An Inveterate Brit in the Old West.
Rated PG
Warning: Seriously off canon, humorously intended.
Disclaimer: Character belongs to Moore, Lloyd and WB.
I'm dodging flying knives…they seem to be coming from Northhampton
V found himself in the desert. The sun was hot on his black wool, though he knew it was winter in this arid place. He untied the cape and rolled it up. It will make a fine tent, or a blanket for when the sun sets and the chill comes back. He set off towards the north, since the ground sloped that way and he knew walking downhill was the best way to find water.
He did not question the fact that he was in the American desert. He knew that somehow he was in the right place as the right time to do something meaningful, something important. He could feel it in his gut. All that he needed to do to reach that goal was to keep moving.
His patent leather boots had already served him well. A rattlesnake had rattled its warning too late, he had stepped on its tail and it had struck him on the ankle. Its body had lain quivering in the sand a few seconds later, no damage to the boots, thank God. Poor snake, it was just a reflex. Sorry. He had thought about eating it since he was hungry and it looked like so much sushi…but decided he would rather wait and see what was at the bottom of the hill. Perhaps tea and scones at the next rest stop…
Sure enough. The bottom of the hill revealed a small stream leading toward some weathered grey buildings on the horizon. Ah, civilization at last. I can almost taste the scones. He followed the stream, careful not to get his boots wet. Have to polish off the snake blood, but not with this alkali water. Would ruin the finish.
He arrived at the town just before dusk. He stood there on the outskirts, observing. He had learned that these Americans were wary of strangers. Suspicious. Once he had to escape from a rancher who had lassoed him by mistake when he was hiding in the bushes. It had been easy to escape from him; the rope had burst into a puff of chaff when he applied his knivesbut dealing withthe rancher could have been a real problem. I don't know what I would have done with him if he hadn't fainted dead away when I rose up from behind that chaparral. He must have thought I was a calf. Or something.
The town was busy. He thought for a moment. Yes, it is Saturday night. Supposedly this is the only time of the week Americans allow themselves leisure and recreation. He remembered something else as he saw some garishly dressed women walk past. Oh yes. And Americans believe Saturday is the only night of the week they are allowed to attempt to procreate. I had better be careful.
You never know what might happen on a Saturday night in a Frontier Town in America's Old West.
V stood there in the middle of the dusty street trying to read the signs posted above each place of business. He needed food and drink. He was tired. He'd been walking in the sun all day. More important, his boots were dirty and needed a shine. Unlike London, the signs were not lit up with neon, but had a baked-on paint look to them. V wondered if the lack of illumination negatively affected the local nightlife.
He needed to get some liquid into him fast; he had learned that in the absence of a cold fog his body reacted quite unpleasantly to dry heat. There was only one building lit up in the dusky twilight. The largest two-story building on his left had a rather large red light glowing on either side of the front door. It had no informational sign describing the type of business; however, the building next door read, "Last Chance Saloon". "Ah, delightful," he said. A Public House, a Pub. V could almost taste his tea and scones. He made for the swinging doors.
As he passed through, the patrons inside fell silent. The banging of the piano, the laughing of the saloon girls, the scratching of chairs on floors, the ping ping sound of tobacco juice striking a spittoon….all the happy sounds of an American Public House faded away. Everyone froze, staring at him. What? He wondered, is there something on my face?
He touched the brim of his hat, bowed slightly to the left and right. I need to brush up on American manners and customs. Perhaps I have offended. He stepped up to the bar. Several patrons moved away clearing a space for him, they were still staring, their beers suspended in mid-air. He pulled up the stool and sat down, setting his rolled up cape on the empty stool beside him. To his relief the murmur of conversation resumed, and after a pause so did the raucous piano. He winced under the mask. Perhaps later I can convince the pub owner to allow me to tune that poor thing.
The Barkeep leaned over, wiping a thick glass mug. "What'll it be, Bub. We got rot gut an' beer."
"I beg your pardon?" V fumbled for the travel dictionary he kept in his belt. Rot gut? Rot gut was not an entry, oh dear. He was fairly certain he didn't want any."Tea", he said, "some tea. Preferably Darjeeling. And two scones, please, with jam. To go"
He was interrupted by a big cowboy who had come up behind him. "Well, well. What have we here? A furriner. A funny-talkin' furriner who wants some tea."
V turned around to face his new friend. The cowboy was tall, craggy, chewing some kind of cud and smelled like manure. He also noticed with some interest that this cowboy seemed to have friends. Five of them rose from their card table and were making their way toward him. It seemed that his dream of a peaceful and refreshing afternoon tea was fading rather quickly.
