Six Bullets stood on end at the edge of the table. The cloth was spread out, my Smith & Wesson .357 in pieces on it. I tore a bit of fabric and wrapped it around the sharp metallic bristles of the scrubber. Shot of lubricant, dash of elbow grease. I ran it through in one fluid motion. It needed to be clean. Everything needed to be perfect. Next, i brushed everything off the hammer, dug grime out using a toothpick. I couldn't afford any mishaps. Not this time. I needed this to be perfect. No Room for error.
I continued for 2 hours cleaning, polishing, priming, and reassembling the weapon. His weapon. His Legacy. His Curse. Now my cross to bear.
Once everything was put back where it needed to be, I double, then triple checked my weapon. It was perfect. This is the way it's supposed to be.
I smiled for a second, admiring the irony of it all, then solemnly regained my composure, moving forward with my Grim Task. I chose one of the six bullets, and pushed it into its chamber. I then pushed the revolving chambers back in line with the barrel. I set the one chamber to the right, then pulled the hammer back.
Silently I prayed that whoever would see me next would have the strength and faith to know what to do. Loved ones needed to be notified. Blood needed to be cleaned up. The death had to be mourned, but the body didn't have to rot in one place.
I closed my eyes, and placed the barrel in my mouth. It was cold, and tasted foul. The lubricant on my tongue, along with the metallic taste of the barrel, made me want to puke. Slowly my grip changed, pointing the barrel towards the roof of my mouth, towards my brain. One Chance to do this right. It had to be perfect. I stayed silent as I squeezed the trigger..........
Nine days later I sat in amazement at the bar, a tall glass of whiskey in one hand and my chosen bullet in the other.
"They say those things never lie." I turned to face the man who spoke. "That destiny itself cane speak in the form of a metal casing, a slug, and some powder." An older gentleman, wisdom showing in his eyes. Gray hair smoothed back. He appeared to be looking into my soul, directly into my doubts and fears.
"Everything was perfect," I said. "The Barrel was clean, the revolver lubricated." "Everything done in scrutinizing detail to make sure that no mistakes were made."
"And none were," he replied.
Who was this man, and how did he know why I was holding this particular bullet? Before I could ask him, he answered, as if reading my thoughts.
"Name's Red," He said. "Cooper," I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was strong, firm, trustworthy. "Red?," I asked. "Parents decided to curse me with the painstaking mouthful that is Rutherford Ezekiel Dalton."
"So Red," I started in on him," exactly who in the hell are you and why are you telling me about destiny and bullets?" His reply was simple, "I saw the way you were looking at it." "The gun jammed on you, didn't it?" Silence was my answer. "So Coop," he edges out, "who was the lucky bastard who escaped our lead friend there?" I didn't answer. I didn't want to admit that I had tried to kill myself and had failed. To admit that I could destroy anything but my own life.
"Looks like you were meant for something else," Red stated. "Mister, I wasn't meant for anything!!," I exploded, frustration pouring out of me. I jumped to my feet, ready to defend my honor, to deny my cowardice.
Red stayed calm as he turned to me, smiling. "I was talking to the bullet." I felt exposed. I had shown my true colors.
"Listen Coop, I know who you are, and what it is you do." "I used to know your father, many many moons ago, back when I was a Marshall, before the war destroyed this country, and before your mother passed from this Earth."
"So if you're a law man, and you know what I do, why are you here?" "I WAS a law-man, I'm retired, and I have a job for you." "What kind of job?"
He took my glass of whiskey, drained it in one shot, and said, "One best kept off the books." "A job that even the U.S. Marshalls can't handle." "A job for the quick shooting son of James 'The Duke' Duchaine " "Think you can handle it?"
"Who's the mark?"
To Be Continued................................
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