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-Four: Micah

7:02 AM, July 23rd, 1899

Micah flung out of the boathouse with one thought on his mind as he stumbled along on his bandaged, half game leg: The Antichrist had risen. It was the only logical explanation. The Antichrist had risen and was forcing Dutch to whisper all those filthy words—he would've never said them on his own. He couldn't. Micah had given too much: his loyalty, his trust, his guns.

No, no. This wasn't the Antichrist, it was Sadie.

Yeah. Bitch is angry I tried to put it in her back at the Grizzlies. Wait, no. She's angry I didn't.

That was the thing with women, the thing his father had taught him: they were like a compass pointing down. They would spin, spin, spin, around and around, yet always landed where they started. They didn't even want to move, not really, they just wanted to spin, to fight, to complain.

Like that bitch down in Saint Denis, the irritating black skank. When Micah entered that pub, the look she was giving him, oh God, that look would boil the drink right out of Karen's hand. But when he'd given her what he knew she wanted, she fought, struggled, whined.

He couldn't breathe. He passed the horrifying sight of a smiling Grimshaw before he tripped, smacking the hard, arid dirt. His throat was dry, and the sand was gritty and thick, like he was being gagged (he would know, he'd gagged a lot of his people in his day). He coughed out a puff of orange smoke and looked up and saw it.

Saw himself helping Swanson and Mary-Beth unload the wagons, one gruelingly heavy crate at a time. Saw himself helping the traitor (no, not me!) hitch the horses to the rotted wooden posts. Saw himself honoring Dutch's slander, trimming the meat off a flayed doe, chopping it into teeny weeny bits and sliding them aside to his playmate, who'd scoop a claw-full of the pink morsels, dropping them (plop, plop) into a large iron pot with diced carrots and potatoes. Then the worst would come: the black chef, oh God, she'd be his boss, would smile at him, tell him he's 'not so bad no more.' That he's actually 'pretty pleasant company' now. And Micah would grin back, a friendly one, and tell her 'Thanks, boss! I was pretty feral before, but good ol' Dutch knocked some sense into me! I see it plain and true now: there ain't no "I" in team, and a house divided against itself cannot stand!'

Micah threw up then; his vomit was yellow and backwash stained his countenance with the putrid, stinking juice.

"Mr. Bell, are you alright?" someone above him (no he ain't!) asked, offering a hand which Micah swatted away with his clean hand (if he'd been himself he would've knowingly used the one covered in his half-digested stomach stew). Micah believed it was Swanson, though his vision was so blurry he couldn't tell; he was having a megrim—first one he'd had since Coot's Chapel.

And, oh, it was a bad one. The sun split into three and blanketed the sky with distorted rays; the world looked like a mirror that was shattering.

Everything was shattering, Micah thought as his hands shook. He felt like he was on a boat—everything was shaking and rippling and had no sense of coherence distance. His hands were right in front of his face, then they stretched a mile away.

"Mr. Bell?"

"I'm fine!" he barked, wobbling onto his feet. He staggered, away, past Swanson (or Kieran or Chamuel or whoever the hell it was) past Tilly and her newly bequeathed chuckwagon, past Uncle taking his nap, to the swampy forest beyond Lakay.

A piercing blare exploded into Micah's ears before he could reach the quagmire, however, dominating his senses until he only felt the enslaving misery of the awful cacophony. It was on his left and was building in intensity, rising like his father's fist. He turned, ready to shoot it dead, whatever banshee was funding this dreadful noise, before realizing he didn't have his guns. Probably for the best, because if he had shot a laughing Jack, there'd be hell to pay. The boy was giggling like some woman, shaking and petting the scruffy Catahoula Cur the gang had adopted.

Micah deigned to ponder what its name was, but nothing arrived on his tongue. Oh, but God, it was so close, he could swear he knew it.

He studied Jack's face, every facet and wrinkled curve—it felt deformed, wrong.

It's just some mangy, ugly dog, he wanted to scream before he ran out of Lakay, feeling his socks bulge sodden and heavy (even through his new Cavalry boots he'd plundered from the hill of Pink corpses at Shady Belle). Probably teeming with rabies and gingivitis. And every time he licks you, ya stupid boy, he's scraping off a layer of skin and soon enough, you'll be bald and pink as a newborn and everyone'll have to treat you that way, and you'll go back to havin' your mommy's titties stuffed in your face, and-and…

His thoughts trailed off as his head pulsated with pain. Yes, it was certainly one of the bad ones. Still, his only thought as he hurried to the coast of Lagras was how he wished he said all that to Jack—dumb boy was so young and naive he'd have probably believed it, and that would have been a delightful sight.

