I just made a mistake.
I screwed up. It was my first chance to provide my camp with a major upgrade, something that might improve the livelihoods of my compatriots, those I’ve come to think of as my friends and family. Lured in by the promise of upgrades to my satchel, I opted to buy an expensive set of leather working tools, dropping around one hundred dollars from my personal savings (more than half of what I had accrued since the disastrous failed robbery) as well as the entirety of the camp’s collective funds on the endeavor. As soon as I’d made the purchase, I regretted it. Buyer’s remorse in a world without refunds.
A simple reality dawned on me: I had just chosen to purchase a handful of tools in order to improve my satchel’s capacity to hold herbs, ammunition, food, and other assorted goods. I’d never been out roaming the frontier lands and wanted for extra space on my person before; rather, I had been seduced by the luxurious promise of an upgrade to my personal abilities. I could have instead installed a chicken coop in my camp, guaranteeing a sustainable source of meat for my companions in this unpredictable world, and perhaps finally weening us off of the rabbit and venison scraps I’d been chipping in for communal stews now and then. But no, I’d decided instead to purchase some leather working tools, and there was no going back. At first, I was angry at my inability to take back my unfortunate misjudgment. Then, aggravated and exasperated because of my blunder, I set forth to make it right the only way I knew how.
I donned my best marauding outfit — a dark, imposing jacket, leather gloves, a full face mask — and set off to steal enough money to make up for what was lost on the tools, perhaps even to purchase that vital coop, and to redeem my egotistical self for that subtle but damnable crime against my compatriots (and my own wallet). I journeyed into lands in which I was already wanted for murder, the taking of lives as collateral on a necessary quest to free a friend at the behest of my seasoned, fatherly leader. I figured there was no better place to resort to unseemly activities than in a region where I had little positive reputation left to lose.
Before long, I happened upon a pair of men off the side of the road and slowed down to listen to their conversation. When they spotted me lurking in the brush, they warned me to stay away, speaking of “private financial business.” Given the nature of my current objective, I was driven to instill an air of caution in the men by promptly brandishing a shotgun. They showed signs of retaliation, drawing firearms of their own as they raised their voices in panic. In the heat of reactionary frenzy, I blew the head off the front man. His terrified friend turned and ran, firing his revolver over his shoulder, but I blasted him in the back before he got far.
Having disposed of this threat to my livelihood, I cleared the first mangled, practically headless corpse from in front of the object of the men’s interest: an ornate safe. I smiled to myself. Slaughter, yes, but in the name of my friends’ survival. And leveled on a pair of criminals. This was, after all, the untamed west. Forty dollars awaited me within the safe, its door blown off by a stick of dynamite I had on me for situations like this. A worthy reward in this impoverished, unforgiving world.
Newly hopeful that I could redeem my poor decision, I set off down the road toward a possible bounty target from back in town, my eyes primed for hapless saps to rob along the way. Soon enough, a pair of horses came sauntering down the road, pulling a wagon driven by an unfortunate fellow. Energized and bold from my prior victory, I immediately threatened with my shotgun, hoping for the driver to raise his hands in surrender. But as soon as he processed my act of aggression, the poor, brave idiot pulled a pistol from his belt. Panicked and still running partially on adrenaline, I let loose a round, but it found no flesh. The carriage took off down the dirt road, the man firing behind himself in a panic.
Flustered and not in need of any more notoriety in the area, I fired a flurry of shots after the retreating wagon, and one found its target: I could see in the distance the man collapsed in his seat, dead. But the horses, all fired up from their owner’s frantic commands, kept on bolting. I fired a few more shots in their general direction. Nothing. I reared my steed and galloped, full speed ahead, in the direction of the wild carriage. I fired a few more shots, and this time one found a target: a helpless horse, just following its dead master’s orders. The beast collapsed, now just a heap on the roadside. The wagon stalled, the lone remaining animal unable to pull its weight.
I approached the wagon and jumped off my horse, walking up slowly to examine the scene. The driver was slumped, lifeless in his seat. He didn’t look rich, just a middle-aged man in a faded bowler hat on his way home — well, he used to wear a bowler hat. I lassoed him from his perch and searched his limp body. He had but a few revolver rounds on him. Still, there was loot in his carriage worth my while.
I clambered inside and opened his chest, but found nothing inside except alcohol and a few medicinal supplies. Perhaps they were meant for his family. All wasn’t for naught, though, as a lock box sat on the carriage floor, promising a haul. I pried it open with my hunting knife, ready to count the papers.
Inside, I found a pack of limited-edition cigarettes. Inside that, a collectable trading card. I stood silently for a moment. Then I climbed out of the carriage. I didn’t look back at the dead man. Couldn’t. I hopped back on my horse, but could not find the will to carry on toward my bounty target.
Instead, I retreated into my bedroom, where I now write this.
What have I done?