The smelly cowboy looked him up and down with a sneer. "The clown-face sissy-boy wants some tea", he said over his shoulder to the others. "Get him, boys!"
The men lunged for him. V stepped off his stool and drew his knives, one in each hand, a pause, a twirl and then thwack. With a flick of his wrist and a thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk his adversaries were laid out flat, each one with a pommel protruding from his chest. V calmly turned back to the bar. "Now. About my tea."
The barkeep stared, his mouth hung open. He reached beneath the bar, straightened up and brought out a porcelain teacup on a saucer. He used the tip of his finger to push it tentatively toward V. He whispered, "One lump or two?"
"Neither, thank you. I drink it straight up…I do need a straw, however."
"A what? There's straw in the livery stable…"
The barkeep was interrupted by a saloon girl who slid seductively up against V's chest and put her arm around his waist. "Howdy, big boy. I liked your six-shooter, how about showing me your long gun?"
"Uh..." Fortunately for V, right then a large man burst through the swinging doors followed by a crowd of townsfolk.
"Stop right there, stranger."
To V's great relief the saloon girl melted away. He saw the shiny star-shaped badge in the man's chest.
Uh oh. The Sheriff.
The sheriff and the townsfolk stood in the entry, staring at the bodies of smelly man and his herd. V moved quickly to retrieve his knives from the corpses. He didn't want anyone else to touch them, and he suspected if anyone did, they might not be returned to him.
"I said, "'stop right there.'" The sheriff said in a menacing voice, though he made no move to come closer.
"And I have. I have stopped. Right there." V slid the last knife into its place on his belt. I'm going to need to find a dry cleaner as well.
"Who are you?" the sheriff demanded, "And what is your business here in this town?"
V bowed with a flourish, sweeping his hat across the tops of his boots. "You may call me 'V'," he said.
"What kind of name is that?" the sheriff asked. "Some kind of furriner name?"
These Americans are rather hostile to immigrants. "It is a British name," he answered truthfully. I am British. It is my name…ergo…
"I suppose that is acceptable. You talk like a Limey. What do you want here?"
"I am merely passing through and stopped for a spot of tea. I was interrupted by these ruffians. I am sure you will find witnesses here who will testify that this unpleasant business was the result of self-defense." V tilted his mask at the main body of saloon patrons. He noticed uncomfortably that several of them were getting up and leaving.
"I will get statements from them later. Right now I want you to come with me." The sheriff pulled a handgun from the holster on his hip and pointed it at V's chest.
V thought about pulling out the knives again. He touched his chest, feeling under the silk for a rough edge. No. No vest. Well, then.
"Very well," he said. "Lead on." He looked longingly at the teacup, picked up his cape and allowed the sheriff to march him through the doors.
The crowd followed V and the sheriff as they made their way across the dirt track that served as Main Street. V had a chance to finally read the signs as they marched past the worn, sun-dried shops. The sheriff seemed to be steering him toward a low single-story adobe building. He noticed the bars in the windows before he noticed the sign, "JAIL". I suppose that means "gaol". No time to look it up in the travel dictionary. He paused at the wooden steps that led to the entrance. It would take more than a little handgun to get him to step inside a prison.
The sheriff reminded him that a Colt 45 was not a little handgun. V felt the barrel jab him in his back. Very well, then. He stepped inside. It was dark and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He saw the deputy, his boots propped up on a desk. The deputy immediately rose from where he had been sitting when he saw them come in.
"Whatcha got there, Sheriff?
"Troublemaker. Killed Toro Ordure and the Bovine Gang in the saloon just now."
"Are ya gonna put him in with the others?"
"Yep. Unlock the bars." The deputy took down an iron ring and selected a huge key. V watched him unlock the iron bars that served as one wall of the only cell in the little building. "Take off yer belt and lay it on the desk." The Deputy gestured with the gun.
V set down his cape and unbuckled the belt. His eyes took in the small windows, the bars, the warped floorboards, the cast iron stove in the corner. He weighed the possibilities. Unfortunately, he was a large target in the small room, and the getaway door was blocked by the faces of the grim citizenry, many of them armed. These Americans. They have a perverted sense of justice. I predict I will be lynched for an act of self-defense. He shook his head as he lay down the knives. Not cool.
He allowed the deputy to push him into the cell and listened as the lock's tumblers fell into place with a click. He had company. There were four other men in the cell with him. All four looked up with interest as he stepped into the light from their kerosene lantern. They were playing cards. The game paused as they stared at him in turn.
