Marc the Gunslinger

The cold never bothered Marc much. Neither did the rain. He actually found it quite soothing in a way. It was nature’s way of refreshment. He felt the rain dropping against his hat as he pulled up the collar on his coat, not wanting to wet his shirt anymore than he already had from the drinks.

In this part of town, the surrounding area was full of neon signs, each one flashing “Open” in bright red, some even portraying women in erotic positions. Marc took a deep breath in. This was his city. There was no other place in southern California like it. Every step Marc took, there was that sound of his boots slapping against the pavement. Every breath he took brought in the fresh scent of rainfall and cigarettes smoked by other pedestrians.

He thought it would be a quiet night. The moon hung suspended by the stars above. The dance music from Joe’s favorite club, “The Hell Pit,” was blasting it’s usual bass line. There was the occasional drunk quartet singing a love song to no one. That sight always made Marc smile.
Marc began to walk home. His small apartment located just two blocks around the corner from Joe’s bar. His coat now dripping wet under the heavy rain, Marc stopped in front of an old boarded up shop called “Hephaestus’s Forge.” He looked up at the sign that blew back and forth under the rain. It’s once vivid colors of red and gold now became dull and unnoticeable. Several people passed Marc, their eyes not turning from whatever path they were on. But there the Gunslinger stood motionless.

Then he heard a man’s grunt. Usually, this would not be uncommon in the east side, but this grunt was soon accompanied by a woman’s cry for help. Marc turned to see a young man in a purple suit throw a woman in the middle of the street. No one stopped to watch this. No one turned his or her head. Instead, they walked around the situation.

Marc would have done the same if Mr. Purple did not suddenly brandish a knife and point it at the redheaded girl.

“Listen here, ya little whore.” The man spoke with an animalistic snarl, “I bought you drinks. I listened to your little story. Don’t think that you can just walk off without having a little fun.” When he said fun, his voice went up an octave. He started to laugh.

In the middle of the street, Mr. Purple started to tear off her clothes and if she tried to resist he pressed the knife to her throat.

Marc tried to walk away. He didn’t want to get involved. He knew that if he did, there might be hell to pay. Then he saw something different. The girl threw one solid kick to Purple’s groin. He dropped the knife and fell to his knees. The girl vaulted herself up and tried to run away. But Purple soon recovered and grabbed her ankle as she ran. She fell down into a puddle and Purple grabbed his knife again.

“So spunky. I like that. I like it so much.” When he said “so,” he drew out the “O.”

Marc couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oi!” Marc snapped.

Purple looked over casually. “C’mon now, man. It ain’t your business.” The redhead attempted to run again, but Purple just grabbed her by her hair. She began to cry.

“It is my business. I have made it my business. Let her go.”

“Buddy, I got a knife and a whole family in that club over there that say that you won’t do jack.”

“Watch me.” Marc drew out his revolver, pulled the hammer back, and squeezed the trigger. The gun spat out the lead into the middle of Mr. Purple’s forehead.

Marc smiled. “I knew I still had a bullet in there.” Marc’s six-shooter was an exceptionally powerful gun; some would even describe it as a hand cannon. Because of such, it made an exceptionally loud bang. Everyone standing in line at the club, the bouncer, all the people walking by were pulled out of their personal purgatory and saw the gunslinger in the middle of the street, the smoking barrel of the gun, and a dead body staring up to heaven.
The bouncer pulled out a cellphone, but Marc paid him no mind. He had started up something, and he planned to end it like a gentleman.

He holstered his gun and walked towards the redhead. She was shocked. Obviously, she hadn’t seen many dead people before because she just stared at him in disbelief. Maybe she thought that the body would suddenly get back up and finish the job it started.

“Ma’am. Are you okay?” Marc knew that she wasn’t.

“I’m a little better now.”

“Come with me. I promise that I won’t hurt you.”

She could not argue with him. He could have just walked by instead of helping her. Marc offered her his hand. She took it.

Helping her up, he introduced himself.

“My name is Marc. What’s yours?”

“Felicia.” She was shuddering in the cold. Her clothes were mainly see through and her make-up ran down her cheeks.

“Let’s take you somewhere warm, Felicia.”