Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Gunshot.
A/N: Hello, my darlings :3 So, with the insight of some awesome Ficwaddians, I have decided to post this fic. For those unfamiliar with the setting of the story, it takes place in the "Wild West" in the southern or west of America. Here, it takes place more in the south, like Texas. Imagine it kind of "cowboyish." Anyway, tell me what you think! This is kind of a short beginning, but I promise the chapters get longer! Thank you all, and please tell me if I should continue this or not! Enjoy!
1860 – Somewhere in Texas
The suns ray beat furiously down on me. The wide-rimmed hat I wore gave some relief from the harsh rays, but only helping from my collar up. Even my horse was panting. For days we had been riding across the mountains and dusty, worn paths. I adjusted my position on my horse, Fritz, and urged him to walk a little faster with a little kick of my heel against his side. Grudgingly, but willing for his master, Fritz started to trot. I patted his neck, grateful to have such an obedient horse. Hopefully we’d find a river or some sort of stream soon to have a well-deserved rest and drink. I bounced on the horse’s back, the supplies and luggage I kept behind me clicking and jostling with every movement.
I pulled a folded, weathered piece of paper out of my inside vest pocket, unfolded it, and read it out loud for the hundredth time,
“Wanted, dead or alive. Smitty Bacall and the Smitty Bacall Gang. For murder and stage coach robbery. Seven thousand dollars for Smitty Bacall. One thousand and five hundred dollars for each of his gang members. Known members of the Smitty Bacall Gang are as follows, Dandy Michaels, Gerald Nash, and Crazy Craig Koons.” I was a bounty hunter. My job was to kill and trade the wanted bodies, in this case, the Smitty Bacall Gang, for a bounty: money. Each body was worth a different amount depending on how callous the crime they had committed was when they were still alive. I’d been leading this bounty hunting life for more than five years, yet the amount of criminals I caught or killed were only so few that they could be counted with only 10 fingers. I barely scraped by and usually took advantage of the hospitality and kindness of strangers, but sometimes made the wilderness my home. Shelter wasn’t terribly hard to fine, and after years of observing and learning, I taught myself how to live with only the basic of basic necessities. It wasn’t a great living, but I wasn’t particularly picky.
I allowed Fritz to slow down a bit seeing that no sign of any water had shown, and we might have had to conserve energy. A nearby mountain range was only miles off, and I decided we would go there for the night. Surely, some sort of water source would be there. So, we rode on. The sun was still perched high in the sky, leading me on to think that it was an hour or so past noon, and the heat still persisted. Fritz plodded on, his neck swinging up and down strenuously, still panting.
“We’re almost there, buddy,” I said. As the mountain range came nearer and neared, our energy drained more and more. The sun didn’t exactly help either. In the distance, the actual waves of heat and water vapor could be seen rising from the ground. Interested in the peculiar patterns of the waves of distorted air, I stared off into the distance. Soon after, through the haze of heat, I saw a dark object lying on the ground. At first, I assumed it was just a rock, but upon nearing it, I saw that it resembled that of a human body. Curious to see, I tapped Fritz’s side with my heel again, and he lifted his feet a little faster. Finally, we reached the figure. Contrary to what I had expected, the person was not dead. I stopped Fritz, dismounted him, and placed my hand on the gun in my holster. One could not underestimate the strength or motives of any man. The man lay on the ground struggling to crawl. His shirt was torn and the areas exposed to the sun were bright red with burn. His brown hair was cut short, but I could not see his face because he was on his stomach, facing the ground. With my boot, I planted it underneath him and forcefully flipped him onto his back. His face and neck were covered in grime and dried blood and had immobilized his ability to open his eyes, as the thick stuff had crusted and glued them shut. I could see his eyes moving underneath his quivering eyelids, struggling to open them in vain. I couldn’t quite tell where the blood was coming from, but it was not only his face that was bloody. What was left of the shirt covering his abdomen was dark red and still seemed to be a little damp.
I stared down at him for a few moments and finally decided that I pitied him. I couldn’t just leave him there to die, so I crouched down to grab his arms and dragged him towards Fritz. He was heavier than I thought, being that he was relatively thin and not very tall, but nonetheless, it took a lot of energy from the little I had left to hoist him up on Fritz’s back. After a lot of struggle and slipping, I finally got the bloody man draped across Fritz’s back. He moaned softly, and his head lolled listlessly once Fritz started to walk again. There was no room on the horse’s back for me, so I took the reins, and held them as I walked alongside, still heading for the mountains.
