Ch.10) TF /k/ ed: Birth of Anon Wick

“Come on Sylvie, just try it once. It might not be that bad. You might even-“

She shuts me up, stopping my mouth with her hands desperately. I try spreading her gently, but with stiffness I hadn’t felt from her in a long time she keeps it shut. It takes a good deal of coaxing, but in time she was opens herself to me, tears of shame glistening in those puppy-dog cerulean eyes. As softly as I can, I tried fitting it in there. But even before I can get the tip in she reflexively tightens, halting my progress, my desire.

I can feel my exasperation ebb within me as I let out a muffled sigh. This has been going on for the last few hours now. When I first tried to insert it, she instantly swatted it away with the force of a Serbian when faced with a kebab. Usually, I would have let it go and let her have her way, again, but this time was different. I want this too badly, need this too badly to let it simply end. Thus began our little cold war. At first it was an even match, my thrusts and her riposte, but now the tides have turned to my favor. She was weakening, her embarrassment and revulsion giving way to her own needs, needs that I had spent rousing for this moment.
I was going to fire some ratshot through her one way or another.

“Sylvie, I’m putting it in. All of it.” She draws back her hands to cover her face as she holds back light sobs. I apply some force and through slight resistance I fully open her loading gate, eliciting a mournful whimper. She had said that the very idea of not only firing but even having a shotshell loaded into her cylinder was a horrifying disgrace and that it was only because of my status as her owner that she hadn’t slapped the abominable thought out of me. To which my response had been ‘what the hell is wrong with ratshot’?
She didn’t talk to me after that. And she still hasn’t told me what the issue is with it.

“Sylvie…” As soon as I touch the tip of the round to her cylinder she begins to writhe on the floor as if trying to fight off some vulgar defilement. I pull back my hand; I recently came to terms with this strange master-slave dynamic she demanded but I still can’t bring myself to force my will upon her when she so blatantly despises even the idea of the act I desire. As soon as I put away the round, far enough away from her, her loading gate snaps closed and she sits up, a white-knuckled grip clutching her dress while closing her legs shut. She has completely guarded herself against any further intrusions. “Will you please tell me what the problem is?”

She opens her mouth; her eye’s blazing with righteous indignation, and promptly shuts it again. She twists and turns, mulling over in her head probably a few personal insults and maybe even a reason or two before opening her mouth and shutting it again. The process repeats a few times; she even takes out her fan to act as a pointer like an angry teacher with a ruler before she puts it down and returns to her brainstorming.

“You want to go out to the woods again, right?” She gives me a baleful glare. The last time I had gone out in the woods with her I came face to face with my own mortality; I damn near lost my life, shot Sylvie for the first time, killed a man, and saved another. It was, in her words, the most romantic, passionate rendezvous imaginable; the deepest held fantasy of any of her sisters. To me, it was the reason why I could no longer sleep without nightmares infesting every inch of my dreamscape, why after the pleasant numbness of the moment was over I was wracked with anguish down to the core of my being, why every minute the guilt of my actions justified as they were twisted my soul to wring it of any grace I had left.

I saved Frank’s life. I bandaged him up so when the police finally couldn’t turn a blind eye to the bloodbath they had a body to throw in prison. And then it was over. They knew about it, the feud. They played the waiting game and won. The gang was mostly dead, the perpetrator caught, and they could finally take a sigh of relief. The only loose end was me and they called it a clean case of self defense. It was a whirlwind of emotions, so chaotic and turbulent that I still have no idea what happened. All I know is they wanted to wash their hands of this whole decades-long clusterfuck and if I wasn’t a complete retard I would play along.
So I play along, despite the burning auger in my chest that twists deeper into me every time I think back to that cloudless night. So far, it has been hell. The worst part is that I’m the only human in the house. The two freeloaders were honestly the easiest part of it; they did their own thing and I didn’t care if I offended them. Sylvie was a different story. She gushed over each second of that night, giving whoever she could keep captive a needlessly detailed play-by-play. More often than not, it was me. Why, I don’t know. I was there for most of it and I wish I could forget.

Having a conscience sucks.

This brings me to my current attempt at self-therapy: revisiting my crucible. I have to go back. I have to face those woods again and I have to take Sylvie with me. Something inside me needs to make sure that no ghosts remain to haunt me, to prove to myself that the scene of that fateful night has gone back to normal. But I just can’t force myself to carry either dummy rounds or regular ammunition. I can’t pretend that I didn’t take a life but I can’t bear to think about taking another. Hence the ratshot; it’s something that’s potent enough to shoot a snake or something but not a manstopper.

