Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Twenty: John
12:30 PM, July 22nd, 1899
There are not many animals bereft of a heart. It is an essential organ.
It pumps blood (approximately seventy milligrams a beat) to the lungs across the pulmonary artery, which then sucks up all that oxygen and flows out to the rest of the body, guided by veins, arteries, and capillaries that act as railroad switches, dispersing the blood evenly throughout the body. Once those blood cells shoot their loads, they're ordered to return to homebase in the heart and like busy little bees, they double back and repeat the process all over again.
There are exceptions, of course, there almost always are when it comes to Mother Nature. Most were sea-dwellers, like starfish, jellyfish, or coral—animals that could be lacking such a network since they face a dearth of any blood vessels, internal organs, or blood at all.
There are exceptions, of course, because although he couldn't swim (and quite frankly, found the water to be unseemly and unhomely), John Marston knew he didn't have a heart.
That's what he told his drinking companion—a tall Indian fellow John had entitled Wet Locks on account of his short hair settling on his damp, tear-stained cheeks (bastard must've seen some bad things, he never stopped crying)—too.
"I-I's b-hic-born without a heart, I know it," he'd said on his ninth round. "In… hic… stead… I got-I got… no, I m-mean, what I mean's that I'm-I'm like one of them… uh… whatdoyacall'em?"
"I cut my hair, I pray to their god. What'll it take? When will they let me be?" Wet Locks whimpered, his voice coming out like mouse squeaks.
"Uuuuuh… hic… wait… a furnace! Thass what they is, thass what I is. A f-"—he accidentally slapped his bottle over, spilling foamy beer all over his soiled pants—"sssshit. Heh. True what th-they say: drink eno-hic-enough beer and you'll start p-pissin' it!"
"I fucked white women, and I hate white women…"
John gave a choppy wave to the barkeep, indicating his empty bottle. He gave a gander around the place; no sign of her, luckily. The saloon was nice; nothing too fancy, thank God. No marble bar, no gold (they weren't real gold, just painted gold, naturally) window frames, no white tiger's milk with a peach slice garnish. Just a few wooden tables, some poker games, neat decor of deer and bull skulls, and three shelves of simple, two-syllable maximum liquor. And a barber tucked away near the back entrance—John snorted wondering about the imagination that black man had. If it was John in his stead, he'd shave every customer; lie and say that's what they requested. If they weren't sober, they couldn't prove him wrong. "But… anyyywayyys, I'm a furnace, right?"
"... All flat tits and half-beards."
"Deep inside a' me, there's fire. No h-heart, just fire." He paused, motioning again for the barkeep to do his damn job. "That's w-why I got-hic-ta drink, why my dad-dy did too: gotta keep the flame alive, like cooooal to a boiler. He dead now, y'know… my daddy."
The barkeep finally peeled away from some guy in a raccoon hat and gave John a minute. "Yeah? 'Nother bottle?"
"Hic… Please."
The bottle was laid on the table with a satisfying thud. It was lake-green, like John, like his flame, that was. His father's was doubtlessly been sky-blue, matching the Scottish flag—his father had always been a patriot, regardless of the fact that he'd never set foot in that country. But no, John's was green, after the only thing his fire had ever burned for: money. That was all he ever chased, his whole life; he couldn't fathom the idea that some people were just born into a world where they had it—it happened, surely it must, but he couldn't ever get himself to picture it.
"An' ya want t'know how I knows I ain't got a heart…?" He leaned close to his friend, the bottle, not the Indian, "I don't… feel things. Not like I should." He felt the cool glass in his hand, soothing the burning fire that was inside him while fueling it—story of his life, I suppose: out of the frying pan and into the fire. "My-my wife had a gun…"—he imitated a gun with his finger—"pointed right at me, and she's cryin' and shakin'… hic… and I says-I says the boy ain't mine. Said I didn't believe her. I-I says she's a gaslighter, I did. Said… hic… she's a shrewd, conniving whore, whose plans got plans." He choked back a large gulp of booze, feeling the juniper-green blaze explode yellow-orange for a moment before simmering back down. "I m-mean, why did I do t-hic-that?"
Wet Locks remunerated him with silence; John turned to face him—he'd bore his soul out to this guy, usually, that warranted something. But he was gone—John was alone again.
But not for long at all.
"Mmm… hey, honey…" The wilily sweet voice of her assaulted his ears as she swung her arms over his shoulders. The perfume was thick and nauseating, a shroud of repulsively titillating juice. John clutched his glass sharply now, feeling defenseless—like she'd caught him with his pants down and was giggling at his short boy-sized shaft. Her raven hair curtained down to his shoulders, and he felt her narrow stomach press against his blemished-with-sweat back. "Was waitin' all night for that baby of a man to leave… give us some privacy. He don't like white women.'' Her lips twisted into a red smile. "You never had that problem, did you?"
