Six Shooter

Name: Allen Specter
Rank: Captain (Blood Hawks/Silver Crows)
Race: Human
Born: Xaber, 486 GD (Age 39)
Current Location: Murkeye
Profession: Policeman (privatized)
Appearance: Captain Specter is just over six feet and two inches tall and weighs roughly two-hundred pounds. His hair is shoulder length, dark brown with gray beginning to appear in the sideburns. He has eight pinpoint scars on his face, four above his mouth and four below. He has the letters H-O-L-D tattooed across the fingers of his right hand and F-A-S-T across the left, and a stylized drawing of a ghost on the back of his right hand--he also uses this image as a personal calling card, wearing an identical patch on his right sleeve directly beneath his mark of rank. He typically wears a black, ankle-length coat and broad-brimmed hat with a ring on each finger except the thumbs (most of them decorative). Specter is known to consider the protection of armor to be outweighed by its drawbacks, and relies on an uncanny awareness of his surroundings for protection. Specter is known to favor black cowboy boots, odd in that he is not believed to know how to ride a horse. Specter's signature combat style is the manipulation of fire intertwined with swordplay, including but not limited to cloaking himself in fire that seems to leave him unharmed.
Biography:
Allen Specter was born in Xaber in 486 GD, the fourth child of merchant who was himself the second child of a Sorceress. In 494, the Specter family moved to Whiteport so that Allen's father could pursue business interests. Allen, his father, and his older brother were able to obtain tickets to the first battle in the Manrig Games in 500 GD. It was at these games that young Allen witnessed the finest fighters in the world, but one in particular caught his interest. The Sea Bull Henry Wesleydale's bold, fearless style of combat left its mark on Allen. But what affected Allen most was Wesleydale's clear intent on furthering the cause of good without being sedate and rigid like the members of Team Justice. He saw a man who was willing to stand up and save people without being burdened by unnecessary pleasantries, but at the same time not shirking the rules of polite of society needlessly.

When the Crusade broke out, Allen found himself less than a year below the minimum recruitment age. The day after his fifteenth birthday, Allen Specter enlisted in the Imperial Army. He saw one battle, the Second Battle of Redgrass Fields, widely regarded to be an Imperial route. After the Crusade, Specter served for the remainder of his five year term, being used mostly as a policeman in the peaceful time that followed immediately after the conclusion of the Crusade. After receiving an honorable discharge in 506 GD, Specter found himself with few practical skills beyond warfare and peacekeeping. He enlisted with a growing mercenary band called the Blood Hawks and was promoted to Corporal in honor of his having achieved the rank in the Imperial Army.

Over the next seven years, Specter would establish himself as a versatile combatant with a natural ability to lead. Specter favored shallow training in a broad range of disciplines to mastery of a single technique, believing tactical options--in and out of combat--to be preferable to a single powerful, but ultimately circumventible, tactic. Specter was widely known to mix magical techniques with his martial training. Specter did not receive any formal training, using only what he was able to discover himself via his Sorcerous bloodline. Given the time he spent on other matters, his magical skill is to this day much narrower in scope and in depth when compared to any dedicated caster. It was some time in this seven year period that Specter developed an appreciation for and later addiction to Murkeye Cigars, the omnipresence of which would become Specter's trademark.

In in 515 GD, Sergeant Allen Specter was assigned to a covert mission in the Underdark. He was betrayed by one of his squad and captured by Drow, who proved less than friendly. Specter was brought before the Drow ranking officer and demanded to bow. Instead, Specter cursed at the officer and spat on him. Rather than execute Specter, the Drow had Specter's mouth sown almost entirely shut with two cross stitches, making speech and eating difficult. Specter was shackled and assigned as a slave. He would bear this fate for eleven months.

In 516 GD, Specter was rescued by his friend, Corporal Lance Kerkov. Specter was pale and his weight had dwindled to barely one-hundred-and-twenty pounds. His first act upon being returned to the surface was to have the stitches cut out and light up a new cigar. Specter carries the scars from the stitches on his face to this day. Specter has commented on those eleven months as the worst days of his life, and has said that having his mouth restricted for so long had made him never want to shut it again.

By 520 GD, Specter had achieved the rank of Captain and was second among the Blood Hawks only to Commander Erwin Magruder. Specter was one of three Captains at that time, of equal rank among the 500 or so Blood Hawks. In 521, Specter had a crucial role in the selection of the Blood Hawks by the Merchant Lords of Murkeye as the newly independent city-state's privatized police force. Believing "Blood Hawks" to be an inappropriate name for a police force, the group changed its name to the "Silver Crows."

In 525 GD, Specter was chosen to oversee the Murkeye Games owing to his personal charisma, skill with crowds, and perceived incorruptibility. As a decorated veteran--and survivor of his ordeal in the Underdark--Specter's choice to oversee the Games was supported by the majority of the Merchant Lords. Depending on his performance as Master of Ceremonies of the Games, Specter may be offered a position as a diplomat for Murkeye.

Quotes:
"The Gwideo Empire birthed me, raised me, and taught me to fight. It also left me to rot in the black elves' slave pen. I consider us about even."