The man nearest him gave him a shock when he turned around. He was dressed all in black, and had a black cape and…he was wearing a mask; a black mask that covered half his face and a hat…just like mine. V touched his hat. The man in black did too. Beside that man was another. This one had no mask, had no hat or cape. This man was dressed rather simply in a brown shirt and trousers. He looked Chinese. Next to him sat a rugged-looking man with blonde sun-bleached hair sucking on a cheroot. He was wearing a serape and squinted up at V, even though the light in the cell was not bright at all. The last man was very handsome and had bright blue eyes and smiled at V, extending a hand in greeting.
"Howdy. My name's Butch. Have a seat. We're playing draw for smokes."
V shook his hand. 'Draw for smokes?' Best to be friendly. "Thank you. To be honest, I do not know the game, but it appears I am not going anywhere this evening and the telly seems to be, well, not invented yet." He pulled up a stool and sat down.
"It's a simple game, senor," the man in black said with a heavy accent, "you are dealt five cards, there is a draw and the best hand wins."
"Cyril here is winning," Butch tilted his head toward the blonde man in the serape, "Mebbe you can win some of my smokes back for me, you look like you have a perfect poker face."
The Chinese man said, "I do not wish to play for these tobacco sticks. They are offensive to me."
"Caramba!" Said the man in black, "Just think of them as a way to keep score."
Cyril said nothing, but shuffled the deck and took a puff. He dealt V in the next hand.
V stared at his cards. He tried to make polite conversation. "So," he said to no one in particular," what are you in for?"
Butch answered first as he lay down a card, "I robbed a bank. Got caught."
The man in black said, "Oste, Amigo. I was trying to save an orphan from the workhouse. Too late I found out she was not an orphan but the Mayor's daughter, Ave Maria. It is a sad day for The Fox."
V turned to the Chinese man. "And you, sir?"
The man glanced up at him briefly, and then turned back to his cards. "I was picked up for WWC."
"I beg your pardon?" V asked.
"Walking While Chinese," Butch answered for him. "Folks are suspicious of immigrants around here. Caine was doin' chores for Miss Prism, the schoolmarm, when the deputy picked him up and brought him in."
"I see. And you?" V tilted his head toward Cyril.
"Hmph." The man responded, moving the cheroot around to the other side of his mouth.
"Cyril doesn't talk much," offered Butch. "He was turned in by some gunfighter, what's his name? Angel Eyes. Turned in for fraud. Seems Cyril has been the worst kind of bounty hunter." Butch snickered. "Worst kind." The blonde man glared at him as he dealt him his draw card.
V folded his hand. He didn't have any "smokes" to bet anyway. He looked at the bars, the window, the lamp. He could see the empty plates and tin cups from the prisoner's most recent meal, and the bucket in the far corner that his sensitive nose told him was the latrine.
He kept his voice low. "Have any of you considered…escape?"
"Escape? Naw," Butch said as he bet two cigs. "This is a new jail, bars are set firmly, lock is good, no rust, and our weapons are locked away in a chest under the desk."
"No, senor," said the man in black. "I might as well give up. Many times I have come to the aid of the oppressed, only to be foiled."
"You are a freedom fighter, then?" V asked with interest.
"Si. But each of my exploits has been ascribed to a different man. I have no reputation to generate fear in the minds of the wicked." He shook his head, dejected, "I might as well hang and be done with it."
"I will not fight," Caine said. "Violence should be used only to stop evil. Life and death, mean nothing to me. Let them kill me if they would. Nothing matters."
"Well, I don't believe that for a second," Butch said. "I'd fight back if I could, but these bankers are getting wise. The buildings are stronger, the tellers are in cages now, the money is in safes, and the stages are heavily guarded. Trains are the future now, but a six-shooter won't stop a train."
Cyril snorted. Lit another cheroot. Took the pot. V looked at him. "And you, sir. Perhaps you have an escape plan."
"Nope."
V lay down his cards and walked over to the latrine, peeked in the bucket. So far so good. All liquid. He turned and knelt next to the kerosene lantern, touched the chimney. Good. Plenty of lamp-black and the fuel level is high. He sauntered over to the dirty dishes and examined the remains of the previous meal. Hmm…someone didn't finish their coffee. And what's this? Sugar cubes? It is looking better and better.
He peered out of the cell and into the main room. His belt had been locked in the wooden chest under the desk. He could see a rapier on the wall. Probably belongs to the man in black. The deputy sat at the desk, feet up, hat pulled down over his eyes. The occasional snore told V how secure the lawmen felt about their new gaol. This will be easy, but I will need a little help.
He picked up one of the empty tin cups and took it to the urine bucket, scooped up a small amount of the contents and held the cup over the chimney of the lamp. It came to a boil rather quickly, permeating the cell with an unpleasant odor.
"Jiminy Crickets, man, what are you doing?" Butch pinched his nostrils.
"Escaping."
"With piss?"
