The Bad Man
This is Chapter three. Chapter one and two are here.
Now, this was a typical rugged mining town of the Old West. Nestled in the foothills of the front range of the Colorado Rockies. Like all of those towns there was a town boss who owned nearly everything and everyone. He owned the mayor, the sheriff, the saloon and the largest silver mine in the county. In fact, pretty near the only ones not in his thrall were the cranky Old Doctor and yes, you guessed it, the Preacher man.
Old Doc remained independent because even the rich Old Bastard who owned the town needed his services occasionally for himself or those he employed. Mining was a dangerous business in those days and still is.
He left the Preacher alone because he didn't see any profit in harassing him and turning even more of the town even more against him. Besides, the Preacher was married to an absolute Angel. The Bad Man didn't believe in God but didn't see no reason to piss Him off, just in case.
There are bad men in this world and there are truly Bad Men. This fellow was the latter. Before he became a Bad Man he was a Bad Boy. It wasn't so much that he was an evil man he just did a lot of evil things.
He was the Town Boss from Hell. Hell's Kitchen, actually.
Hell's Kitchen is considered to be the area bordered by 34th Street to the south, 59th Street to the north, Eighth Avenue to the east, and the Hudson River to the west. Hell’s Kitchen had long been a bastion of poor and working-class Irish Americans.
Several explanations exist for the origin of the neighborhood's name. An early use of the phrase appears in a comment Davy Crockett made about another notorious Irish slum in Manhattan, Five Points.
In 1835, Davy Crockett said “In my part of the country, when you meet an Irishman, you find a first-rate gentleman; but these are worse than savages; they are too mean to swab hell’s kitchen”.
The Bad Man had grown up in the notorious Hell's Kitchen neighborhood of Manhattan. An area controlled by ruthless Irish gangs. A Bad Boy in a bad neighborhood. He was Irish and always ready to fight at the drop of a hat, so he did well in the gangs. It was probably some of the harshest combat training available anywhere in that day and age. He was the equivalent of a Navy SEAL recon ranger commando.
His father was a worthless drunk who hustled nickels and dimes on the street in order to stay drunk. He only went home occasionally to beat his wife and son. The Bad Boy hated his father. That emotion was well known to him. He would have felt sorry for his mother if he was able. She had always been kind to him.
The Bad Boy was a true sociopath. Actually, rather a rare personality. Only about 2% of the population are true, hard-core sociopaths. Of course, it is a gradient scale so many more tend towards sociopathy or aspire to do so. Politicians, for example.
The key features of Sociopathy include a lack of empathy for others and a lack of remorse for wrongdoing. He was manipulative and deceitful, displayed superficial charm and intelligence, was very impulsive and aggressive, had a total disregard for the consequences of his actions to himself or others and had a long history of criminal and violent behavior. He could have ran for Mayor, or congress.
He had a secret crush on a girl in the building next door. She was everything that he wasn't. A normal loving family with a father who worked a regular job and took good care of them. They were trapped in this shithole with no money and nowhere to go. He tried to tell himself that he loved her but that emotion was unknown to him. He was the baddest badass on the block but he was too shy to hardly even speak to her.
One day they found her raped and murdered in an alley three blocks over. Normally, nothing would have been done about it. Family had no gang connections to get revenge. Crime was rampant and committed with impunity. Just another body in an alley. The cops wouldn't even come into that area. But these scumbags picked the wrong girl.
It didn't take him long to track down the three culprits with his contacts in the gangs. He done for each of them in an especially gruesome manner. He left them dead but even if he had left them alive they wouldn't be raping no more innocent young girls. He made sure they each died slow and they knew exactly why they were dying. The death of that innocent little girl was the first and last time in his life that he knew true pain.
The Bad Boy got home late. His father was passed out drunk in the bed. His battered mom was in the rocking chair with fresh bruises. He went into the kitchen and got a rather large butcher knife. He drove that knife into his father's chest as far as it would go. All the air came out of him and his wife beating days were over.
The Bad Boy emptied his pockets of what little money he had and left it on the kitchen table for his mother. He kissed her on the forehead and walked out the door. He never looked back.
Eventually he became bored with the filthy city and it's crime and gangs. That was about the time a lot of folks were moving west. A wide open land loaded with opportunity. He smooth talked his way onto a wagon train and headed west.
The Bad Man had no conscience nor felt true emotions like normal folk. But, somewhere down deep lay the memory of that girl next door in his youth. He could see her face clearly in his memory and hear the sound of her laughter. It haunted him. In his twisted brainpan he somehow translated those stunted feelings onto the beautiful Preacher's Wife. He would never do anything to harm her nor allow anyone else to.
The Gentleman walked into the saloon that he had just visited the night before. Before he was clubbed senseless and left for dead, that is. Lo and behold, the Carpetbagger he had spoken to the previous evening was sitting at a table in the corner. The Carpetbagging sonofabitch looked surprised to see him but tried to play normal.
The Gentleman sat down across the table from the Carpetbagger and quietly slipped his Colt Peacemaker out of his hip holster. It was pointed directly at the Carpetbagger's groin under the table. Nothing subtle about a .45 Colt pointed at your nether region.
“Now, Mr. Carpetbagger sonofabitch, put that girly .32 caliber ladies purse pistol on the table. Quietly.” The .45 caliber Colt was still pointed at his nuts, assuming he had any.
The .32 came out from under his jacket and he placed it on the table.
“Let's go for a walk”.
Thirty minutes later, The Gentleman reappeared on the street with the names and descriptions of the two thugs he was looking for. He left the Carpetbagger alive but laying in a puddle of his own blood and urine in a back alley. Looking down the business end of that .45 Colt, the dude sonofabitch pissed hisself.
He didn't thump him on the head with his Colt like in the movies. He would never abuse his finely-tuned pistol in that way. He carried a lead-weighted sap for such occasions. Besides, you should never hit anyone with a pistol except as a last resort. And if you do pistol whip someone, at least do it correctly.
It was time to go hunting before the Carpetbagger warned off his prey.
But first, a trip to the General Store. They had all manner of dry goods and possibles. In those days actual coined money wasn't all that common for the common folk. Folks frequently bartered goods or paid directly with silver and gold nuggets they had dug up themselves or traded for.
As a result, the store had all manner of new things and used things they had traded for. Everything from tools and farm equipment to ladies knickers and foodstuffs. It was the Walmart Super Center of the day combined with a sleazy pawn shop.
What he needed was camouflage. Everyone knows that you wear camo when you go hunting. But he needed cowboy camouflage. He stuck out like a Kansas City faggot* in his dude clothes. He picked out some used, and still dirty, suitable clothing and changed in the back. New cowboy duds would have been almost as bad as his Dandy outfit but these dirty old work clothes would blend in nicely.
Now suitably attired, they would never see him coming…
* An homage to Slim Pickens and Blazing Saddles