"There's trouble up ahead. There's plenty behind, too. No reason to suspect that if it hasn't killed you yet it will tomorrow."

"I like to have options. A man who knows one way to do anything is a one trick pony, and just as screwed when he breaks a leg."

"For just about any problem, there's a right way, a wrong way, and a way that lets you sleep at night."

"A truly good man doesn't have the luxury of always being nice."

"Just because you like a man and respect him doesn't mean you shouldn't kick his ass when he deserves it."

Mark always had such a crush on her.

Her name was Cassandra. I remember the first time we met, at some campus-sponsored party in college. It must have been some sort of themed party; I remember she had flowers in her hair. I thought she was pretty. Mark, on the other hand, was utterly smitten. He must have danced with her five, six times that night. I remember sitting out a frenetic Salsa dance and the two of them coming back to the table, laughing and out of breath. I didn’t fair so well that night, but seeing Mark so genuinely happy for the first time in months made my night; he talked about her the whole way home.

Of course, things weren’t perfect. She was already seeing someone, but Mark told me the idea of him dating another girl was impossible, even laughable. I shook my head and muttered under my breath every night I heard him on the phone with her into the wee hours, or when she’d come over to watch a movie and he’d sit a respectful distance away.

One night she came in with one eye purple and both full of tears. She went straight to Mark’s room. I found the two of them on the couch the next morning, asleep in each other’s arms. I shook my head for the last time, this time with a wry smile in place of the cynical mumbling.

I remember coming out of final exams during our senior year and running into the two of them. Or rather, the two of them and a ring. The engagement was no surprise; the wedding was a fairy tale, sunshine and smiling faces as far as the eye could see.

I went out West after that, trying to find my fortune in the City of Angels. I searched that town high and low, but I never found any to match the ones I’d left behind. Two years and a dozen humiliations later, I limped back home on a plane ticket paid for with my parents’ money.

After I got back on my feet, I started spending time with Mark and Cassie again. Cassie was pregnant, too early to show. Mark was ecstatic, too excited to hide.

About a month later, Mark stopped being so energetic; he and Cassie both seemed downcast all of a sudden. They stopped talking about the baby altogether. I took Mark out to the bar and bought him a few rounds. I told him that these things happen, don’t worry, you’ll get another try.

Things were never quite the same after Cassie lost the baby. I guess that after something like that, they really can’t be. For starters, I never saw them fight before then.

Cassie went to live with her mother about a year later. Mark was crushed. He was still in love with the willowy brunette he’d married in that sun touched churchyard a few years before, and refused to accept that that wasn’t who Cassie was anymore.

About a week later a nasty storm hit across the lake. I don’t know where Cassie was going or why, but she left her mother’s house at nine and never got where she was going. There was a search, and the police found a hole in the guardrail by the causeway. It’s a tricky part of the road where it doesn’t line up with the span, so there’s a nasty turn right before the bridge starts. They dredged the lake and found her, still inside the red Cavalier her father had given her as a wedding present.

Mark’s brother and I started switching off at sleeping over Mark’s house after that, just so he wouldn’t be alone at night. Stuck in that house with nothing but memories to keep him company.

Mark had to stop three times to compose himself during the eulogy at Cassandra’s funeral. It was a day not unlike their wedding—warm, sunny, filled with friends and relatives dressed up in their best clothes.

I drop by Mark’s place from time to time. Whenever it’s raining I find him standing out front, letting it wash over him. He says he can feel her, as if she still lingers somewhere inside the storm that took her away for good.

One question that was never answered is what sent her into the lake. Since it was such a stormy night, it’s possible that she just lost control of her Cavalier. That’s what the coroner ruled. But I’ve driven that road a hundred times, a few of them in worse weather. The big question is if she might have done it on purpose.

Mark is the only one I know who’s been willing to ask. He’s begged an answer from the storms more times than he can count. He’s never gotten an answer, but he keeps hoping.

I got to the computer lab about ten minutes before class. It was an abysmal morning, rain coming down with unfortunate gusto, making me wish I’d printed my homework out the night before. I’d meant to, but then she had called, saying that her mother had called to tell her that, despite her careful savings all summer, she was broke, and could I just come over for awhile, at least until her roommate came home, because she wanted someone to talk to. So I went over and saw here instead of printing out my homework. And then I’d lain there in bed for an hour afterward, thinking about what a happy couple we’d be if and when I had the spine enough to ask her out. My homework had been entirely forgotten.

It wasn’t until my assignment was up on the screen that I noticed the ID card of a Miss Mary Jo Carlson sitting on top of the computer. She must have left it here after a late-night typing session. I was hungry, having not yet eaten today, and considered letting Miss Mary Jo Carlson treat me to breakfast before taking her card to security, just to teach her a little lesson in responsibility. I decided against it; I was already going to have trouble making it to class on time, and by the time class was over it would be time for lunch, anyway. I wasn’t comfortable with charging my lunch to her card; lunch is expensive these days, much more so than breakfast, and I don’t think I could live with myself after taking advantage of someone like that. No, it would be better to just take her card to security and be done with it. Of course, security was in the other direction, and I certainly didn’t have time to take it down there now. I could do it after class, but what if Miss Mary Jo Carson had only stepped out for a minute and would be back any moment? She certainly wouldn’t appreciate having her card stolen—because that’s what it would amount to, stealing—and taken to security. That give both of us an unnecessary walk. Maybe I could look her up on Facebook and find out where she lives, and give her card back in person. I could just imagine it. She’d certainly be thrilled to have it back. Maybe she’d invite me in. Oh, but maybe she’d have a boyfriend, and he’d be there. That would be awkward.

