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You’re standing outside a saloon that looks straight out of a spaghetti western, next to your demon horse hitched to a post in front of the building. You reach into the steed’s saddlebag to grab a hat and put it on your head to shield yourself from the scorching heat of Wrath. It is early in the morning, but the temperature is already unbearable. You recall how hesitant you were to buy new clothes just for this excursion; a simple shirt and vest, a tacky hat and skinny jeans are not what you usually wear, but you thank your past self for the decision to go with it. Not only does it make the heat less annoying but it also allows you to not stand out among the locals.
Speaking of locals, here comes your man right now.
He appears from around the saloon’s corner, mounted atop his hell steed. If you didn’t know who he was, you’d think he is a mascot for a western-style amusement park – the way he is dressed (save for the giant guns on his belt).
Striker, as he introduced himself to you yesterday evening, walks his horse up to you, wearing a grin on his snake-like face, shining his gold tooth at you as he looks down at you. You smile back.
“Yer in a good mood today, I see?” you say, gesturing towards him.
“Good day to make cash, bossman! I can smell the reward money in the air!” He takes an exaggerated whiff and chuckles. His black horse snorts and grunts, as if laughing with its owner.
Indeed, the day before, you hired this imp to help track down a bounty you said you’ve been hunting down for the past week. The gunslinger took the job after aggressively haggling for a bigger cut of the reward with you over many glasses of cheap Wrath whiskey. Drunk and tired, you settled on a 55-45% split, after which Striker shook your hand with a wide smile and stumbled away up the stairs (mumbling something about a naïve hillbilly prick under his breath) to what you assume was his temporary room.
It was apparent that the cowboy thought he just swindled some loser and will probably take your cut too after the job’s done.
The bounty, however, was a lie. So is your fake accent.
You made a good job of keeping your true intentions towards Striker hidden throughout your conversation, and as far as you can tell, the ruse is working. What the imp doesn’t know is that the real hit – is on himself; Striker – the best hired gun/assassin in Wrath, as many call him. You are about to find out soon if this is the case, when you lead him to an ambush spot you have prepared. You took on many outlaws before, but you’ve been warned about this one. Fastest gun in Wrath, merciless killer, they all said as they tried to get you to turn away. We’ll see.
You hop on your own horse. “I hope you can smell the bastard we’re after as well. After all, I’m paying a horn and a tail for your assistance here!”
“And you’ll be glad you did, cause I’m the best man for the job! After we’re done offing the guy, you’ll want to pay me extra!” He grins and rattles with his snake tail.
***
You both waste no time and ride off into the nearby rocky canyons. The terrain becomes more and more treacherous the farther you go – unsure cliff paths with close proximity to the creepy volcanoes, leaking hot lava and creating pools of sizzling death. Striker’s horse seems to thrive here, however. You are impressed as it easily jumps from one rocky shelf to another, avoiding deep pits and lava with grace and speed. Even though you are just pretending to be a cowboy, you can’t help but feel horse-jealousy; especially when Striker has to stop to wait for you to catch up to him; arrogant smile on his face as he looks at you trying to maneuver the tricky path. You’re not used to riding horseback, damnit!
“You seem to be in your element, Striker!” you remark, tired of him silently judging you.
“These are my stompin’ grounds, mister! Ain’t nobody faster than me in the whole ring! Can’t take all the credit though; Bombproof over here, I trust him with my life. Saved my skin a couple times actually.” He gently pats the neck of the beast, which regards him with a short neigh. He seems to have really bonded with this animal. “Now, accordin’ to what you said, we should be nearin’ the guy’s hideout. What was his name, again?”
“Slade Earp. “Black Jack” they call him. Word is every penny he steals he loses in casinos here on over in Greed. Then, when he inevitably runs dry, he steals some more. A vicious cycle.” You recite a backstory about Black Jack – a fake criminal you made up and made a poster for before meeting Striker. The photo of “Slade” is just a random picture of an imp in a cowboy hat you took from a free stock photo library after carefully removing the watermark.
“Never was a gambling man myself. I make sure that everything I do is a… sure shot.” He grabs one of his big revolvers and spins it around to emphasize his point.
