Prayers
0
TheWaywardMoogle
Wayward Pervert
Prayers
The town wasn't much to speak of, a dusty backwater shithole long forgotten by anyone important. Maybe that’s why he found himself here, sitting in the back of the worst saloon in this god forsaken place. The bottle in his hand felt heavy, and yet little remained of it's contents. His name was Bridger Johnson, or at least it had been. These days his name didn't matter as long as the booze kept coming and his memories stayed where he had buried them, six feet under along with his self restraint.
He'd wandered here half dead and dehydrated from days spent wandering the endless expanse of nothing that separated one town from the next. He had heard them as he wandered in, Drifter, chaser of fortune and blood. They were right about him of course. There was little he wouldn't do for money and more alcohol. He'd been running, from what he could no longer remember but ran he did. His feet carrying him onward in a relentless trek away, far, far away.
The sound of his name was almost foreign but then again most things are when yelled at the top of a human voice. “Bridger! Get your ass out here right now!” the voice was unfamiliar yet the demand was clear, some poor bastard wanted him and he wasn't quite in the mood for such a request so early in the day.
“God dammit, if I gotta come in there after you...” the yelling man wasn't very unique, he wasn't much different than most of the sad fucks that wasted away at the tables in the saloon, fat, ugly, packing heat. With a sigh Bridger would speak a slow incantation as he stepped out onto the porch of the rotting establishment he had the distinct distaste of calling home.
Bridger wasn't a big man but he was tall, his face was unshaven but he did not have a beard. He wore a long black duster, the hem riddled with tears and holes from years of extensive wear and tear. Around his hips hung two crossing gun belts, bullets shinning dully in the morning light. On either hip sat two revolvers, their grips made of polished sandalwood. The words he spoke were to god, for forgiveness or for mercy no one could rightly tell, some might even say it was a hymn to the devil for what he unleashed next.
The fat ugly man with the loud voice was the first to fall, his head exploding from the round that passed with the speed of lighting from Bridger's revolver. The now headless man's crew would draw their weapons. Bridger had counted six, not that such things mattered as the bullets began to fly. The 2nd man to hit the dirt found himself without a pistol hand and half his face, his blood would splash out across the dirt in a intricate pattern that might be called beautiful if not for its gruesome medium.
The four remaining men would leap off their horses and keep up the heat on Bridger who had now taken refuge behind a few barrels of whatever swill they sold inside. The smell of the booze and the freshly dead and the gunpowder was sobering to Bridger as he continued his slow words to whatever god that kept him alive as he stood and opened fire on his enemies. One man was unlucky enough to be caught in the open and the bullets would cut him down in a shower of red mist and violent curses as he fell to the ground in a heap of broken bones and punctured organs.
Bridger could hear the man's cries, he called out to god, he screamed for his parents, for some woman some where that was unlucky enough to be fathering his sons. Death was slow, death was hard, and death is what Bridger sold, one bullet at a time. Dropping long enough to reload his guns Bridger would stay low and using the horses as cover he would make his way across the main street firing the occasional shot toward the three remaining men. He could tell in their hesitation to fire back that he was breaking their moral. Yet even as these thoughts crossed his mind a new wave of gunfire would shatter a window near his head and send splinters of wood kicking up around his feet as he ran for a stack of crates.
“We got ya now Bridger Johnson!” this voice was new, peeking around a crate Bridger would see three men ride up on horses and join the other three. “your gonna pay for what you did Bridger, we've come to make sure of it you godless sonofabitch” Bridger would grit his teeth, the incantation silenced as he felt the first wave of memories wrack his booze drowned consciousness.
* * *
The Train car was the last one he had to check and then they could get away, him and Hammer McCain would be a couple thousand dollars richer and these stupid bastards would be on their way poorer than a dog's shit. He had ignored the cross on the door when he kicked it open, guns glimmering in the fading light of the afternoon. Before him in the center of the train car stood a man of the cloth, black robes spilling to the floor and a pure white collar wrapping his neck tightly. All around them sat the man's followers. All praying that this would end without bloodshed.
“ OK father! Tell your sheep here its time they payed to the 'good' lord and to throw the valuables up front here!” the clergyman looked uncomfortable but there was a wrath in his eyes that Bridger has never seen.