My watch beeped for the hour. That meant I was late. And I still hadn’t printed out my homework. I hit the print button, scooped the pages out of the printer and ran out the door. I hadn’t forgotten Miss Mary Jo Carlson, but this philanthropist didn’t have time to save her.

The funniest part of all this is that most people won’t believe it. Tell your average Joe that humans never figured out anything more complicated than the vacuum tube, and he’ll give you a skeptical look. Mention gremlins and he’ll assumed you’re talking about a campy movie from the ‘80s.

The first gremlins were captured and domesticated in El Alamein, Egypt, by British soldiers fighting Erwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps in World War II. They were distributed among the Allied nations in secret—the fear was that, if the Axis learned that our submarines, planes, and even bombs were run by little green men, they might develop some sort of anti-gremlin weaponry. After the war, it was just plain easier to attribute our technological prowess to good old American ingenuity than to the mechanically inclined little men found in Egypt. The best part was, no serious degree of secrecy was required—the idea of gremlins living in circuitry and hiding like cockroaches whenever a machine was opened up seemed so far-fetched that no one believed it.

The gremlin breeding programs across the world are nothing short of impressive. You’ve surely noticed how most technology tends to be loud and fragile when it’s new, only to become more stable as time goes on. Things happen this way because the first step in the breeding program is growing gremlins that can accomplish the task required. Mixing their bloodlines with hardier stock comes later. The machines are loud because there has to be a cue for the gremlins to start working; since they live in the dark, an auditory cue is just easier. Later, a new strain of gremlins will be bred with better hearing, so the auditory cue can fall outside the human range of hearing; that’s why dialup modems are so loud while broadband modems don’t appear to make any sound at all. Perhaps the most amazing thing was incorporating the ability for gremlins to derive nourishment from electricity instead of food. That was such an important step that it’s been bred into almost all the strains.

Really, it’s nothing short of amazing how dependent humanity has become on these little creatures from North Africa, but what really gets me is how few people even realize they’re there.

A tall, gaunt man with pale green eyes and long, graying hair leaned against the old theater, staring intently at the Holy Name Catholic Church across the street. A cigarette smouldered in one hand.
A boy of about ten years old was coming out of the ornate front doors of the church. The man by the theater crossed the street, tossing his cigarette aside. They reached the sidewalk in front of the church at the same time.

"Good evening, Jake." said the man. His voice suggested that the cigarette had been only the most recent in a very long line.

"Who are you?" asked the boy. His face was red and his was wet with sweat, as if from recent exertion. "And how do you know my name?"

"You can call me Mister Briggs." he said. "And I'd like talk to you for awhile."

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." said Jake.

"That's a good idea, but I'm actually a friend of your grandfather's. I was there when your father was born."

Jake looked at Briggs critically. "You don't look old enough for that."

"I've aged well, that' all. Come on, I'll walk you home."

Jake looked reluctant.

"I'll tell you what, Jake." said Briggs, "If it makes you more comfortable, I'll stay more than arm's length away, and stay where you can see me. I promise you I won't try to hurt you."

"Um..." Jake hesitated. "Okay, but I'm going straight home, and my parents warned me not to get in a stranger's car or take any candy or anything."

"That's fine advice, but I have neither."

This seemed to satisfy Jake. The pair started down the street and Briggs lit a cigarette.

"See, Jake, I've been very busy at my work for a long time, but I thought I'd stop by and visit. I heard that you go to church most weeknights, so I decided to walk you home. After all, who knows what terrible things could be out on these streets."

"Grandpa said it didn't used to be as bad." said Jake.

"He's right. A long time ago, before Rehnquist, this city--the whole world--was different."

Jake's eyes went wide. "Quiet! The LEMs will hear you!" LEM - Loyalty Enforcement Monitor. Rehnquist's troops drugged into unthinking loyalty.

"I'm just an old man, Jake. They don't care about me."

This seemed to satisfy Jake, but he kept glancing around.

"Don't worry, Jake, it's not as bad as it was ten years ago. These days, you can actually die from these things," he tapped his cigarette, "before the chots gun you down for griping about the good old days."

Jake hesitated a moment. "Mister, you fought in the Revolution with grandpa, didn't you?"

"I wasn't a field soldier like your grandfather, but yes."

"My grandpa still has his gun! He showed it to me. He doesn't have any bullets, though. The LEMs said that he's allowed to have the gun as a family heirloom as long as it has no bullets."

"It's an AK-98, right?" asked Briggs.

"I don't know, but it has--"

"A big banana clip with an automated loader right below the barrel. There's a CO2 canister in the stock that serves as a counterweight to the barrel and releases bursts of gas to compensate for recoil. Uses .22 caliber hollow point ammunition. Capable of semi-automatic or fully-automatic fire."

