On a slow day in September, during the 2200's, everything was as it normally was, the sun shying away behind dark clouds, daring not shine upon the same world that the bombs fell on all those years ago. The roads, beaten and battered through the aforementioned bombs and footsteps of lone travelers alike. The day progressed as many others did in a small, unremarkable town in East massachusetts, with nothing for the residents to do but drink their sorrows and hardships away. The bar that the people frequented had suffered just as much as any other building, faded, broken wood and wonderglue were the only things to stop it from collapsing.
The bar was dimly lit, its windows closed with only a few candles left to emit a faint glow inside the place. The patrons of the bar had mostly drank themselves into a stupor so powerful that none could hold their hands still, inaudibly shaking on the battered wooden tables. Unlike most days however, they had a visitor stop by to rest and relax before he was on his way yet again. The patrons were startled when he opened the door, allowing glimpses of sunlight, however brief they may be to filter in unexpectedly, causing many to shield their eyes and stray away from the light, already the man in a patchwork suit had made a bad first impression. He immediately took a stool at the bar, looking around with a smile on his face, saying to himself "What a quaint place."
The young bartender took a moment to rub his hazy eyes before serving the man
"Just a water, please" said the man in a calming, almost hushed voice. As the bartender rummaged under the counter for a bottle of water and a (mostly) clean glass, the man continued to look at his surroundings, only now noticing the dreary looks plastered on everyone's faces.
"Well this is a... Quiet town" said the man trying to be polite
"Y- You mean you don't know?" asked the bartender, a puzzled look on his face
"Know what?"
"It's clear you're not from around here, but a while back this place used to be a nice place, safe for everyone in the community, that is until that maniac showed up"
"Maniac?" replied the man, becoming more enveloped with this story
"Yeah, calls himself Pickman, some kind of artist or something"
"I- I'm sorry did you say... Pickman?" asked the man
"Yeah, him and his gang came here a few years back when I was a kid, started killing anyone and everyone that could put up a fight and kinda claimed this town as his own. But the worst part, this sick bastard tells everyone he's an 'artist' and uses the blood of anyone he can find to make paintings" rambled the bartender before pointing to the wall at a previous piece "That one he made from the sheriff when he got here, told us that if we took it down then he'd use one of us as a replacement."
The man just sat in silence, staring at the bartender and the painting, normally the bartender was used to men giving him looks of horror and disgust after recounting of how Pickman came into town, but this time was different, the man almost looked as if he was... Offended.
"I'm still surprised you didn't see him on your way into town" said the bartender, gesturing to the east where the gang was located
"I came from the other way" said the man, quickly overcoming the horrors just described to him and finishing his water
"My advice, you best go back the way you came, you'd live much longer" cautioned the bartender looking at the glass he was cleaning "It's not like we can do anything about him anyway, the next town isn't for miles and few people come to this place, even fewer survive to tell about it" he finished, but when he looked up the man had left the bar and was continuing his way east.
...
It didn't take long for the man to find Pickman and his gang, they had cleared a sizeable clearing in the street, Pickman sitting on the roof of a burned out car as a makeshift throne, laughing with the two men next to him, while a third goon was urinating off to the side, just barely out of view to the others, and unbeknownst to the third, a man in a patchwork suit was sneaking up behind him with a crowbar he found. The loud shriek from was enough to startle the others, drawing attention to the man, standing over the corpse of their fallen friend, his head bashed in with one swing, blood pooling on the ground next to his still quivering body
"Who the fuck are you!" Pickman demanded to know
"That's not very polite" the man said, straightening his suit with a sickly smile on his face.
Pickman had very clearly had enough, snapping his fingers to command his two remaining goons to draw near to the man, who expressed doubt that this man had really gained control over this small settlement for this long a time with only three men to fight for him. The two remaining were much less a spectacle the man envisioned the raiders under Pickman's control would be, one hobbled over, their foot probably broken quite sometime ago and without any knowhow on how to fix it, it was simply left that way. None of them had any firearms or else they would have shot the man by now, instead of drawing closer to him with tire irons. The man dispatched both henchmen fairly quickly, as their broken bodies were not as fast as the man's, smashing the crowbar sideways into one's teeth, and bringing it staight down onto the head of the other one.
After seeing how quickly the stranger had dispatched of his men, Pickman started to silently panic, beads of sweat pouring down his face, desperately tring to think of a way out of a physical encounter with this maniac.
"Do you know who the fuck you're dealing with?" shouted Pickman, voice shaking
"Should I?" asked the man, calm and polite
"Yeah, you should! I'm Pickman, and if you don't leave I'll kill you and use your blood in a painting!" he shouted pulling out his weapon, a dull, rusted switchblade
"You're... Pickman?" the man asked with a raised eyebrow, before giving a slight chuckle "Well we both know that's a lie, fake Pickman" he said drawing his own weapon, a large, black, serrated combat knife.
The fake Pickman had only now realised the true gravity of his mistake of masquerading as a blood thirsty killer, standing in front of him was the man that raiders and gangs back east only talked about in hushed tones for fear they would be put under his knife, the artist who made his pieces with bloodshed and suffering, wearing a tattered suit and a malicious smile, the real Pickman.
The imposter began to shake violently with fear, tears forming in his eyes and squeaks exiting his mouth as Pickman drew closer, playfully flipping his knife between his middle and forefingers, whistling a calm tune. The imposter threw the switchblade away and dropped to his knees to beg for mercy, stuttering out the words "I- I'm sorry I said I was you and for what I did to this town, I'm so so sorry, please, just please don't hurt me and you'll never see me again!"
Pickman stood only a foot away from the snivelling imposter, speaking to him in a quiet soothing tone "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but there's no accounting for bad taste, I mean really, that portrait in the bar was just tacky" he said, stabbing his knife hard into the imposter's shoulder, causing blood to spurt out and the raider to fall to his side. "Don't worry, I'll make sure to turn you into an art piece worthy of my name" said Pickman in what he thought was a genuine compliment before slitting the imposter's throat.
...
Pickman then immediately got to work, finding a canvas in a nearby building, no doubt the fake Pickman stored them to enforce the myth. He then spent several hours tirelessly working on his newest art project, obsessively mapping out the portions of blood to be used, filling the canvas with the colour red, and making sure he was able to capture all of the emotions of the facial expression depicted in his painting just right, before finally finishing and taking several minutes gazing at his newly completed piece with awe, he had really outdone himself this time. He decided that this piece would best be left with the townsfolk and insisted it be hung up to replace the gaudy and awful version the fake Pickman had painted, the bartender had his reservations about hanging the new piece, but eventually relented, partially due to thanks for Pickman ridding the town of the raiders, and partially out of fear.
"So, mr. Pickman, now that your business here is finished, what's next for you?" inquired the young bartender, pouring him a beer on the house"
"I suppose now I'll keep heading east, I don't have any real preference where exactly" replied Pickman, grateful for the free drink
"Well if you keep heading east, sooner or later you'll find yourself in Boston"
"Sounds good to me."