“Son it is with God's fury that I am protected from such brigands such as yourself. I ask that you put your gun down in the interest of your immortal soul” the preacher talked a good talk but that meant nothing but hog shit to Bridger. He should have known there was something different about this man.
* * *
The bullet was painful as it tore through Bridger’s shoulder and he was thrown back into the present. He would spin and hit hard on the well worn wood, his blood pooling out of the wound, the searing heat from the round lodged against the fractured bone would cause him to growl in anger. “I got him!” one of the men would cry from across the main street. Bridger knew this would not be the end for him, with difficulty he would holster his other gun and reload the other. With another slow chant he would begin his ritual and send death on its way over the barrel. The telling scream would be all he would need to hear as another man hit the dirt to die.
With effort he would open fire on the new group of men, yet this time his luck wasn't so good and he would feel the shattering pain of a bullet once more this time in his leg, crashing to the ground he would allow himself a moment to curse in pain.
* * *
The bullet had hurt then too, the preacher had been to fast and Bridger had hesitated. The gleaming revolver in the preacher's hand smoked and the fury in the man's eyes were like that of an avenging angel. “boy...you best be praying to god for forgiveness, for it is not to late to repent for the sins you have committed” the rest of his congregation would nod in agreement, but Bridger would have none of it. Pulling his gun up he would blow the preacher's shoulder apart. The man's face never losing that look of fury and hatred. What happened next was something that Bridger did not expect, everyone in the car would pull weapons and open fire. He had enough time to duck down and blow the man to his left's head clean apart before he turned and sent two hot slugs into a woman across the front row, her stomach would burst open and her cheek would flay apart as the bullets roared in the small train car.
now in the cover of the front row of seats Bridger would cautiously fire a shot or two that would do little but piss the mad faithful off. Bridger would have died then had it not been for Hammer breaking into the cabin with his shotgun. Hammer was a big man where Bridger was a thin man and his thick red beard was burly where Bridger’s unkempt scruff was average.
“Hammer no!” Bridger would scream as the big man thrust his way into the car, bullets raining down on him as he unloaded the 2 shots into the crowd killing most and wounding any survivors. Falling to the other side of the front row Bridger would watch the blood pool on Hammer's chest before the man died choking on his own blood. A jagged hole where his throat had been told Bridger there would be no saving his partner. Standing, blood gushing from his wound Bridger would unload the remainder of his revolver into the last of the crowd.
Turning he would pick up Hammer's shotgun and look around. He had never seen good church going people turn into a shooting mob before, had that priest with so much fury done that to them? As he turned to leave he would hear a choked prayer.
It was the priest. His arm was a mess of blood and torn muscle but he still lived amidst the bodies of his sheep. “y-you will burn for y-your sins against g-gods children” Bridger would look away. “your faith didn't save you father, your army of mindless believers saved you...and even their faith betrayed them to the truths of iron and blood” the preacher would laugh and even as Bridger pulled the trigger on Hammer's shotgun the man would be smiling.
When the train pulled into the station Bridger had run, covered in blood he had run as far and as hard as he could, and when he couldn't run he drowned himself in booze. That was until his sin's finally did catch up to him.
* * *
Bridger would roll over as the men walked up to him. Kicking his gun out of his hand the tallest of the men, a white collar around his neck and a cross of iron hung from the butt of his gun. “the church demands that you be brought to justice. It is my solemn duty to bring you before the one true god to answer for your sins” Bridger's mouth would move soundlessly as he knew his time was up. “you are charged with the murder of one hundred and twenty people”
Bridger's lips would continue the slow incantation, words he knew would reach the listener he wished to hear them. These men would not prevent him from speaking these last words. Words he has prayed in every fight he had fought since that train ride.
The prayer was short, but it was all he knew. It was not a prayer for forgiveness for he deserved none. It was but a prayer of protection from his enemies, a few words chanted to allow him one more day to burn in the hell of his life at the mercy of memories and pain. He had known that his words would not save him. And they were not supposed to. Instead as the first bullet rang true they offered him a moment of peace. Another bullet would pass through him and into the worn wood of the main street shop. In those final moments. As his world faded and his consciousness began to drift, he could almost imagine that he had said enough to atone for that preacher...the Preacher with Fury in his eyes.