A/N: So, what did you think? :3 Just so you know, this fic is inspired from the film "Django Unchained" by Quentin Tarantino. The plot is completely different, so you won't find the same ending, but some aspects of it are the same. For example, the part where the criminal handbill is read (Smitty Bacall Gang) is from the film. Another one is the horse's name. The character, King Shultz, from "Django Unchained," named his horse Fritz as well. I highly recommend the movie! It's definitely one of my favorites. I hope you guys liked it and please tell me if you want more! Rate & Review please! :3
1860 – Somewhere in Texas
The suns ray beat furiously down on me. The wide-rimmed hat I wore gave some relief from the harsh rays, but only helping from my collar up. Even my horse was panting. For days we had been riding across the mountains and dusty, worn paths. I adjusted my position on my horse, Fritz, and urged him to walk a little faster with a little kick of my heel against his side. Grudgingly, but willing for his master, Fritz started to trot. I patted his neck, grateful to have such an obedient horse. Hopefully we’d find a river or some sort of stream soon to have a well-deserved rest and drink. I bounced on the horse’s back, the supplies and luggage I kept behind me clicking and jostling with every movement.
I pulled a folded, weathered piece of paper out of my inside vest pocket, unfolded it, and read it out loud for the hundredth time,
“Wanted, dead or alive. Smitty Bacall and the Smitty Bacall Gang. For murder and stage coach robbery. Seven thousand dollars for Smitty Bacall. One thousand and five hundred dollars for each of his gang members. Known members of the Smitty Bacall Gang are as follows, Dandy Michaels, Gerald Nash, and Crazy Craig Koons.” I was a bounty hunter. My job was to kill and trade the wanted bodies, in this case, the Smitty Bacall Gang, for a bounty: money. Each body was worth a different amount depending on how callous the crime they had committed was when they were still alive. I’d been leading this bounty hunting life for more than five years, yet the amount of criminals I caught or killed were only so few that they could be counted with only 10 fingers. I barely scraped by and usually took advantage of the hospitality and kindness of strangers, but sometimes made the wilderness my home. Shelter wasn’t terribly hard to fine, and after years of observing and learning, I taught myself how to live with only the basic of basic necessities. It wasn’t a great living, but I wasn’t particularly picky.
I allowed Fritz to slow down a bit seeing that no sign of any water had shown, and we might have had to conserve energy. A nearby mountain range was only miles off, and I decided we would go there for the night. Surely, some sort of water source would be there. So, we rode on. The sun was still perched high in the sky, leading me on to think that it was an hour or so past noon, and the heat still persisted. Fritz plodded on, his neck swinging up and down strenuously, still panting.
“We’re almost there, buddy,” I said. As the mountain range came nearer and neared, our energy drained more and more. The sun didn’t exactly help either. In the distance, the actual waves of heat and water vapor could be seen rising from the ground. Interested in the peculiar patterns of the waves of distorted air, I stared off into the distance. Soon after, through the haze of heat, I saw a dark object lying on the ground. At first, I assumed it was just a rock, but upon nearing it, I saw that it resembled that of a human body. Curious to see, I tapped Fritz’s side with my heel again, and he lifted his feet a little faster. Finally, we reached the figure. Contrary to what I had expected, the person was not dead. I stopped Fritz, dismounted him, and placed my hand on the gun in my holster. One could not underestimate the strength or motives of any man. The man lay on the ground struggling to crawl. His shirt was torn and the areas exposed to the sun were bright red with burn. His brown hair was cut short, but I could not see his face because he was on his stomach, facing the ground. With my boot, I planted it underneath him and forcefully flipped him onto his back. His face and neck were covered in grime and dried blood and had immobilized his ability to open his eyes, as the thick stuff had crusted and glued them shut. I could see his eyes moving underneath his quivering eyelids, struggling to open them in vain. I couldn’t quite tell where the blood was coming from, but it was not only his face that was bloody. What was left of the shirt covering his abdomen was dark red and still seemed to be a little damp.
I stared down at him for a few moments and finally decided that I pitied him. I couldn’t just leave him there to die, so I crouched down to grab his arms and dragged him towards Fritz. He was heavier than I thought, being that he was relatively thin and not very tall, but nonetheless, it took a lot of energy from the little I had left to hoist him up on Fritz’s back. After a lot of struggle and slipping, I finally got the bloody man draped across Fritz’s back. He moaned softly, and his head lolled listlessly once Fritz started to walk again. There was no room on the horse’s back for me, so I took the reins, and held them as I walked alongside, still heading for the mountains.
A/N: So, what did you think? :3 Just so you know, this fic is inspired from the film "Django Unchained" by Quentin Tarantino. The plot is completely different, so you won't find the same ending, but some aspects of it are the same. For example, the part where the criminal handbill is read (Smitty Bacall Gang) is from the film. Another one is the horse's name. The character, King Shultz, from "Django Unchained," named his horse Fritz as well. I highly recommend the movie! It's definitely one of my favorites. I hope you guys liked it and please tell me if you want more! Rate & Review please! :3
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