"Wow! You know a lot about guns!" said Jake, clearly impressed.

"Just the ones I had to know about." said Briggs, flicking the butt of his cigarette away and lighting up another.

"Did you use one like my grandpa?"

"No. There weren't too many actual battles in the Revolution, at least not by the time it made it to this continent--most of the fight got knocked out of us by the Great Plague. I used a Predator X-9 pistol, and a bit too frequently for my liking."

"Did you kill anyone?"

"Only those brain-dead Chot soldiers, and I don't think they count as people."

Briggs stopped walking, and Jake realized they were standing in front of his building.

"Well, Jake." said Briggs. "It's time for me to be on my way. I'm just an old workaholic, and duty calls. But I tell you what; I'd like to walk you home on Wednesday, if you don't mind."

"Okay!" said Jake, walking up the stairs. "Bye Mister Briggs!" he yelled over his shoulder.

But the sidewalk was empty except for a whisp of cigarette smoke.

I wonder how many people make it my age. thought Humphrey. It's really amazing that I've made it this far.

He sat on a park bench, surveying the beauty of the city park beneath the fractured city skyline. A bright flare was visible at the edge of his vision; he tightened his sun visor--no need to risk cancer.

Humphrey opened up the bag in his lap, revealing a loaf's worth of stale breadcrumbs. The bakery threw this stuff away, but the delivery boy gave it to Humphrey for free. He tossed some of the bread onto the walkway with his left hand--his right hand was having another bad day.

Just part of old age. he thought, scratching his mostly bald scalp. He waited for the birds to arrive.

Humphrey didn't have to wait for long. A pair of pigeons landed nearby and began to eat the crumbs. Humphrey smiled--these were Old Birds. Two of them at once had to be lucky.

Humphrey heard a scrabbling sound and his smile faded a little. The pigeon he had named Trooper limped up to the crumbs and gorged itself. Humphrey had to hand it to Trooper--most organisms as severely deformed as him didn't last this long. Trooper had two fully formed heads. That his were too scrawny bring him airborn didn't matter--his oversized, almost reptilian eyes were lidless and had dried up into blindness long ago. Humphrey noticed with a frown that the lefthand head was drooping much more than yesterday--it seemed that the world was finally getting the better of Trooper.

Bruiser stomped up as Humphrey through out more bread. Bruiser was a sparrow with a massive glandular disorder that had never let his growth stop. The bird was the size of a small dog and was flightless because of it.

There were much fewer birds than there had been when Humphrey had started feeding them--he'd read that more and more eggs these days had shells like paper, and those that hatched tended to resemble Trooper. Almost all of the birds were hideous, and great numbers were sterile--those that lived through the first few hours, of course.

That crook who ran the country had been making a speech last night, the same speech Humphrey had heard every year he could remember, from every leader he could remember. We were winning the war; in a few short years, victory would be ours and tyranny would be vanquished for good. The public would have to make sacrifices, but we would win the war, and that was what everyone wanted, wasn't it?

At Humphrey's feet, Trooper's sagging lefthand head started to cough. Something orange and bloody came out, and the coughing stopped.

But was that what everyone wanted? Humphrey wanted to feed the birds all year round, but the summers were so hot that people had to stay inside if at all possible. He missed this serene ritual of his, denied him from May to October.

Another flightless creature wandered up to the food. It had a beak, so it was probably a bird, technically speaking. The only think that grew from its pink skin was the occassional sore. Humphrey had never seen this one before. He decided to call it Pinkie.

While he was at it, Humphrey decided he wanted some of his friends back. He'd outlived them all, and now people called him an old timer. He was nearly certain that, in the days before the war, a man of thirty-six would have one or two friends still alive.

Trooper's good head popped up, and he scuttled off.

Whose war was this, anyway? His grandfather's? Great-grandfather's? No one seemed to remember anymore. All Humphrey was certain of was that the war was older than anyone alive. He certainly felt sorry for the birds--their grandfathers hadn't even asked for this war, but they were certainly paying for it.

Humphrey noticed what had scared off Trooper. The two Old Birds flew away as Chomper got close. Chomper was all black, which meant he was probably some kind of crow, but he had no wings, a huge beak (hence his name) and a bad temper. Chomper walked straight up to Pinkie. Pinkie squeaked at Chomper, and Chomper bit Pinkie's head off.

"Get out of here!" Humphrey yelled at Chomper. Chomper cawed, spitting gore from his beak. Humphrey leaned forward and swatted at Chomper with his bad hand, shoving the useless bulge of flesh at the bird. Chomper cawed again and hopped off.

Pinkie's lifeless body lay on the sidewalk, blood oozing from the neck stump, making the bread crumbs soggy. Bruiser looked up at Humphrey quizzically, as if asking if the bread was still safe to eat. It probably wasn't.

Humphrey stood up. He'd finish the bag of bread somewhere else. As he walked away, he heard a faint hoot, and saw Trooper waddling out from beneath the bench. Malformed as he was, Trooper knew how to survive--he ignored the bloody, tainted bread and followed Humphrey. Bruiser lumbered after them.