((ended up being to long for the contest but here's a new story))
The town wasn't much to speak of, a dusty backwater shithole long forgotten by anyone important. Maybe that’s why he found himself here, sitting in the back of the worst saloon in this god forsaken place. The bottle in his hand felt heavy, and yet little remained of it's contents. His name was Bridger Johnson, or at least it had been. These days his name didn't matter as long as the booze kept coming and his memories stayed where he had buried them, six feet under along with his self restraint.
He'd wandered here half dead and dehydrated from days spent wandering the endless expanse of nothing that separated one town from the next. He had heard them as he wandered in, Drifter, chaser of fortune and blood. They were right about him of course. There was little he wouldn't do for money and more alcohol. He'd been running, from what he could no longer remember but ran he did. His feet carrying him onward in a relentless trek away, far, far away.
The sound of his name was almost foreign but then again most things are when yelled at the top of a human voice. “Bridger! Get your ass out here right now!” the voice was unfamiliar yet the demand was clear, some poor bastard wanted him and he wasn't quite in the mood for such a request so early in the day.
“God dammit, if I gotta come in there after you...” the yelling man wasn't very unique, he wasn't much different than most of the sad fucks that wasted away at the tables in the saloon, fat, ugly, packing heat. With a sigh Bridger would speak a slow incantation as he stepped out onto the porch of the rotting establishment he had the distinct distaste of calling home.
Bridger wasn't a big man but he was tall, his face was unshaven but he did not have a beard. He wore a long black duster, the hem riddled with tears and holes from years of extensive wear and tear. Around his hips hung two crossing gun belts, bullets shinning dully in the morning light. On either hip sat two revolvers, their grips made of polished sandalwood. The words he spoke were to god, for forgiveness or for mercy no one could rightly tell, some might even say it was a hymn to the devil for what he unleashed next.
The fat ugly man with the loud voice was the first to fall, his head exploding from the round that passed with the speed of lighting from Bridger's revolver. The now headless man's crew would draw their weapons. Bridger had counted six, not that such things mattered as the bullets began to fly. The 2nd man to hit the dirt found himself without a pistol hand and half his face, his blood would splash out across the dirt in a intricate pattern that might be called beautiful if not for its gruesome medium.
The four remaining men would leap off their horses and keep up the heat on Bridger who had now taken refuge behind a few barrels of whatever swill they sold inside. The smell of the booze and the freshly dead and the gunpowder was sobering to Bridger as he continued his slow words to whatever god that kept him alive as he stood and opened fire on his enemies. One man was unlucky enough to be caught in the open and the bullets would cut him down in a shower of red mist and violent curses as he fell to the ground in a heap of broken bones and punctured organs.
Bridger could hear the man's cries, he called out to god, he screamed for his parents, for some woman some where that was unlucky enough to be fathering his sons. Death was slow, death was hard, and death is what Bridger sold, one bullet at a time. Dropping long enough to reload his guns Bridger would stay low and using the horses as cover he would make his way across the main street firing the occasional shot toward the three remaining men. He could tell in their hesitation to fire back that he was breaking their moral. Yet even as these thoughts crossed his mind a new wave of gunfire would shatter a window near his head and send splinters of wood kicking up around his feet as he ran for a stack of crates.
“We got ya now Bridger Johnson!” this voice was new, peeking around a crate Bridger would see three men ride up on horses and join the other three. “your gonna pay for what you did Bridger, we've come to make sure of it you godless sonofabitch” Bridger would grit his teeth, the incantation silenced as he felt the first wave of memories wrack his booze drowned consciousness.
* * *
The Train car was the last one he had to check and then they could get away, him and Hammer McCain would be a couple thousand dollars richer and these stupid bastards would be on their way poorer than a dog's shit. He had ignored the cross on the door when he kicked it open, guns glimmering in the fading light of the afternoon. Before him in the center of the train car stood a man of the cloth, black robes spilling to the floor and a pure white collar wrapping his neck tightly. All around them sat the man's followers. All praying that this would end without bloodshed.
“ OK father! Tell your sheep here its time they payed to the 'good' lord and to throw the valuables up front here!” the clergyman looked uncomfortable but there was a wrath in his eyes that Bridger has never seen.