He was going to puke; the green fire in him seemed to stretch and fall like a rainbow, burning his stomach, making the remnants of the small dinner he'd eaten start to swell up.
He hadn't meant to do it; he really hadn't.
She had looked so much like Abigail, save her smile—Abigail's was rare, reserved for special moments only, but hers' was cheap, a cheerleader's. Similar lengthy black hair and pretty blue eyes—although they were much darker, more like navy. He'd been drunk, too, remember; all that firewater had caused his green flame to bulge so burly it encompassed his whole form, like he was a costume it was wearing or a puppet it was filling with a guiding hot hand. And the fire had changed its hue, too, subtly, but it had—to a romantic, lecherous pink, and it became impossible to resist its insinuations. It wasn't what he wanted, no, no, no, it was the green—er… pink flame. Furnaces didn't just hiss and scream for no reason, after all, there was logic to it somewhere if you looked hard enough. If it was too cold, you had to turn up the temperature… and if it was too hot, you had to find a way to… vent the heat.
And he'd been lonely…
"Y-your last n-n-n-name Roberts?" he had asked, as she'd led him up the stairs, holding his hand firmly.
"Why?"
"You… hic… just look like s-someone I know, I's wondering if she'd a sister I was un-unaware of."
"Do you want it to be?" she asked as they had reached the door.
He took his time in answering; oily sweat secreted from his rough skin as he licked his dry lips. "Yessss…"
They crossed the threshold into the bedroom, it was small: one dresser, one mirror, no bathroom, and just one narrow bed—that's all they'd need… She tossed her red stole in front of the dying orange candle, the thin cloth snuffed out most of the dim light, filtering the rest into a tight ruby-pink spotlight no bigger than a penny. The room matched his flame now: a passionate lavender. Although while his was livid and teeming, its was faint, dark. He could barely see her, and thank God for that—her details were diminished, and in that lighting, she just as well could've been Abigail. Hell, she was Abigail. God, he needed it to be Abigail.
That's what he whispered to himself innumerably as she contorted her pale legs to wrap around his, slowly shepherding him onto the cramped, dusty bed. She was saying things to him, lines certainly ("It's so big," "God, you're so good," etcetera), but he couldn't hear her over the steady buzzing in his ears. But that was good too, her voice was nothing like Abigail's—nothing like that sweet, lovely tune. You killed him… Why didn't you go fishing with him?
Then that moribund candle alighted the room a dark, bloody red. That pink spotlight became a scarlet eye, watching him as he entered her. She was on top, writhing with pleasure; her laugh was evil, eldritch. Not at all like Abigail's. Her happy rump pulsated atop his dead legs, her hands were around his throat but he didn't stop her. The Red Eye opened wider and wider, until the room was flooded with a deathly crimson glow; she didn't look anything like Abigail anymore—her hair was chained in a short blonde bun, her breasts shrunk so flat she looked like she had a man's chest. It wasn't Abigail, Jesus Christ, it wasn't Abigail!
And that Red Eye burned ever brighter, it was the sun-no, not the sun, fire. A brilliant ball of fire, oh… oh, God. The stole caught the candle's light, it was afire now too, then so was the dresser, and the dark walls, and the bed, and him, and her—and still she wouldn't stop laughing, as the scorching blaze maimed her face until a yellow pus gushed out her mouth and drenched onto his hairy chest.
And then the candle finally went out.
He fell asleep instantly in the dark. She was polite; only helped herself to what she was owed… plus an extra three dollars.
He stood by the bar, now, as she whispered in his ear. "That was fun last night weren't it? We can do the same rate if ya want. I'm free right now."
"Go away," he murmured, slouching his head.
She shot her head away before bringing it back around. She asked again, more desperately this time. "Please. Hell, I'll do it for free. See that guy…" She pointed, expecting John to follow her finger to the person in question, yet not a muscle flinched. "Okay, um…" She tried to describe him to a careless John. "He's an ugly drunken dunderhead watching me right now, and no amount a' money in the world is worth that. I ain't a picky girl, but I got limits, and there's things I—"
"Go away!" He peeled her skinny arms off and drove her flailing into a nearby table, catching the interest of every respectable miscreant present thirty past noon.
"Sir," called the barkeep, inciting John to spin and face him, "I need to ask you—"
That was all he got out before John shattered his murky green bottle against the man's head, demoting him to the floor. They crowded him then, clouted him, all the other residents of the bar; they surrounded him as though he was giving out gold. He remembered seeing the image of a man's dead body as a boy—couldn't see anything except the ghostly white flesh in his face, the rest of his body was obscured by juddering ebony feathers. Crows had gotten to him, smothered every inch of him, feasting on his slick, meaty organs.
"F-uck you!" John wailed, to no one in particular. Or maybe all of them. Or maybe everyone.