They found a new park bench and Humphrey sat down. The three of them stayed there all afternoon, even when the air raid sirens began their tiresome song. As the canisters of death fell from above, all three decided their careers as malformed, scarred survivors had gone on long enough.

My name is Erik Armstrong. Her name was Natasha Alvarez.

It was a long story, but it certainly had its romantic points. She was the first girl I ever fell for. We became friends, me secretly having a crush on her so strong it could take grease off a driveway. I asked her out. She said no; there were some obstacles. We kept trying, and overcame them. We went out for two years, and didn’t so much break up as just stop dating.

Of course, there were some elements of our relationship that that I can’t help laughing at, in hindsight. The obstacle I mentioned was Natasha’s self-proclaimed homosexuality. After six months of behavior on my part that was inappropriate at worst and pathetic at best, she gave me a kiss one night and told me she was willing to give boys a try. I don’t know how I managed to pull that off—I’ve never heard of someone actually changing sexual orientation (well, except in the movies), especially not for someone as lackluster as me.

Anyway, we were officially boyfriend/girlfriend by the end of senior year. We did the long distance thing until Christmas of sophomore year. I would tell you about the ending, but there’s really not much to tell—there was no crying, no anger, no yelling. We both agreed to be friends, and that was the end of it.

Sadly, the whole “friends” thing never really panned out. Tash’s grandma went senile around about that time, so her family moved across town to a house with an in-law suite. Rather than head out with them, Tash moved to an apartment near campus in Cincinnati, putting most of the state of Ohio between her and me. I’d made that trip for a girlfriend, but neither of us expected me to make it for “just friends.”

Tash didn’t come home that summer—I suppose she didn’t really have a home left to come back to—so we lost touch.

In hindsight, our loss of contact makes me a little sad. I hardly minded at the time; I had a new girl, a trim 19-year-old named Michelle who had been something less than crestfallen when I’d come back from Christmas Break and told her Natasha and I had split. Funny thing, that. I couldn’t get a girl to look at me during high school, but I was single for barely a month in my first two years of college.

As for Michelle, she was energetic, creative, and positively fetching. She was a year younger than me, but having a freshman girlfriend was in vogue with my circle of friends at the time—Michelle’s best friend was dating my roommate, and we had many a pleasurable evening on pseudo-double-dates around campus (and one real double-date, to the Chinese restaurant in town). As fun as those times were, Michelle and I both knew that our relationship wasn’t built to last. She had just dumped a guy in November, and we were a couple by late January. Both of us were comfortable with one another, and neither of us wanted to be single just then, so we rebounded into each other’s arms. I can say that loved Natasha once; though I cared deeply for Michelle (and still do), I never really loved her, and I believe the feelings were mutual.

My sophomore year ended. I went back to Ohio and she went back to New Jersey, and we called it quits. The summer between sophomore and junior year was the first time since high school I’d been completely unattached. Truth told, I kind of enjoyed it. Being single is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

That summer went along more or less uneventfully. You know—stupid guy stuff. There was booze and girls—a couple of the guys had turned 21, so now alcohol was even easier to obtain—but I only had a few glasses of the former and just the occasional sip of the latter. I never laid eyes on any, but I understand there was a small amount of cocaine and a slightly larger amount of ecstasy being passed around—square that I am, I wasn’t particularly upset about being denied the opportunity to partake.

Then, in late August, a week before the summer finally burnt itself out, a routine trip to the mall brought the summer’s carefree ease to a screeching halt.

My buddy Kurtis was a mall crawler. I went with him when I had nothing better to do. This time it was my turn to drive. The old hatchback escort (with the rear hatch scavenged from a Tracer. The car was affectionately referred to as “The Eracer.”) had met with a rather spectacular death some time ago, when a crack in the engine block had spread until the block was practically in two pieces. Now I was driving an eight-year-old Taurus with decidedly less character than my previous vehicle. Anyway, I had to stop for gas on my way home.

“Sheesh. $2.57 for Regular.” I grumbled. Unlike the late Eracer, the Contour’s air conditioner was still functional—the August heat hit me like a fist as I exited the vehicle. Kurtis wisely decided to wait in the car.

I pumped my gas, only to discover that I had forgotten to swipe my card before pumping, meaning I couldn’t pay at the pump. This meant I had to go inside to pay. I’ve always hated the hassle of paying inside, and the heat of the day hadn’t made me any more favorably disposed to wasting more time. When I got inside, there was a line. Great. At least the place was air conditioned.

Being the twenty-year-old male that I was, my eyes wandered to the plastic-wrapped porno mags behind the cashier. I don’t think anyone was looking at my face, so the security camera was the only one to see my eyes nearly bulge out of my skull.

Something I forgot to mention about Natasha was that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Deep brown eyes, long, dark hair, perfect skin, and a figure to die for. In high school, my friends had disagreed, saying that, while she was by no means ugly, she wasn’t as beautiful as I made her out to be (truth told, even I thought she probably should have had braces when she was a kid. Not that I’d tell her that). Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought that she could be a cover girl. She was grinning off the cover of some bottom-shelf rag I’d never heard of, with a blonde cheerleader type behind her. The arms were the only thing covering that wonderful skin of hers. The headline read “Girls of Sin-cinnati.”

