canteen, my six shooter, my lunch sack, and I saddled up on the old family horse of ours, Lucy.

Before I could start riding, however, I heard a shot coming from almost directly behind me. Lucy got startled, and bucked me off. She started to gallop randomly away from the gun fire, but she was shot down before she got far. I, on the other hand, quickly grabbed my weapon from the ground, after it had been bucked out of the saddle bag. I scrambled in my pocket for my last round, making sure to keep low to the ground to stay under the patch of dried grass that I had landed in. I quickly, yet clumsy, loaded the bullet into the chamber. I pulled back the hammer, and pointed the gun out, scanning the area for the person, or people, who had gunned down old Lucy. I saw but one man alone, yelling on about something. He sounded drunk, which was to my advantage. I pointed my gun at him, aimed straight for the head, and pulled the trigger.

Having never shot from the ground at that point, I also never accounted for the vast distance between me and the drunkard, so the bullet drop put the round square into his chest. He went down, but not without firing one last round at me. The pain I felt that day, having my cheek blown right off of my face, was not only one of great physical pain, but it scarred me mentally as well.

I screamed in agony, clutching my wound with my free hand. Wanting to seem like I was in control, which I still sort of was, I decided to compose myself, and point my gun at the man as I walked cautiously toward him. My heart was racing, and I got so excited that I almost started to forget that my face was bleeding.

As I got near, I put both hands on my gun, the usual teacup grip one would use for a revolver, and I pulled back the hammer. I was hoping he'd be too drunk and distracted to notice that I had no ammo in the gun. He held his hands out in front of him, begging me not to kill him.

"Who are you?" I spoke, assertively, but calmly. I knew that yelling, or acting angry would only serve to humanize me, and having your enemy think you don't act human is a good way to keep them on edge. Especially when they're drunk and manipulatable.

"Is… Is that you, Err'n?" he asked, blood spilling from his mouth.

Seeing as my name was Benjamin, I'd never heard of this 'Erron' guy, but I amused the idea for a moment.

"And what if I am?" I asked him, keeping my errily straight tone for a teenager who had just been literally partially defaced.

"Son, my na-" he coughed, and more of his blood spat from his mouth, spraying onto his face, his chest and the ground around him. "Son. My name is Isaac Black. I'm yer daddy."

My eyes widened, and my charade of acting distant from emotion was for not. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Why the hell would you shoot me if I'm your son!?" I yelled, demanding to know how he could be so foolish.

"Son, I'm pretty drunk, and I-" more coughing, and blood. "I thought you were your mother. I couldn't see from the distance, but you're wearing her cloak…"

It was true. I was wearing a cloak that she had given me a while prior. A red one that I have been keeping alive by stitching new material to ever since I got it. In fact, it's hard to tell whether any of it is original or if it's all been replaced since then.

"Why do you want my mother dead so badly?" I asked him, calmer than before. This man was dying, and even though he had a convincing case, I still wasn't positive he was my father just yet. Keeping the upper hand where possible was a top priority.

"Kid, if she's told you anything about me, she's told you that I'm dead. But she probably never mentioned she tried to kill me."

It was just as I had guessed. Well, other than the fact that he was still alive, that is. Thoroughly convinced of who I was talking too, I lowered my weapon, and a kneeled down to him. I put my hand under his head to support it.

"Son, could you help me take one last drink?" The way he asked me this was so nonchalant. Like he was asking a friend for a favor, not at all like he was asking his long abandoned son for a final request. I did as he asked, and helped him by slowly pouring some of his whiskey into his mouth. He almost coughed it out, but was able to get it down.

"Dad, can I ask you something?"

"What is it, son?" he replied.

"Why did mother try to kill you?"

His eyes were closing slowly, and I could tell that I wasn't going to get an answer from him. I decided not to make him think of it while he was passing.

"Never mind, that's a dumb question. I'm sorry that this happened, dad."

"Son," he said. "You're mother couldn't kill me, but you know what? I wouldn't have it end any other way." He choked a bit on his blood while saying "I'm just glad… glad that I got to see you all grown up…"

His eyes, now fully closed, I felt his head and body go limp. I put him down gently, and whispered to his corpse "I'm glad I got to meet you too, dad." I had assumed he was dead, but I swear even to this day that as I said that, a small grin formed on his face. The sun was down now, and it was getting cold. I figured I'd have to take care of him, so I got what I could out of his personal satchel, and I buried him where he lay.

Middle of the night, no food, and a long way back to town. Hole in my face, no horse to help carry my things, some ammo and a new gun that was just like my other, the one I call the "Father Figure". Last, but certainly not least, I was no longer Benjamin Marsh, but now Erron Black. My mother had some explaining to do.

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