***
Not long after, you arrive at a big gorge. Only way is forward, as you both make your horses trot carefully around some bigger rocks in your path; big cliffs to the left and right of you. Your eyes dart around, looking for something, a sign that everything is ready to go. Striker is matching your speed and riding alongside you. He doesn’t seem to suspect anything, and you decide it’s best for you to not give him any reasons to. Not yet, anyway.
The sky is a deep shade of purple. You’ve been travelling for most of the day and dusk is upon you. Not a sound save for the clop of the horses’ hooves on the sun-burnt soil. This silence is why Striker’s voice makes you jump slightly when he suddenly speaks.
“Think this belongs to the guy we’re after?”
You turn to him to see him pointing up at one of the cliff faces. There it is; the sign you have been looking for. A smiley face painted on the rocks with white paint. This means that everything is ready. You try not to let your anticipation get the better of you as you try to keep your cool.
“Might be. What do you think, Striker?” You slow your horse to a walk. He doesn’t seem to notice, still looking up at the sign.
“Who knows? Could be unrelated. We must be nearin’ the guy’s place though, right? What was his name…?” You are behind Striker at the moment he asks the question. He’s startled at your sudden disappearance from his flank and looks back to see down the barrel of your gun.
“Speaking of names, Striker, I think I’ve heard yours before. Mind helping me understand why a fella like me might think this way?” despite your cocky demeanor, you carefully scan the imp’s movements for anything that might signal for him reaching for his revolvers. He stares at you for a moment, his demonic eyes glow under the shade of his hat. You can’t help but fear for your life for just a millisecond, and hope that he didn’t notice.
You are then startled by the face he pulls. His smile is almost pleasant, unassuming.
“Not a clue, buddy. It ain’t exactly a common name, but I’d be surprised if you haven’t heard it before. What happened to your accent, by the way?” He grins at that last remark, a spark in his eye.
“Maybe you’re right. Your face though; have I not seen it before? Like, for example, on a…” You pull out the fake wanted poster of Black Jack. “one of these?”
The imp keeps his cocky smile, as he scoffs. “Think this little gun will be enough?” The jig is up. It’s clear that you’ve reached the point of no return. Both of you know there is only one way this can end.
“Say your prayers, cowboy!” You raise your gun up to his smug face and pull the trigger.
With insane agility, Striker ducks out of the way as the bullet whizzes past his head. “You’ll need more than that! Here’s mine!” He pulls out his dual revolvers. His eyes burning with intent to kill as he fires back.
You manage to dodge the first bullet, but the shots startle your steed, which throws you off your saddle. You fall on the ground onto your back as your horse panics in front of you.
Then, multiple shots ring out and echo all around the gorge. Muzzle flashes and smoke from both walls of the passage. Bullets raining down to where you both are.
Just in time, boys. You think with relief. Though they could show up a bit sooner, the men you rounded up for this ambush showed up from atop of both canyon walls and caught Striker by surprise. A bullet grazes Striker’s hand, but this doesn’t seem to bother him a lot.
“That was a dirty trick, there, cowboy! Can’t say I approve!”
But instead of shooting back at the attackers, he dismounts from his horse and starts approaching you, completely ignoring the bullets whizzing by his head and cracking his knuckles as he stares at you with his fiery gaze.
You panic and rise to your feet, but Striker is much faster, his punch connecting with your face. You thought people always said the whole “seeing stars” thing as a metaphor, but you just saw a whole constellation flash before you as you fall onto your back again.
The next thing you see is the snake imp on top of you. He punches you in the face again. “Nobody crosses Striker and gets away with it.” He then then lifts you up by your collar. “You might want to tell your friends to stand down.” His face is filled with rage and his eyes flash with killing intent.
You do not give up so easily though. With the strength you have remaining you reach for a knife inside your pocket and thrust it in his direction.
An almost unnaturally fast reaction on his side; he catches the knife with his bare hand. With unbelievable strength, he twists the knife away from you, sending you flailing to the ground again. Next thing you know, he has his grip on your neck. You try to flail and kick your legs to very little effect. You can not speak. You can only look into his crazed eyes as he strangles you.
