Miserable. That's the best way I can describe my life. I won't say it's tragic, I'm not nearly as self-absorbed as that. Besides, this is Gunsmoke. Everyone's life holds more than a fair share of tragedy.

I slam on the brakes of the jeep. There it is, right in front of me. There's the grave.

His grave.

I start digging.

I was born in July, I'm not exactly sure when. Time has a way of mashing together, day into months, months into years here on Gunsmoke. It's even worse with my line of work. This probably isn't that big of a surprise, but I never knew my father. My mother never gave me specifics, which makes me think she didn't even know who he was.

I can't remember much of my early life. I don't even know my name. My mom would come and go as she pleased, often leaving me to fend for myself. When she was home she was so high out of her mind she wasn't of any help anyway. I would do whatever it took to feed and clothe myself. I would lie. Cheat. Steal. And on more than one occasion, kill in order to survive. Now I know it's hard to believe, a little boy killing another little boy for food. But a person's instinct to survive is an amazing, and sometimes terrible thing.

I guess when I hit my early teens my mother grew tired of me. I don't know how you can tire of somebody you seem every few months, but she tired of me none the less. Though looking back on it, she probably did it because she was ashamed of what I had become. Of what her actions had led me to become. A killer.

Then again, maybe she just did it for the money.

Regardless of her motives, she ended up taking me to one of the many saloons that infested July in those days and sold me into slavery. She sold me, her own flesh and blood, for fifteen double dollars.

Not even enough to buy her next fix.

I don't know how much time passed while I was in that brothel. It felt like eternity stacked upon eternity. I try not to think about it too much. Not because the memories of the abuse I suffered shames me, or makes me sad, or makes me angry. But because I don't like to think about how weak I once was. If I knew back then what I know today, if I had all my training all that long time ago…well I would have ripped the dick off of the first man who tried to put it inside my mouth.

But needless to say, time passed. My life fell into a vicious cycle of violence, drugs, and sexual abuse. I became addicted to the same trash my mother had been addicted to. The brothel never paid me for my service since I was a slave. So I used to play darts during the day. I would bet money on the games in order to get enough cash to get my fix. I was the best dart thrower in July, nobody could even touch me. I got a bullseye every single throw.

I remember the day he came into my life. My teacher.



I had just taken a few double dollars off of another sorry sap when he called me over to him. I was used to men beckoning me over, offering drinks, drugs, money, all sorts of thing. But this one was different. He wore a large duster on his head, obscuring his face from view, and a coat that seemed to take the color of whatever was around him. Sort of like some kind of camouflage.

"You have good aim boy."

"Yeah, yeah mister. I know. So listen, its twenty double dollars for a blowjob. One hundred gets you everything."

"I am interested in you boy. But not in that sense. Give me you hands."

"Handjobs are ten mister."

"No boy. Give me your hands. Let me see them."

He grabbed my wrists and pulled me towards him. I was about to yell out to the owner, who was also the bartender and my master, but something about the man made me hesitate. He ran his fingers over my palms, studying the contours and line carefully. It was like he was looking for something, something that went beyond my hands. Finally he stopped looking and let his hand drop to his side.

"Finally…"

He let out a heavy sigh and stood up. He grabbed me by the wrist and began walking towards the door.

"Hey mister what the hell are you doing. Hey let go of me. Let go of me I said!"

He was a skinny guy, but he grabbed hold of me with more force than anyone ever had.

"Boss! Boss! This guy is stealing me! BOSS!"

The bartender pulled a shotgun out from under the counter and pointed it at the man.

"Where the hell do you think you're going with my property buddy?"

"I'm taking the boy."

Faster than light my boss was dead. A bullet hole drilled right between his eyes. I never even saw the man reach for his gun, yet there he stood, gun in hand, smoke billowing from the barrel. Then he let go of me and knelt down and looked me hard in the face.

"Listen boy, and listen well for I will only repeat myself once. If you come with me I will teach you things most men can only dream of. You will be more than human. More precise and more deadly than the best rifle. You will be like the desert. Or you can stay here for the rest of your life. You can stay and be a cum dumpster for this trash. Choose."

I saw the look in his eyes, and I heard the truth in his words. This man could make me more than I ever hoped to be. He could offer me a life beyond life.



I took his offer. Never looked back.

I hear the shovel clang against metal. I get down on my hands and knees and dig the rest out with my hands. Here it is. It's so beautiful. Even the duster and jacket are here. The rifle will take some work, someone shot it up pretty bad. Thankfully I can scavenge all the parts I need from the jeep.

The Gung-Ho Guns are dead. My motives are my own. I will kill Vash the Stampede, and anyone he associates himself with. I'm going to do this for no other reason than I am talented enough to do so. I'm talented enough because of him. Because of my teacher.

I have a name now. It's not my own, but I will take it in memory of him. Because like he, I am a force of nature.

I am the desert.

I am Caine the Longshot.