My initial reaction was surprise. When I got to the register, I paid for my gas and a copy of the rag. I’d never bought a dirty magazine before—I was afraid of what the other people in the store would think, and besides, a girlfriend or at the very least an Internet connection could be had for free. I suppose this was a good time to break that taboo, since didn’t give two shits about what anyone thought of me just then. This was important, dammit!

Now that I think about it, Kurtis must have been a bit surprised when I came out of the gas station pawing frantically through a dirty magazine, getting more and more upset with each page.

*

I knocked three times on Anthony’s door. He opened it and I shoved the magazine in his face.

“Uh, hi, Erik.” he said, taken aback. Anthony Thompson had been my friend since eight grade, and my best friend since tenth. I could think of nowhere better to go after showing Kurtis the magazine cover and dropping him off (I’d also checked out the full pictorial, and there was no doubt in my mind that this was Natasha. I wasn’t about to show that much to Kurtis). I’d also tried calling Tash, but her number had been disconnected.

“The brunette looks familiar to you?” I asked. It had been long enough now that the surprise had worn off. Some grotesque hybrid of jealousy and rage had risen up to replace it.

Anthony took the magazine and examined it. “Holy hell, that’s not—“

“Sure as hell looks like her!” I said, practically yelling.

“Hey, easy now.” said Anthony. Come on in, we’ll talk about this.”

Anthony was an oddball if ever there was one. In high school, he’d been one of the kids teachers hate—brainpower to spare for any task he might attempt, but not enough of an attention span to actually finish anything. At this point in his life, he had shoulder-length black hair, a goatee of the same color, and a tendency to wear black bowling shirts and a fedora. Apparently, he’d started playing in a ska band at college, hence the look.

We sat at his cluttered kitchen table—Anthony and his mom were the tiny bungalow’s only inhabitants, and his mom worked a fifty-hour week. She wouldn’t be home for hours. Anthony had the rag on the table in front of him.

“You cut me off, Erik. Yeah, she looks like Natasha,” he said, pointing to the brunette, “but she looks familiar, too.” He pointed to the blonde.

“Now that you mention it, she does.” I had been so worked up about Natasha, I hadn’t given the other girl a second thought. “Shit, where is she from?”

“Well, if we both recognize her, we must both have seen her. And the only time I remember meeting any of her friends from Cincy was when you and I picked up her up that one time.” said Anthony.

Of course! Natasha’s friend Tracy dropped her off in the city on her way through. I was going to pick her up from there, but I’d had a break failure the day before, landing my car in the shop. Anthony had come to the rescue and driven me out and brought her back. Tracy had waited to make sure Tash made the transfer without incident, and Anthony and I had been briefly introduced before we went our separate ways.

Upon this realization, I slammed my fist into the table hard enough that an empty cup on the other end fell over and rolled off the edge, bouncing on the faded linoleum.

“What?” asked Anthony.

“Look—“ my voice cracked and I started over. “Look at the pictorial.”

Anthony leafed through the rag until he found it. He survey the first few pictures. They were enough.

“Erik, there are some things you need to remember. These were taken after you two broke up. It’s not like she cheated on you. And she was completely open about her…preferences.”

“Anthony.” I said, the will of God Himself the only thing keeping my voice steady. “Imagine how you would feel if Cathleen did a photo shoot of some guy fucking her brains out. This is worse.”

Anthony said nothing. He and Cathleen Schafer had dated through most of high school. They went through periods of “on” and “get the hell out of my life, you controlling bitch!” and were currently in a stage of the latter.

“Okay, point taken. So, your ex-girlfriend is featured in a pictorial of her having lesbian sex with one of her ‘friends.’ [Anthony made the quotation marks clear when he said the word.] Now, what are you going to do?”

“I tried calling her already. Her cell number’s changed. I can’t Instant Message her—she told me awhile ago that her apartment doesn’t have an Internet connection. But she gave me her street address awhile ago. So, I’m going to Cincinnati.”

Anthony sighed. “I thought you might say that. When?”

“Tomorrow.” It was a Thursday; I’d leave after work the next day.

“I’m going with you.”

I glared at him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t want to go alone, but you’re too polite to ask me to come. Besides, there’s nothing more important keeping me here.”

“Thanks, man.” I said.

*

I took a half day on Friday. Anthony and I were on the road by one. My uncle had lived in Cincinnati twenty years earlier. I’d asked him long the ride was, and been told to expect four hours.

Anthony made small talk on the way up, trying to calm me down. Most of it wasn’t worth repeating here. About two hours in, he said something that nearly made me swerve into the next lane.

“So…Cathleen and I have been talking again.” he said.

“Mm-hm.” I kept my eyes on the road. This was far from a unique occurrence.

“She, uh. She’s pregnant.” Right about then is when I nearly swerved.

“Holy shit, man! Is it yours?”

“I…I don’t know. She says there was some other guy she slept with right after we broke up. She’s not sure which of us is the father.”