“Look, it’s not that big of a deal. What’s the-“. My bedroom door smacks open and the heterochromatic pistol skips in with all the grace of a dancer and all the subtlety of rhino. “Heya~, let me use your computer. I want to start another thread on why those Sig Sauer sluts misfire… Whoa.” Her eyes widen in a pantomime of shock, her usual Cheshire grin blinding on her face. She focuses her attention on the round in my hand that I’ve spent the better half of the day cajoling Sylvie to no avail.

“Oh wow. Oh my.” She turns to my now incandescently red revolver who refuses to meet her eyes. “Are you into THIS…” the CZ emphatically gestures towards the shotshell and Sylvie looks like a little girl caught sticking her hands in the cookie jar as she tries to shrink herself away from embarrassment. I’m starting to guess that what I thought was an innocent request turns out to mean something entirely different and quite potentially something indecent.

“I-it’s not like that. Not like that at all! He’s just making a joke in very poor taste. It’s all just my master teasing me, that’s all!” Sylvie frantically denies whatever insinuation the CZ was making, madly waving her hands as if to ward off the very thought of being forced into something improper. “Master, please! Tell her she’s wrong.”

The wise decision here is to go along with her, help her save face, and privately speak with her to discover her reasons for refusing and then work to find a mutually beneficial resolution to this. To do otherwise would likely cause Sylvie a fair bit of discomfort and make things worse for everyone involved.

“Sylvie, this isn’t a joke. I’m loading you with this and then taking you out in the woods.” What’s his face did say that taking the road less travelled by made all the difference, right? Right now that difference is that the CZ’s jaw dropped in shock and the Vaquero’s face went from nuclear red to ashen white. “You had plenty of time to tell me why you didn’t like it, now I’m putting my foot down. Come on.”

“You dirty little minx.” The blue and green eyes of the CZ sparkled with mischievous delight, like a cat that found a hobbled mouse to toy with.  Spinning around in a pirouette back towards the door, she calls out to me, “just wait, I have to get her to see this.”
“They have shotshells in 9mm too. Don’t think I won’t buy it.”

She cackles and is out the door. “Oh no, I’m going to be raped! Defiled! I’ll never be a carry piece again!” Her sing-song lamentations echo through the house as she goes to find her fellow freeloader. I get up and close the door behind her, locking it firmly with a click. That elicits a squeak from the remaining firearm. Suddenly, I feel bad for her.

Well, I’m still going to do this. With purposeful steps I walk right towards her and sit down so we’re face to face. By now, the horror in her eyes has given way to reluctant acceptance. She brings up her hands to massage her eyes, an act she has taken quite often the last few days, as if to rub away the apparent absurdity she faces.

“Master, did you have to say that in front of her? As a matter of fact, what possesses you to torment me like this? Haven’t you the slightest idea of how degrading it is for me to be loaded with this… abominable ammunition?”

“No, because you never told me.” Well, I kind of figured it out to be honest, but I still don’t know why. “So tell me, what’s the big deal? You’re chambered for 357 magnum and 38 special rounds. It’s a 357 magnum round, just loaded with shot.”

“THERE IT IS!” She had been kneeling, but now she leans out far towards me, supporting herself with her hands on my legs. “I am not a shotgun! I am a revolver, one that not only has been carried as a personal defense piece but one that has successfully put down a pig that dared threaten my owner.” I wince as she brings up that moment but she continues. “It is an absolute disgrace to be treated like some novelty after I attained to a level of honor I never had the audacity to even dream of.” She puffs up in pride, bringing some of my favorite parts of her into full view as her chest pushes out against her deep black petticoat. “I swear, what has gotten into you lately? First you didn’t touch me for two days, then when you did you didn’t load me and now that you’re willing you choose this…this… indecency?” She gestures towards the package of ratshot nearby. “Honestly, if I wasn’t your carry weapon I would have…” She trails off, her voice softening until I couldn’t hear what she would have done.

I kind of get it now. Yeah, it must be some weird tradition or culture that I just am not familiar with.  But there is something I am familiar with.

“You’re my carry weapon, right?”

She nods emphatically.

“I rely on you to protect myself so your place is on my hip, right?”

She keeps nodding, faster now.

“I want to go into the woods with you. You won’t let me go alone, right?”

Faster again.

“There be snakes in them woods. I’m loading you with shotshells and that’s it.”

She stops nodding, almost robotically. Silence reigns for a brief eternity before she deflates with a noncommittal sigh. Sylvie starts to rub her eyes again, harder now, before she finishes and comes back to look me deep in the eyes. It takes her a moment to focus on mine, but that pause gives her time to plan out her next attack. I immediately begin thinking of my next move.

“I understand.”

Oh. Well, that’s nice. It’s usually not this eas-

“I hope you enjoy defiling me with your uncouth desire, but I will let you do as you will for two promises.”

See, never easy. “You know, you keep calling me your master but you never actually just do as I say now do you?” I give her a flat look which she elegantly ignores.