"Indeed."
The card game stopped as each man gave the others a knowing look. I am tired of being considered insane, V thought. Get over it. The urine soon cooked down to crystals. V took the cup away before it could burn and allowed it to cool, then held the coffee over the lamp until it had reduced to the proper consistency. The sugar cubes he broke up and ground to granules with his glove.
When he had collected his materials, he came back to his stool and sat down. "I do not wish to stay here and be hanged, so I am going to leave now. You are welcome to share in my escape, but I will ask a favor from each of you first."
"You're a lunatic, aren't you?" Butch said.
V let that one go. "We need to coordinate." He leaned forward and said with a conspiratorial whisper, "When the door to the cell opens, one of you will have to secure the deputy; we need to get the chest open, and get our weapons before the sheriff and the townspeople arrive."
"I can open the chest," the Chinese man said.
"I will grab the deputy," Butch said.
"I will lunge for my blade and cover you," said the man in black.
"Hmph," said Cyril.
"I need a piece of your serape," V said to Cyril. "Just a few strands from your fringe." The squinty eyes narrowed even more, but the blonde man pulled a bit of the wool from the fringe and handed it to V. "Thank you," V said.
He took his cups, the lamp and the sugar to the cell door, bent over them for a few minutes. His cell mates gathered around watching him with interest. He applied something to the lock, affixed the serape strands and held out his glove to Cyril. "Your 'smoke', please," he said.
Cyril handed him the lit cheroot. V applied the lit end to the wool and said, "Stand back."
There was a hiss, a crackle then BOOM. The lock exploded, the door swung open in a cloud of black smoke.
"Jeezus Holy Christ!" cried Butch. "Do you think that will work on trains?"
"Among other things," V answered dryly. The men rushed from the cell. Butch had the deputy in a headlock, the man in black had his blade at his throat and Cyril had pulled the chest out from under the desk. Caine walked up to the chest, raised his arm and brought it down, striking the top with the edge of his hand. The chest split in two.
"Nice," V said. "I need to learn to do that." Caine bowed low from the waist. V continued, "My compliments, sir. And if I may, I think you would do well to avoid capture in the future, even if it requires you perform a violent act. Remember that violence can be used for good, and that by staying out of gaol, you may be able to aid the helpless against evil."
Caine bowed again, took the hint, and gave the deputy a karate chop to the neck, dropping the man to floor, unconscious.
"Excellent," V said. "Thank you for your help." Caine bowed again and disappeared though the door.
"And you," V said to Cyril as he buckled on his knives, "I suggest you do away with your name. You don't need it and it doesn't suit you. Just be the 'man with no name'. It makes it hard for them to identify you on a 'Wanted' poster and is much more mysterious. You may find you acquire a nickname, however, which can be an unfortunate side-effect." The man with no name nodded to him and melted into the night.
"And you," V nodded to Butch. "I wish you luck with the trains."
"Are you sure you don't want to join my gang? I think we are going to need a munitions expert for our next job…"
"Thank you, no. I have someone I need to get back to."
Butch buckled on his gun belt and made for the door. "Thanks, stranger"
The man in black brought his rapier up in a salute, then sheathed it. "Fine work, fine work," he said. "You would become a legend in the west if you stayed!"
"Perhaps," V answered, "but I really must go, but first," V drew one of his knives and slashed a large 'V' on the wall that held the 'Wanted' posters. "There."
"What are you doing?" The man in black asked, staring at the 'V'.
"Leaving a mark, so that the authorities will know who it was that thwarted them!" V answered with triumph.
'Now that's a good idea," said the man in black. "A very good idea. An excellent idea." He drew his sword, and with a swish and a zing, slashed a 'Z' next to the 'V' on the wall. "I like the look of that," he said.
"Good bye!" V grabbed his cloak and the two men in black slipped through the door just as the sheriff and a crowd of sleepy townsfolk came around the corner. V could hear them shouting and there were a few shots fired wildly into the air. As he ran he heard someone in the crowd shout, "Who was that masked man?"
Evey sat bolt upright in bed. It was dark. It must be middle of the night. She shook her head to clear the sleep away. I heard something! It sounded like someone yelled, "YEE HAW!" No. It can't be.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and crept out into the gallery. The telly was on, but paused at the end of an old western. She tiptoed to the sofa and looked over the back. V was lying there, his hand on the remote. She assumed he was asleep, because he did not move as she leaned over him.
"V? Are you alright? I thought I heard you yell."
He startled awake," Oh, Evey. It's you."
"You must have been dreaming. I heard you yell. I thought you were in trouble."
"I was, Evey, I was."
"Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes, you can. Put the kettle on, and do you know how to make scones?"