He crashed into the cloudy green lake, letting his hatless head poke out above the water like a crocodile. He snorted under the water, blowing white entwining bubbles up to the surface as the lake seeped into the makeshift cast on his left leg.

I used to think I was like a crocodile. That I'd stalk my prey patiently, waitin' till my time was right, then pounce up and snap 'em with my gaping, hungry maw. But I was wrong. I'm impulsive, rash. I ain't nothin' at all.

Then it happened. The megrim dissolved away instantly, the water settled and when he lifted his head out, his vision was dandy as a lion's. When before the world seemed so populous and large and loud and annoying Micah just wanted to die, now it was the converse; Lagras felt empty and he felt deserted. Everything was so quiet and still he could hear the satisfying drip drip of the water off his long yellow hair as it returned to its motherland below him.

Suddenly, he felt two grips on his shoulders—he was certain it was two different people because the texture of both hands were in wild opposition. Sharply, he shot his head around, but, of course, there was no one there. The grip on his left shoulder was cutting and firm, whereas the second was gentle and feathery.

Micah felt like he was at crossroads, like his destiny was laid bare in front of him, branching off in two directions. To be a meat trimmer, or not to be a meat trimmer. The summer water was warm, yet a wild chill was taking him.

Can a man really change? he found himself pondering.

Then, against his will, he thought Amos, though he didn't want to—he wanted little less. He thought back to St. Frederick's Catholic Church, back when it was alive with flocks of clergymen, as well as carpenters, cattlemen, farmers—honest folk—, all meeting to find God, and to lay to rest, the dead. Sermons were delivered, sorrows exchanged, and bodies buried outside in the surrounding cemetery. Although it was a very small church, it certainly wasn't run as such; the priest organized elaborate congregations that included so many, the pews were stood on like pedestals while a second row of folk prayed and cried in the foot space. The priest came in hours premature to the church's opening to individually ignite every one of the brilliant bronze candelabras that filled the (small) room with a golden light, and invited merry thoughts and joyous feelings to all who entered—every matin was Christmas morning, the stout white-bearded priest, their Santa Claus.

Then the Bell Gang heard about those bronze candelabras and paid them a visit. To spare the details, the golden light went out. The nuns were raped. The attendants, killed and looted. And Micah took St. Nicholas' white beard, along with the rest of his head, as a trophy. It was an ordinary day for the gang—a sad one though (those candelabras weren't worth nearly as much as they'd hoped, especially for all the trouble that came with them). Amos and Micah (their father had sadly passed the year before) had then walked outside when it happened. Amos punched him in the face, so hard his eye was black for six days.

"You… are an evil man, Micah Bell," he'd said. Oh God, how this memory stung. "And I'm done with you."

And he'd been true to his word. Rode off and Micah never saw him again, though he'd attempted to write, to humiliating failure. To this day, Micah still wondered what he meant. Why an evil man? Why not a sick man? A repulsive one? He hated his brother for this, and while he wouldn't admit it, he knew that if his brother did send him his address, he would kill him.

It weren't fair, Micah reflected. Weren't goddamn fair! He changed the rules!

Micah might not have liked them, but he was intelligible to understand they were a requirement for society: rules. But Amos did what Dutch did: altered the rules before Micah even knew they were different, and then he was cast out for not obeying the rules that he didn't even know existed!

I mean, was it so different? My black whore against Dutch's white one? What was her name again—the girl he killed at Blackwater? Don't matter. How was that any different? They weren't! Not at all! Hypocrite! Biggety bastard! I'm goin' to kill him. I'm going to kill Dutch. I'm going to take back my guns that he ain't got the right to even think about, and I'm goin' to march up to him, call his name so he turns around and knows it's—uh… wait… no. No, not Dutch, not Dutch. He's the only one who knows where the money's at.

Micah contemplated his options, before remembering he was still waist deep in water. He trudged out then, shaking like a dog until his skin was mostly dry, although his clothing and hair were still drenched. He took off his shirt and began wringing out the water as he thought.

Maybe I could threaten Dutch, learn about the money, then kill him? No, he'd surely lie, that's what he is after all, a liar, and I'd never get to ask again. Yeah, he'd lie… that's all he ever does is lie and talk and when he talks he lies, the fuckin' liar!

The shirt was wrung out, yet he tightened his hold on it, folding it into a ball and strangling it with both hands, imagining it was Dutch's pretty throat.

Oh, I'll gut him, maybe not now, but soon, very soon. He'll pay, I'll make him pay. And I won't use a gun, I'll make it slow. I'll cut out his tongue so he couldn't lie anymore, then I'd geld him, then—

His fingers loosened, and he suddenly found his frustrations going turncoat.