“It’s part of my charm, my beloved owner. As to the favors you’ll provide… The first is that you will take me into the forest with you unloaded, and then PRIVATELY you may insert that…” she grimaces with disgust, “that… THING into me.”

“Just the one?”

“Yes.”

“What if there are two snakes?”

“I’ll suck the venom out for you, darling.”

“How do you expect me to kill the second one quick enough so you can keep me alive?”

“Bite it back. From all the filthy things you’ve been asking me for, your own mouth must be full of vile poison.”

I open my mouth to haggle, but the slow, rhythmic knocking at my door mixed with the slow, rhythmic groans from the other handgun to let her watch distracts me. Fine, one round will do. It better be worth it. “Fine. And the other promise?” Her eyes lose focus for a moment and she stares past me into the void. Slowly, painfully slow, her lips part into a malevolent Cheshire grin promising unlimited cruelty like a demon watching some poor soul signing a devil’s contract.

I’m going to have to rein in those two other girls. They’re a bad influence on her.

************************************************************************************

Yes, yes they have. That measly round of ratshot? Not worth it. Not worth it by a long shot.

I accomplished my goal out in the forest. I went back to my hellscape and the sight of the place where I killed a man in the night changed completely when I saw it in the serene daylight. The two places, identical as they were, were completely different. The place in my mind could finally be placed to rest in my memory. The pain still gnaws at me, but not to the bone. I found some absolution in the peace of that place, as if the forest dryads could soothe my soul with balsam. I took in the scenery of the forest meadow and I found some peace.

At least until it came to fulfilling my second promise. I knew I was in trouble when, as soon as we came back to the catcalling and hooting of the semi auto pistol and the silent derisive laughter from the rifle, Sylvie didn’t run away in humiliation back to our bedroom but simply gave me a glazed stare and smiled like an angel. It was terrifying. It was also inescapable.

Which leads me to where I am now. I adjust the cross I have to bear back onto my head and take up my spot in line. I managed to haggle her down, with great difficulty. I thought it wouldn’t be that big a deal, but now I wonder if this is more humiliating than whatever gun ghost nonsense about shooting shot shells is.

“I think so.” I muse out loud.

“Reckon.” Her dulcet drawl is further accented by smugness. “Say it properly this time master.”

I feel my eye twitch. It’s bad enough that she’s making me cosplay as a cowboy to this stupid cowboy event, but do I really need to stay in character? “I reckon someone is enjoying herself” I hiss under my breath. I was surrounded by old codgers and as the youngest person here by far I was subject to quite a few stares. Or it might just be this stupid hat Sylvie made me wear. It was so cliché it was torture to wear but that was my promise.

Thank god she gave up on the chaps.

“That I am. Didn’t I say it before? The thought of you dressed like the men I was designed to be wielded by, drawing me and putting five clean shots between the eyes of some outlaw before the cretin can clear leather? The very thought sends chills down my frame.” She hugs herself and gives a glassy, thousand-yard stare out into nothing trembling. Excitement? “If only I were…”

“You’re fine.” I press her true body holstered at my waist closer to me. I saw her squinting at the few other weapon spirits that were at this little event. Even though she had been de-rusted and I did what I could to polish her, there were still very evident marks on her. Marks the other girls didn’t have and very much noticed. “Those guns didn’t save my life. Those guns weren’t with me in that forest.”
She gives me a pained smile and rubs her eyes again. “You’re right, my beloved owner. I’m truly the happiest revolver here, if not the world.” Her smile brightens and I’m warmed and comforted by her visage. She dabs at her glassy eyes with a handkerchief she pulled out of nowhere and brings her fan up to her face, fanning away the heat of her sudden embarrassment. “Ah, quickly now. We dance the next round.”

I try to ignore the geriatrics around me as I pull my hat down to cover my heart. I whisper to Sylvie, “May I have this dance.” She brings a dainty, gloved hand to my shoulder and I put back the stupid hat on top of my head as we walk in concert to take the floor. I unholster her and begin loading a few cowboy action rounds into her. Oddly enough, she very much enjoyed receiving them although she apparently doesn’t find them too satisfying to shoot. So she doesn’t hate all specialty ammunition. I had to agree with her although I wouldn’t turn down free ammo. The older man who gave them to me apparently reloaded them himself specifically for the shoot. They shot fairly soft, enough to where a rank beginner like me could barely feel the recoil. Still, the man was a bit unsettling, his eyes darting off here and there. At one point I thought they rested on Sylvie, but nothing came of it. It was a nice gesture on his part to share ammo with me and I really appreciated it.