I screwed up. It was my first chance to provide my camp with a major upgrade, something that might improve the livelihoods of my compatriots, those I’ve come to think of as my friends and family. Lured in by the promise of upgrades to my satchel, I opted to buy an expensive set of leather working tools, dropping around one hundred dollars from my personal savings (more than half of what I had accrued since the disastrous failed robbery) as well as the entirety of the camp’s collective funds on the endeavor. As soon as I’d made the purchase, I regretted it. Buyer’s remorse in a world without refunds.
A simple reality dawned on me: I had just chosen to purchase a handful of tools in order to improve my satchel’s capacity to hold herbs, ammunition, food, and other assorted goods. I’d never been out roaming the frontier lands and wanted for extra space on my person before; rather, I had been seduced by the luxurious promise of an upgrade to my personal abilities. I could have instead installed a chicken coop in my camp, guaranteeing a sustainable source of meat for my companions in this unpredictable world, and perhaps finally weening us off of the rabbit and venison scraps I’d been chipping in for communal stews now and then. But no, I’d decided instead to purchase some leather working tools, and there was no going back. At first, I was angry at my inability to take back my unfortunate misjudgment. Then, aggravated and exasperated because of my blunder, I set forth to make it right the only way I knew how.
I donned my best marauding outfit — a dark, imposing jacket, leather gloves, a full face mask — and set off to steal enough money to make up for what was lost on the tools, perhaps even to purchase that vital coop, and to redeem my egotistical self for that subtle but damnable crime against my compatriots (and my own wallet). I journeyed into lands in which I was already wanted for murder, the taking of lives as collateral on a necessary quest to free a friend at the behest of my seasoned, fatherly leader. I figured there was no better place to resort to unseemly activities than in a region where I had little positive reputation left to lose.
Before long, I happened upon a pair of men off the side of the road and slowed down to listen to their conversation. When they spotted me lurking in the brush, they warned me to stay away, speaking of “private financial business.” Given the nature of my current objective, I was driven to instill an air of caution in the men by promptly brandishing a shotgun. They showed signs of retaliation, drawing firearms of their own as they raised their voices in panic. In the heat of reactionary frenzy, I blew the head off the front man. His terrified friend turned and ran, firing his revolver over his shoulder, but I blasted him in the back before he got far.
Having disposed of this threat to my livelihood, I cleared the first mangled, practically headless corpse from in front of the object of the men’s interest: an ornate safe. I smiled to myself. Slaughter, yes, but in the name of my friends’ survival. And leveled on a pair of criminals. This was, after all, the untamed west. Forty dollars awaited me within the safe, its door blown off by a stick of dynamite I had on me for situations like this. A worthy reward in this impoverished, unforgiving world.
Newly hopeful that I could redeem my poor decision, I set off down the road toward a possible bounty target from back in town, my eyes primed for hapless saps to rob along the way. Soon enough, a pair of horses came sauntering down the road, pulling a wagon driven by an unfortunate fellow. Energized and bold from my prior victory, I immediately threatened with my shotgun, hoping for the driver to raise his hands in surrender. But as soon as he processed my act of aggression, the poor, brave idiot pulled a pistol from his belt. Panicked and still running partially on adrenaline, I let loose a round, but it found no flesh. The carriage took off down the dirt road, the man firing behind himself in a panic.
Flustered and not in need of any more notoriety in the area, I fired a flurry of shots after the retreating wagon, and one found its target: I could see in the distance the man collapsed in his seat, dead. But the horses, all fired up from their owner’s frantic commands, kept on bolting. I fired a few more shots in their general direction. Nothing. I reared my steed and galloped, full speed ahead, in the direction of the wild carriage. I fired a few more shots, and this time one found a target: a helpless horse, just following its dead master’s orders. The beast collapsed, now just a heap on the roadside. The wagon stalled, the lone remaining animal unable to pull its weight.
I approached the wagon and jumped off my horse, walking up slowly to examine the scene. The driver was slumped, lifeless in his seat. He didn’t look rich, just a middle-aged man in a faded bowler hat on his way home — well, he used to wear a bowler hat. I lassoed him from his perch and searched his limp body. He had but a few revolver rounds on him. Still, there was loot in his carriage worth my while.
I clambered inside and opened his chest, but found nothing inside except alcohol and a few medicinal supplies. Perhaps they were meant for his family. All wasn’t for naught, though, as a lock box sat on the carriage floor, promising a haul. I pried it open with my hunting knife, ready to count the papers.
Inside, I found a pack of limited-edition cigarettes. Inside that, a collectable trading card. I stood silently for a moment. Then I climbed out of the carriage. I didn’t look back at the dead man. Couldn’t. I hopped back on my horse, but could not find the will to carry on toward my bounty target.
Instead, I retreated into my bedroom, where I now write this.
What have I done?
Whoa
ReplyDelete