“Damn it, Anthony! I thought you were smarter than that!”

Apparently it wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “Hey, she told me she was on the pill! How was I supposed to know?”

“You’re supposed to bag it up, man. Every time, pill or not. It keeps shit like this from happening.”

Anthony was silent for almost a minute. My eyes were on the road, but I could almost hear the wheels in his head turning. When he finally did speak, it was in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.

“I think I get it now.” he said.

“Get what?” I knew damn well, and even if my words didn’t say so, my tone did.

“Why we’re on this odyssey. Why you’re so worked up.”

I sighed. “Why’s that?”

“She was your first. The one who helped you ditch the Big V.”

There was a time when such a blatant inquiry into my sex life would have made me not just uncomfortable but flat out angry. Coming from Anthony, someone who knew better, it hurt even more. But he was mad. I knew that if I let the situation elevate any further, nothing good could come of it. I managed to keep my head.

“That doesn’t matter either way. You know me, how jealous I can get. We’d be on this trip whether I fucked her in every hole she’s got or if I’d never even touched her.”

“Then why are we doing this?” Anthony pressed. “Why is this so important that you feel a need to spend eight hours on the road just to talk to her?”

“Honor.” I said.

“Yeah. Honor. I knew that much. But whose honor is it, hers or yours?”

I didn’t answer.

*

Natasha’s apartment building was typical off-campus housing—adequate, but by no means extravagant. She lived on the third floor; my watch read 5:12 when I rang the doorbell. The rag was rolled up in my back pocket, tucked under my shirt. Anthony stood behind me, looking very ska in his fedora. After a moment, the door opened.

“Erik?” said a familiar voice. Natasha was there, wearing shorts and a big sweatshirt. The sweatshirt struck me as strange—the building wasn’t air-conditioned, and it had to be nearly ninety degrees in the room.

“Hey, Natasha. I tried calling ahead, but your number didn’t work.” I said.

“Yeah…I had to cancel service to make ends meet. Poor college student, you know. Uh, come in, both of you.”

Anthony tipped his hat in greeting, and went inside. There was a common room and two doors in the wall—a bedroom and bathroom, I presumed. The place was a mess, but it wasn’t as if she’d had advance notice to tidy up. Anthony and I sat on a futon and she pulled up a chair around a cluttered coffee table in the common room. As we passed the kitchenette, I noticed a greeting card on the refrigerator that simply read “1 Year!”

“So, Erik, Anthony.” she said. “What bring you here?”

There was a moment of silence as Anthony and I each waited to see if the other would speak first. When he didn’t, I assumed he wanted me to.

“Well, I was wondering how you were holding up down here, and I couldn’t reach you by phone or IM, so I said, what the hell, why not go for a visit?”

She looked (understandably) confused. “I’m fine, Erik.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. See, I got a little worried when I saw this.”

What I’d meant to do was to toss the rag onto the coffee table so it faced her. I pulled it off, but the table was so cluttered that I knocked a clamshell sunglasses case off the table. It landed at Anthony’s feet. Natasha looked down, her eyes frantic.

“I’ll get that.” Anthony said, quietly picking up the case.

“See,” I said, “it looks like maybe things aren’t going so—“ I started to say.

“Uh, Erik.” said Anthony. I glared at him and immediately saw what demanded my attention.

The case, meant for sunglasses, was currently the abode of two syringes. One was empty.

I stared incredulously at the dope, then at Natasha. Her eyes were welling up with tears. That sight always wrecked me.

A about a million miles behind me, I heard a key slide into a lock and the front door come open.

“Hey, babe.” a female voice said, sounding distracted. There was the sound of some plastic bags being set down, then a moment’s hesitation. “Natasha, who are these guys?”

I didn’t need to turn around to guess the color of her hair.

*

Looking back on that moment, I suppose my actions were more or less justified. I just can’t believe it was me who did it. Dramatic confrontation is really more of Anthony’s thing.

“So this is how it is, huh?” I yelled, rising to my feet. “You two girlfriends fuck each other real pretty so the boys at the porno mags will pony up enough cash for a fix! Is that it?”

“You fucking prick!” yelled Tracy, stalking towards me. “Who the fuck are you to come in here and tell us how to live?” She pulled back her hand to hit me, but Anthony grabbed her wrist.

“No violence tonight, Honey.” he said.

“My God! You fucking pricks are all the same!” she screamed, trying to pull free. “You only came up here because you found out your ex left you for another woman!”

“I came up here.” I said, lowering my voice. “because the girl I knew wouldn’t sink so low that she was exposing herself in a dirty magazine. I cam down here to see what the hell had happened. And I fucking found out!”

“Get the hell out.” said a small voice behind me. I realized it was Natasha, forcing back her tears. “I didn’t ask you to come here, and I sure as hell don’t need you to protect me. Now get the hell out.”

“Natasha, you’re in over your head.” I said.

“Fuck you, Erik.” she said softly, her voice trembling. “I chose this.” She was suddenly yelling. “I chose this! You don’t have to like it, but I chose this and it’s my fucking life!”