Once I loaded her, I reholster and take a good look at the targets around. Mostly outlaw silhouettes, a few crouching and others standing, but they were all at varying distances. The range officer in charge of the event explained before that the shooter would need to hit each target once, alternating between each one, before reloading another five rounds and shooting them all again. It was a timed event, but neither Sylvie nor I are interested in placing. We’re here simply for the dance.

I take my position and she takes my hand as the booming voice behind me. A loud beep signals the start and I draw as quickly as my lack of training allows. My left thumb pulls the hammer as I aim down at the first outlaw. I squeeze the trigger and the break half-catches me by surprise. The recoil was soft and I’m on my next target. Sylvie’s hand wavers in mine as I go through the routine of cocking and releasing. The rapport was soft although still warranting ear protection. Third target. Sylvie pulls her hand from mine and rubs her eyes as I put the front sight right at the outlaws head and the trigger breaks and…

A deafening explosion erupts from the muzzle followed by a full blast. The recoil nearly rips the gun from my grasp and a blaring whistle rings out from behind me. A rough hand clamps down on my shoulder and an indistinct voice barks at me. I can’t quite make it out, not with the screaming near my ears, but I catch on a word. Unload. So through the haze I open the loading gate and remove the mix of brass casing and unspent rounds. The screaming hasn’t died down yet and I can’t tell what it is.

I unload the last round in the cylinder. What the hell happened? Did that man screw up his rel- Oh god where is the front sight? Where is it? I turn the revolver in my hand, but I can’t find the sight post. Oh god, that screaming. I turn my head, down at the figure in the antebellum dress. The figure clutching at her eyes, her cries filled with anguish, bleeds into my tunnel vision. Her screams stop and as she heaves through the pain, the only sound I hear is a tormented moan, low and unending. Voices to my side try to hasten me from the stage. I come to my senses enough to look. Where did it go? If I find it I can fix it. I told her I’d never let her go. Any part. Fuck, where is it? I get down on my knees, ignoring the range officer’s orders. I sift through the soil, panic growing with the cacophony of pained groans and wretched shrieks. Nothing. Nothing. Fucking hell, where is it? I finally stand up and face the range officer.
“The front sight fell off.” I hear my own lame voice as if through someone else’s ears.

“That’s too bad, but you’re disqualified for not obeying directions. You better leave.”

I swallow back something. I’m not sure if it’s some choice words or my own sobs. “Can you please help me find it?” The mustached man shakes his head and tells me something. I don’t care. I walk over to Sylvie, her spirit body hunched over with hands covering her face. I wrap my hands around her. People gawk. I don’t care. With a shriek she pushes me. I don’t care. I pick her up. People are now aghast. I know why. They can’t see her. They can’t hear her.  I must look crazy.

I don’t care.

I take her back to my truck as she pummels me with one hand keeping the other stuck to her ruined eyes. I get her into seat and I start the car. I drive off and her pained screams give way to moans of despair. I find an empty parking lot and pull in just as the moaning gives way to silence. Ripping off the seat belt, I pull her into my arms. Not again. I won’t let this fucked-up world mess with her, with MY SYLVIE again. She doesn’t fight back this time. She doesn’t do anything this time.

“Sylvie…” The silence doesn’t yield. “Sylvie, let me see.”

She pulls her hand back just enough to expose just a hint of scarring. She slowly shakes her head. I gently grasp her hand and pull it to the side. She resists at first, but almost instinctively I begin to pat her head. Just like old times, right? It seems she understands and slowly, reluctantly, almost penitently Sylvie reveals her face.

Scarred. Worse than before. Both eyelids locked closed from the seeping of pus and boils, which cruelly enough was a blessing since the sunken features hinted at the gruesome truth. Both eyes were missing. It created a disgusting, distorted line across her face right across her nose. Below her face was as beautiful and angelic as the day I first fixed her, above was a disfiguration that crossed the border of repulsion. It was a malicious favor in a way; although she knew what happened, she couldn’t see just how bad it was.

I pat her head and silence gives way to deep sobbing. There’s a storm in my head and I think with a frenzy. Gunsmith first, no, research first. This might be a factory-only fix. Did he know? Did that motherfucking son of a bitch know? Think, there were other guns in spirit form, Yes… his shifting eyes seemed to rest every now and then on one. He sees them probably. But does that mean he poisoned the ammo or was it an honest mistake. Fuck, I burnt my bridges I bet with the people there. If I can find out his name and hunt him down…

“-ry….mast…..not again…not again… don’t” A voice cuts through my thoughts. A voice too meek, too strange from the Sylvie I know, too familiar with the Sylvie I knew. I lift her chin up, drinking in those lost eyes. I plunge my lips to hers angrily, greedily. Not again. I won’t let this happen again. First, I fix this. I’ll regain her sight. Then I’ll find that sick son of a bitch. He gave me ammunition, I’ll give him some back for free.

And he’ll pay dearly for it.