The Philosopher Pistol

Desperate Times Presents:

The Philosopher Pistol (Part 2)

I wrapped my fingers round the cold hard butt of my revolver. Squeeze, don't pull. Squeeze don't pull. They had drilled this mantra into our heads during training. If you pull the trigger, as opposed to squeezing the trigger, you'll miss high and over their heads. Halfway to Najadima - a little village in the middle of the desert - What it lacked in size, it made up for in villainy. They say only two kinds of men go to Najadima. Men who are fixing to kill, and men who are fixing to die - I headed where the work was. And the work was in Najadima. Evil lurked around these parts. I had been walking through the desert for days - water running low, no natives to speak of, no hope to be found. No, my only prospect was a bounty hunter named Floyd who'd gone off the reservation, started taking out high-ranking military officers. Now Floyd had a bounty on his head so high, he couldn't take a piss without somebody informing on it.

The general let me go. It was either I left, or his brains all over his desk - his choice. I made him sign the form and hightailed it out of Cairo as fast as I could. Three years, and dozens of bounties later, I was on my way to Najadima, with Floyd on my mind.

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The Philosopher Pistol

Desperate Times Presents:

The Philosopher Pistol (Part !)

There doesn't see to be any artillery sir?
But there Must be artillery!
How can we fight a Goddamn Bloody War without Goddamn Bloody artillery?!

The general was fuming at this point and i was glad to get out of the room before the winds of politics swept in a foul thunderstorm. I left with my charge, ahead of the supply boy and with my pistol in hand. I thought this quite amusing. I'm not one to carry my pistol in my hand, but my experience in the General's office; being handed my first real assignment on my own, had my heart pumping. Perhaps I pulled my sidearm out of it's holster, who knows how or why these things happen. I promptly re-holstered my weapon and set off on my journey.

I slept for a night on the beach - i took in the smell of the sand, the sound of the water lapping against the earth, like matter smacking against time. I thought about time slowly falling away in to a deep well hole in New England; only to be retrieved by a man who once sold his daughter to a Street Performer for September 1968. Time couldn't be easily caught, or held on to for that matter. And after the Street Performer intercepted time, it quickly got away from him. Never to be caught again.

I walked a desert road for a time. I felt like a man on a mission, but what mission, I did not know. I held my gun up above me as I walked. The reflection of the Sun against my pistol warmed my soul the way the company of another human being never could. I guess it was my manner. My way. I'd never been one for company. Strangers sure. But I'd never kept company well and I wasn't about to start now. That's why i left. To get away from everyone; To find out - after all my awful misdeeds and sins, he trail of tears and broken lives I've left behind me; who I really am.

So I walk along the trodden trail - the only trail a man who's low can know.
I sing my song to no avail, for on my path, if I choose to sing it's for no one
I choose to sing to no one.

Send me a mountain to climb to the top and jump off and explode and then fly in to hell and do battle with satan - and crucify Christ - let them whip me and rape me and burn me and hate me.

Next Time on Desperate times Presents - PART 2