Two years we’d gone out, and I’d never heard her say “fuck” before. Maybe that’s what did it. I’d liked this girl for a good seven years, and I’ve never laid a had on her except when she wanted me to. I guess that’s why she didn’t see it coming. I reached over the coffee table and grabbed her left arm. Across the room, Tracy swore at me and started beating at Anthony, trying to get free. He grabbed her other wrist and crossed his legs just in time to block the knee she’d aimed at his groin. I pulled up Natasha’s sleeve and grabbed her wrist. She thumped me in the back her right arm, but I saw all I needed to on the left. I let her go.

“Fresh tracks.” I said, shaking my head. “Anthony! Let’s get out of here!”

Anthony pushed Tracy onto the couch.

“You fuckers! I’ll call the fucking cops, I swear!” she screamed.

I stopped at the door. “Natasha, I used to love you. But the girl I loved is dead. You murdered her.”

I slammed the door shut. I’m nothing if not dramatic.

*

On the drive home, I blasted the radio. I figured the day had had its share of sex and drugs, so it was only fair that Rock ‘n’ Roll should get some time. After an hour or so, the CD ended and Anthony spoke.

“You did the right thing.” he said.

“Yeah, I know. It just doesn’t feel like it.” I replied. “It feels like I stabbed the only girl I’ve ever loved straight in the back.”

“Well, yeah. You kinda did. But I think the monkey she had there ended up taking most of the blow.”

I switched the silent stereo to FM radio. “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” was playing. I switched the radio back off.

After we’d left Natasha’s (it appeared to be Tracy’s place, as well), we’d sat in the parking lot and dialed 911 from my cell phone. If I could have gotten her some other kind of intervention, I would have, but I didn’t posses the time or resources for anything else. We drove off after seeing a trio of cops enter the building.

The thing that bugged me most about the whole affair came after the initial shock, as I realized how long these events had been in the making. For starters, there was the “1 YEAR” card on the fridge—undoubtedly an anniversary card. Natasha had played me, and I had never caught on.

Well, it’s not like I was a saint in that department. After Michelle had dumped her previous boyfriend, she’d come to me looking for comfort. Don’t misunderstand me, there was no sex or anything, but I think things went far enough to count as cheating. Of course, knowing that Natasha was probably fucking the brains out of her cute little blonde that night made me feel a letter better about it in hindsight.

The big thing was how I had never seen any of this coming. The entire drive home, I was thinking to myself, You don’t start shooting up. It takes time to work up to heroin, let alone to getting to the point where you inject it.

I found out later that it had been a party during freshman orientation that had gotten her started. Somebody had offered her an Oxycontin, and she took it—she had no friends within a hundred miles, and just wanted to fit in. The following summer, she’d told me that she was working two jobs. Turns out it was an excuse—she just needed a way to explain why she was always too tired to want to do anything with me most nights. The truth was that she was snorting heroine by then; she did it at night, after her parents had gone to sleep.

Back in that car, I knew that whatever we’d had was gone forever. She’d probably hate me for the rest of her life. I gave a deep sigh.

“Man, when did life get so complicated?” I asked Anthony.

“Hell if I know.” he said.

*

I got home around midnight. I wasn’t physically tired, but I was emotionally drained from the events of the day. I climbed the stairs to my room and gave my Away Message a cursory glance before climbing into bed.

1 Message from EternallyCurious at 11:37 PM

Michell. I opened the window.

EternallyCurious: How was Cincinnati?
FireAt32: Complicated.
FireAt32 is away at 12:11 AM.

This, unlike my other online stories, is not a single story, but rather a collection of several short-short stories. I've decided to scrap the original idea of only keeping six stories posted, and instead I'm going to post anything too short to have it's own blog.

The current layout of the Six Shooter is as follows:

1. The Most Recent Part of a Very Long Story
A story about a character I've left nearly untouched for the past two years, Erik Armstrong. "The Most Recent Part," picks up about two years after the previous story, "Under the Gadar," left off, as well as incorporating some material from an unfinished (and never disclosed) longer Armstrong story called "Halfway to Hell." While this story is part of a continuity, it should stand up reasonably well on its own. Anyone who's read my first story, "Adventures in Real Life," will probably notice that Erik Armstrong shares a noticeable amount of character development with Saint Mark.

2. A Sunday Afternoon in the World of Tomorrow
A "vacuum" story, which is part of no continuity and has no connections to anything else I've written. It's a bit preachy, but I like how it turned out.

3. Good VS Evil
I said I was going to leave Darrus with his trilogy. I lied. Any more on this story will spoil it.

4. Bestiary Electronica
This story was written for my Writing Fiction course, but was considered to be too deep in a genre for submission.

5. The Philanthropist
This is the piece that was submitted to my Writing Fiction course after Bestiary was turned down.

6. Storm Song
I was very depressed one afternoon, so I came back to my room. I was listening to "Rain Song" by Cold on the way back, and started putting images to some of the lyrics. By the time I got back to my room, I sat down and wrote this in one sitting. It all came out naturally, as if I'd unearthed it rather than creating it. "Storm Song" is considerably different from my usual style in that it isn't plot driven and is much more poignant than what I usually produce. I hope you enjoy the change of pace.