He earned the fists of at least six men, burnishing his face and his chest. He was hurting something awful, worse than getting shot at Blackwater, worse than getting half his damn face mauled off by (literal) curly wolves. He felt another hard fist drive into his side; the tear that floated to his eye told him at least two ribs were cracked, maybe broken.
Doesn't matter, he thought as the horde funneled him in the direction of the batwing doors at the entrance, or in his case, exit. Let the crows go to town! There's one organ they can't peck! Let h—
He stopped, as he spotted a silver-headed man sunk deep in his chair; he suspected it was the same guy pointed out by… her. He was skinny as a twig, and he slouched in such a way that his spine seemed ready to poke out of his back. His eyes were glassy and distant; he hummed jumbled balderdash—wherever the hell he was, it wasn't here. He looked like hell. Matter of fact, he looked a lot like Hosea…
No, John disregarded as he was led out of the establishment and out of sight. Couldn't possibly.
The mud was cold and heavy when John smacked against it. He braced his eyes for the natural light of the sun, but thank God, there was none; the weather was overcast, the sky shrouded by a great gray canopy.
"C-c'mon!" He stammered as he stumbled to his feet, not at all scared of the vexed mob of eight people standing on the front steps of Smithfield's Saloon. "C'mon, ya wh-whoreso—" Not advisable.
It hit him as hard as a train in the cheekbone; the middle knuckles weren't pulled in all the way and stuck out like a shark's fin on the hand and they plunged into his left upper jaw, knocking out two of his premolars and lowering him back to the dirt. Right where I belong.
Mud was holed up in his ears, but he still made out their crackling snickers as he watched the tall trees of their legs storm away back to the saloon. Every breath whimpered out a lowly groan. It plopped onto his cheek then, a drop, but not a tear. The rains came, starting with a few cleverly displaced droplets before building to its crescendo in seconds; it came down so heavy and fast and narrowly dispersed, that the plippity-plop it made on the mud drowned out his bloodcurdling enraged scream.
John rolled his forearms, feeling the cold brown sludge splash onto them when the mud dangling on the back of his neck dripped down. He crawled to the alleyway between the saloon and the general store on its right, thumping his achy head against the lime-green wooden planks that made up the latter's walls. This sojournment did not provide him refuge, however, from the thick rain; it had been less than two minutes and his boot was satiated with mucky water.
Their words replayed themselves in his head like an endless echo:
Never shoulda taken you back in. Arthur knew it too. Never!
You… killed him.
If you say the boy ain't yours, what's the difference? You'll probably only run off again.
He clutched his head; Christ how it hurt. His mind was murky and waterlogged with booze; his flame had plenty of fuel but wasn't much more than a weak smolder… wait… d-did it want to die?
Realization struck as thunder snapped out across the hopelessly cloudy sky. C-crack!
John's swollen mouth curved into a disjointed smile.
He wanted her to pull the trigger. Oh, he was so clever, he was such a crafty mastermind. Such a brilliant sleuth. I… don't… believe you. He wanted her to kill him then and there, even if part of him didn't know it. It was like there were two men inside of him: Jekyll and Hyde.
Just do one thing or another, not be two people at once, that's all I'm saying.
No problem, Arthur, John thought, slowly caressing his hand down his mud-strewn thigh to the dull cattleman in his worn holster, touching it with such passion you'd think he was about to shoot a wank of it. Hell, I'll go one step further. How 'bout I be no people?
Thunder roared as he raised the gun aloft before positioning the rusted metal barrel by his ear. It was cold… as a corpse. C-craaaaaack! C-craaaaaaaack!
It's for the best. I ain't got nothing left anyhow.
His smile wavered as reason started to penetrate the stubborn bulwarks of Dr. Hyde's mind. M-maybe I should think this? I'm really, really drunk.
C-craaaaaaaaaaaack!
He cocked the gun.
Fuck it, thought Jekyll.
C-CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!
And it hit him.
Not the bullet but an idea. An idea so simple, so obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before: Jack was alive. Damn what Dutch said, damn what they all said, damn what God said. Somewhere in the world, that little boy breathed, and John was going to find him. He was going to get it all back.
And amidst the clamor of boisterous thunder and pouring rain, the sound of a gun not going off could be heard only by two men.
This is NOT the end.
So sorry it took so long for this update, and this is only about half of chapter twenty-I'll update it with the rest later this week.
Just been a hectic week, so I wasn't able to knock out as much as I wanted. Enjoy what's here, and I promise I'll have the rest out before the week is over. I hope to get back to making quicker updates for you all next month.
Also, did the more eagle-eyed viewers notice the mirroring I've started doing? We've got Lenny resisting the temptress figure in the name of love whereas John gives in because of love. We've also got John starting a fight in a saloon over a prostitute and hitting the barkeep in the face with a glass bottle as Micah did before.
There won't be a lot of major themes in this work, so I'm trying to use lots of mirroring. Keep an eye out!