Frosstbyte

Seeing his body jerk and twitch as it was held up against a fence by what seemed to be hundreds of assault rifle rounds did something to me, and I’d rather not think about what. Maybe it instilled in me a sense of justice, or boosted my survival instinct. All I knew is that some part of me died with that nameless man. After it was all over I remember numbly stumbling over to his body and throwing up on it as I burst into tears. That night was the first night I’d ever held a gun. His gun. Now my gun. I took it out of his rapidly stiffening hand and swiped the clips from his belt. If you asked me why, I couldn’t tell you. It just seemed like the right thing to do. He didn’t need them anymore, and what if I was running down some alley some day, wouldn’t I want to feel that false sense of power and protection that carrying a gun can afford a man?

Nothing like a foolish fantasy to stoke a boy’s dreams. But that was the beginning. That night I took that first step towards who-and what-I am today. When your day’s activities are limited to playing with a gun and looking for food, I suppose you eventually get pretty good at both of them, but damn, I was a crack shot with that pistol. I couldn’t tell you any specific stories, but I acquired quite a reputation around my neighborhood for being able to make shots that people swore I’d never be able to make, crazy, ridiculous trick shots that seemed to defy the laws of physics. I got good, and good things start to happen when you’re good. First it was little shit, like getting paid a couple cred by some drunk ass to shoot beer cans he threw up into the air and watching them explode. Then people started to, how shall we say, take notice, of my skills. I got hired for that odd job that they wanted to remain anonymous, clean and distant. The disconnected killer instinct began to sink in.

I finally got hired full time and full on by someone or another. As I told ya earlier, everything from back then has gotten to be kind of fuzzy these days, but some corp or organized crime family or someone decided I could be valuable to them. They cleaned me up, gave me a place to stay and a tutor once a week to fill me in on the real world. Once or twice a month, they’d throw an assassination my way. I was good, I didn’t get caught, and if anyone tried to stop me, they’d eat hot lead before they could get the gun out of its holster. But somewhere in my heart I knew it was all plain fucking wrong. It kept food on the table, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do. I felt a higher sense of right and wrong back in those days. Something about doing things because it was right to do them and not because you had to do them. In my studies I’d stumbled upon some books about the 19th century American West. You know what I’m talkin’ about, cowboys and bandits and sheriffs and all that shit. Now that was what I wanted, to walk around and lay down the law with my gun. Put the guilty in their place and then ride off into the sunset. And one day, that’s exactly what I did. One day I did a bit of research about a hit I was supposed to do, and, well, I didn’t like what I found. A nice guy, maybe 40 years old, was running a convenience store and wouldn’t pay 300 cred a month to my employers for protection, so I was supposed to put a bullet between his eyes as an example to others who might disobey. Well, I changed my mind. Instead of putting a bullet in that man, I walked into my employer’s HQ and killed each and every one of them. I laid waste, and when it was all done, I burned it all down. I was done being someone else’s killer, especially when their killin’ was bullshit to begin with.

After that, I left town and just wandered. I guess not too surprisingly, that 19th century atmosphere had returned to parts of the less populated West. I wandered for ten years, but I felt right at home when I walked into a town and twenty minutes later I got to put on that bright, shiny sheriff’s badge. I mean, we didn’t have a whole lot of shit happen, but I like to think that I took out my share of baddies while keeping the peace in that nice town. Hell, I even had a steady girlfriend and a good friend who was a gunsmith. I wish I could remember their names. I knew them both for nearly 5 years, and I can’t for the life of me come up with even the first letter. An occasional face or distant voice is all I can conjure up these days. I guess that could have something to do with who I am now and why this story suddenly takes a turn for the worst.