Err, maybe Dutch isn't at fault. He probably didn't mean what he said, just under a lot of stress, plus he hasn't slept in a while, insomnia is a death grip. No, no, Lenny is the one. His plan, his fault. Stupid little darkie thought he was so clever, thought he could botch everything I've built, the plans I've made! He's dead. Dead and buried in Lannahechee River, where he belongs. I hope his bones are touchin' the bones of the slaves who built the stinkin' town. His corpse doesn't get to lie above its station. And I swear, if Dutch is right, if those three somehow survived, I'm gonna kill that black son of a whore, I'm gonna flay him and see if his insides match his outsides!

Ofttimes, loyal reader, anger is cumulative, as interest in a bank. The more you have, the more it builds and evolves, growing fat and branching out in all directions, the original roots lost in a sea of swirling, winding hate. And before Micah even knew it, that hate from Lenny had flowed to everyone; to Arthur mocking him while he was imprisoned, shrugging of his kind words (those were rarer and more valuable than diamonds); Mary-Beth inhuman disregard for him; Grimshaw threatening him with a shotgun in recompense for his harmless flirts; Charles beating him to the ground because he politely asked for some food.

The anger was making him excitable and his knees started wiggling with adrenaline, compelling him to start walking. Anywhere. Nowhere.

I could make another deal with the O'Driscolls to kidnap some of us like I did with Arthur? Do it until the gang is all dead? Or better yet, I could just tell them our new hideout and let them go to work.

The image of Javier playing his guitar in the night popped into Micah's mind. A fireplace was in front of him, and he was surrounded by all of his friends, not noticing as they disappeared one by one into the dark night until only he remained. Then he too was eaten by the darkness. Then the reality of the situation cast Micah's fantasies aside.

No. Without Colm, they're unorganized, disjointed. They may still command great numbers, but not enough to beat us in a straight firefight.

Micah nearly tripped over a deformed tree root poking out above the ground as he walked on. His thoughts hopped to the other side of the fence again.

Maybe the original plan can still work for me? If I get Dutch drunk, maybe I can pry the Blackwater money out of him. Then I can go get it and bring it bac—no. No…! Wouldn't work. Dutch hates me. Would've killed me if he could. Bringing back another score to make up for one I foiled won't make me a hero. Oh God, it'll make us square. Square…

He started running then, whizzing past the tall crooked trees and wet soil (the lake had washed out the mud in his boots, but now it was back with a vengeance). Ideas flowed through his head just as fast, no one sticking.

He was trapped.

A meat trimmer. He was going to be a meat trimmer for the rest of his life.

Whispers of a new megrim began to boil up, and though his stomach was empty, he still felt he was going to be sick. Confusion and misery plagued him, wrapping around him like snakes.

Then Micah's right Cavalry boot caught another damn tree root and tumbled down into the mud.

Right where I bel—

It was hideous. The snout looked like a brown pig's up close. There were dozens of limpsy whiskers, and with the thing breathing so sporadically, those whiskers danced and swayed like there were hundreds of baby spiders sewn inside the creature's face, their legs wriggling and writhing. But the worst was the eyes; yellow and bloodshot, the black pupils dilated so large it was repugnant—like a rat as plump as a rugby ball.

Micah thought of Jack's giggles as he stroked it, rubbing its scraggy belly and holding its trembling paws and his hands shook with a black rage. He hated it. More than Dutch, Arthur, or the others all combined. To think that such an ugly, monstrous, vile thing could be so… loved.

The dog's blood was warm as it poured onto Micah. It was nicer than the lake, far nicer. It was like being baptized a second time. The creature's howl was anguished and lovely, music, really. It fought and kicked weakly, just Micah liked it—he twisted its hind leg until he heard the symphonic crack, then, and only then, did he cut its small pecker off (Mine's a lot nicer, he thought). The animal was begging for mercy and Micah, like a good little meat trimmer, gleefully denied it. It lasted for minutes and Micah savored every second.

When it was done, he stood, admiring his handiwork. He'd have to wash off before he went back. Couldn't have them getting any ideas.

Cain, he realized with a smirk. Its name was Cain.

And as Micah considered his next move, he stared into the dog's stripped, violated pink flesh, and it dawned on him.

Pink. Pink. Pinks.

Sure, he decided. I can be their Antichrist.

If he couldn't be the Dutch Van der Linde Gang's savior, he'd be their ruin.

Micah acting against the gang. Who'd have thought?

Hope you all enjoyed this. Change has always been a huge part of these games, so I thought it would be interesting to take a moment and give Micah the chance that Arthur and John had: to become a better man or double-down on what he is. Of course Micah went with the latter.

As always, feel free to leave a comment if you have any questions or criticisms.