His voice is cold. “Your first mistake was coming after me, cowboy. Your second was making the assumption you were faster.”
Your head beginning to feel hot from lack of air. He has his iron grip on you and it feels as if he could just snap your neck anytime he wants. He chooses not to. He wants to watch you squirm first.
Right as you begin to black out, another shot rings out, one of your men manages to shoot Striker in the leg. The outlaw hisses in pain and is forced to release his grip on you. Your hand reaches for your neck, as if checking if your head is still attached to it. It feels numb as if it wasn’t even there anymore. You are left gasping for air on the ground.
He looks down at you. His anger appears to have subsided a little bit. He pulls the bullet out of his leg, causing him to wince. “Damn, that hurt.” He shakes his head, as if he could easily forget about it and focus on you. “Looks like you and your boys had to ruin the fun.”
The next few minutes happen so fast you swear the time must have sped up. A dangerous smile appears on the cowboy imp’s face as he pulls out his guns. He fires multiple times at the men shooting down at him. His accuracy seemingly unmatchable; he reloads the guns in a flash and shoots more while jumping and dashing around the cliff faces like a damn cat. “You boys have a death wish? I’ll grant it!” He is ruthless and precise. The men fall to his bullets one by one, dying before they hit the ground.
Still prone on the ground, you crawl towards the gun you dropped when Striker made you fall off your horse. You grab it just in time. You take aim and with incredible luck, you shoot one of Striker’s guns out of his hand while he was aiming for you. Unluckily for you, he has one more, which he then points at you instead. Both of you lock eyes, guns pointed at each other. You have yourselves a standoff.
“A last stand? You got some courage, cowboy!” Striker's eyes flash with a manic gleam. He is grinning with a crazed look in his eyes. “You think you can take the famous Striker down? Your final mistake.” He cocks the gun, his eyes still locked on you. His finger is almost touching the trigger.
You pull the trigger without saying anything. Both guns fire at the same time. For a very long couple seconds you look at each other, but neither of you move. You watch the smoke leaving your barrel, wondering if both guns malfunctioned at the same time. Nothing happened; both of you seem very much alive.
Striker stands still for another second. Then his face lights up as he laughs maniacally. You feel like either he lost his mind, or you lost your own with him. There seems to be no explanation for what just happened. His laughter slowly dies down as he looks at you. He smiles, almost casually. “That was a good shot, feller.”
You look at the ground between us; something shiny lays on the ground between you two. You don’t believe what you’re seeing as realization kicks in. Your bullets hit each other perfectly, melting into one and falling to the ground, injuring nobody. You are left on the ground stunned. You feel a sickening mix of relief and shock, not only at the perfect shot, but also at Striker’s sudden change of demeanor. He walks up to you, but you don’t feel threatened for some reason. He offers you his hand to help you up. You gun is still in your hand, but at this point, you’re too overwhelmed to continue fighting; you holster your gun and let him help you on your feet.
“No hard feelings, feller.” He looks at you, then looks around, nodding as if in appreciation of what happened. “Must say, that was one hell of a draw. I can respect a fellow gunslinger.” He looks at his injured leg, then back up at you. “My leg hurts like hell now, though. I think I'm going to need one of those fancy doctor dudes to help me.” It appears he is trying to break the ice and sound friendly, although his tone is completely different from how he talked to you earlier. The mood between you two has changed drastically.
It feels like what just happened triggered some cowboy-code of honor in your brains. There is a long uncomfortable silence between you before Striker turns to you with a disarming smile.
“Well, time for me to go.” He whistles for his demon horse and begins to mount it. He turns around one more time though, and offers to shake hands. “I hope we’ll meet again. I am itching to have a go at you in a fair fight; without the hired goons this time.”
Still half-stunned, you shake hands with the assassin you were plotting to kill for several weeks. His offer sounds so casual, like you are agreeing to take him out on a date, rather than promising a mano-a-mano fight to the death. He flashes a wide grin as he takes your hand and firmly shakes it.
“Hah! It’s a date, then!” He exclaims, as if he can read your mind. He begins to ride off, but stops one more time. “Sorry about your friends! If it makes you feel better, I used all of my bullets on them, so I think we’re square!” With that, he disappears into the night.