“Son it is with God's fury that I am protected from such brigands such as yourself. I ask that you put your gun down in the interest of your immortal soul” the preacher talked a good talk but that meant nothing but hog shit to Bridger. He should have known there was something different about this man.
* * *
The bullet was painful as it tore through Bridger’s shoulder and he was thrown back into the present. He would spin and hit hard on the well worn wood, his blood pooling out of the wound, the searing heat from the round lodged against the fractured bone would cause him to growl in anger. “I got him!” one of the men would cry from across the main street. Bridger knew this would not be the end for him, with difficulty he would holster his other gun and reload the other. With another slow chant he would begin his ritual and send death on its way over the barrel. The telling scream would be all he would need to hear as another man hit the dirt to die.
With effort he would open fire on the new group of men, yet this time his luck wasn't so good and he would feel the shattering pain of a bullet once more this time in his leg, crashing to the ground he would allow himself a moment to curse in pain.
* * *
The bullet had hurt then too, the preacher had been to fast and Bridger had hesitated. The gleaming revolver in the preacher's hand smoked and the fury in the man's eyes were like that of an avenging angel. “boy...you best be praying to god for forgiveness, for it is not to late to repent for the sins you have committed” the rest of his congregation would nod in agreement, but Bridger would have none of it. Pulling his gun up he would blow the preacher's shoulder apart. The man's face never losing that look of fury and hatred. What happened next was something that Bridger did not expect, everyone in the car would pull weapons and open fire. He had enough time to duck down and blow the man to his left's head clean apart before he turned and sent two hot slugs into a woman across the front row, her stomach would burst open and her cheek would flay apart as the bullets roared in the small train car.
now in the cover of the front row of seats Bridger would cautiously fire a shot or two that would do little but piss the mad faithful off. Bridger would have died then had it not been for Hammer breaking into the cabin with his shotgun. Hammer was a big man where Bridger was a thin man and his thick red beard was burly where Bridger’s unkempt scruff was average.
“Hammer no!” Bridger would scream as the big man thrust his way into the car, bullets raining down on him as he unloaded the 2 shots into the crowd killing most and wounding any survivors. Falling to the other side of the front row Bridger would watch the blood pool on Hammer's chest before the man died choking on his own blood. A jagged hole where his throat had been told Bridger there would be no saving his partner. Standing, blood gushing from his wound Bridger would unload the remainder of his revolver into the last of the crowd.
Turning he would pick up Hammer's shotgun and look around. He had never seen good church going people turn into a shooting mob before, had that priest with so much fury done that to them? As he turned to leave he would hear a choked prayer.
It was the priest. His arm was a mess of blood and torn muscle but he still lived amidst the bodies of his sheep. “y-you will burn for y-your sins against g-gods children” Bridger would look away. “your faith didn't save you father, your army of mindless believers saved you...and even their faith betrayed them to the truths of iron and blood” the preacher would laugh and even as Bridger pulled the trigger on Hammer's shotgun the man would be smiling.
When the train pulled into the station Bridger had run, covered in blood he had run as far and as hard as he could, and when he couldn't run he drowned himself in booze. That was until his sin's finally did catch up to him.
* * *
Bridger would roll over as the men walked up to him. Kicking his gun out of his hand the tallest of the men, a white collar around his neck and a cross of iron hung from the butt of his gun. “the church demands that you be brought to justice. It is my solemn duty to bring you before the one true god to answer for your sins” Bridger's mouth would move soundlessly as he knew his time was up. “you are charged with the murder of one hundred and twenty people”
Bridger's lips would continue the slow incantation, words he knew would reach the listener he wished to hear them. These men would not prevent him from speaking these last words. Words he has prayed in every fight he had fought since that train ride.
The prayer was short, but it was all he knew. It was not a prayer for forgiveness for he deserved none. It was but a prayer of protection from his enemies, a few words chanted to allow him one more day to burn in the hell of his life at the mercy of memories and pain. He had known that his words would not save him. And they were not supposed to. Instead as the first bullet rang true they offered him a moment of peace. Another bullet would pass through him and into the worn wood of the main street shop. In those final moments. As his world faded and his consciousness began to drift, he could almost imagine that he had said enough to atone for that preacher...the Preacher with Fury in his eyes.
((ended up being to long for the contest but here's a new story))