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The Butcher of Bucket Town; Time makes monsters of us all
Topic Started: Feb 11 2018, 02:20 PM (33 Views)
The Iron Wolf
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2Legit2Quit
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Five months. Five Two thought as cut away the tenderloins from the inside of the radstags carcass. Tomorrow makes it five months. That's how long it had been since his compatriots, the Confederate officers DeWinter and Chrysa had left, following a few leads on clues left in a journal they had uncovered while storming a slave-holding compound in the Bucket Town Boneyard. He'd been on his own since then.

Tossing the tender meat to the edge of the table, he began slicing away the meat of the rear legs, yanking the bones out of the sockets and setting the hindquarters alongside the tenderloin. The smell wasn't so bad as other dead things, all things considered. His immunity to gagging at the scent had really secured him the position as a butcher, but it had been weeks of carefully watching and following the instruction of Baird, the old hunter, to really get the hang of it. The shoulder came next, followed by the flank, and the backstrap for the left side, and then the same thing on the right. Rib meat stacked on top of the growing pile, along with a few extra cuts from around the body.

Doing it by rote allowed him time to think, time to reflect, and whenever Raspy managed to pick up a signal on his radio station, time to sing along to music that had died with atomic fire. It was all trimming fat and cutting into sizeable portions from here on out, and Five's knife glided through the motions with quiet precision. He knew when he had to sharpen it now by practice, and even that had been worked into his routine. He was able to butcher and wrap at least three a day now, and it sure as hell beat ditch digging. Baird paid him in a portion of the meat and occasionally drinks at Bobo's.

Five Two the Butcher. Somehow he had always thought he'd earn that title, but for a completely different reason. Now, after two months in this profession, he thought it was finally gonna stick. Taking a moment to hang the remaining bones of the carcass on a hanging meathook, he had a flashback to another man, swaying softly above the ground, his feet no longer kicking, his chest no longer heaving. Pulling his knife from the radstag carcass, he sharpened it again. They'd overlook another knife cut to it, especially since these would go toward feeding the hunter's dogs. Dogs didn't care too much about extra cuts in what they ate.

Stepping back behind the table he continued his butchery, the venison coming into nice, neat piles. Over in the corner, Raspy let out a quick beep and a short burst of static, his signal that the station was on the air again. A soft guiter rhythm accompanied by a low drumbeat played through the light static growl. They played this one a lot, Five knew it by heart.

"Listen to the wind blooow, watch the sun-riiiise." He sang along softly, quietly trying to lose himself in his work. "Running in the shadoooows, damn your love, damn your liiiies..."
Five Two -HC-
7.5.7.4.5.7.5 Lvl:5 K/D:35/0
BT +25, BY -25 CR +25
Inventory: Confederate Rough Leather Armor (T2),Confederate Renegade Jacket (T2), Confederate Repeater (T2), Deuce-Shot Pistol (T2/GC), Swamper Blow Dart Set (T1/GC), and much more...

Emile Arkwright
6.7.6.5.7.6.3 Lvl:2
Inventory: Post-War Formal Wear (T1), Homburg Hat, Corn-cob pipe, Twin Rudimentary Revolvers (T1), Dagger (T1), water skin, .357 rounds (x30)
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The Iron Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The first month had been quiet.

He and Chrysa had spent most of that time alternating between the bar and the wasteland. She kept on trying to teach him marksmanship, proper shooting the way she had learned it, like she had back in the Confederacy. He was a fair shot, nothing more, but training did have its benefits, like more time spent with her. After a few rounds of shots, either at the bar or a firing track they had set up, the two would usually sit down and just talk for hours on end. When the night came, they would pull out his books of constellations, both an exercise in reading and in astral navigation.

With each of those days that passed, Five found himself cherishing them more, and dreading the next day even more greatly. He was more or less happy, and on nights that Chrysa fell asleep in his arms after starring at the stars he wished fervently that the dawn wouldn't come, or at least not so fast. But every morning came, like clockwork as the world turned. And when she would wake up and smile at him, he could smile back in a genuine mirthful grin. This was happiness.

Every now and then that feverish hunger gnawed at him, the desire to hunt down his master, but as DeWinter decoded more and more of the journal he kept saying they'd be off soon, and while Five didn't want that day to come, he looked forward to it with a feral anticipation. There was a war inside himself, between the gentle and happy place he'd found, and the dark and angry side he'd had for so much longer. He often reflected on an old proverb Phil had mentioned, about two wolves inside every man's soul, a good wolf and a bad wolf who fought each other. The wolf that won would be the wolf he fed. This is what he would stare up into the stars and think about.

When the day finally came that DeWinter finished decoding the journal, Five still didn't know which wolf to feed. Both had their benefits, both had their purpose. It wouldn't be an easy choice. His two allies, Chrysa and DeWinter, took off that day; they left Five behind, saying they had some leads to follow up, but that they'd be back once they had something solid. That had been four months ago.


Five began parceling out the meat, tying it up into simple bundles with thin cords. Baird paid hunters for the meat, and paid Five in meat to butcher it. When the meat was sold, Baird made profit which he used to buy more meat. Apparently that was how a business worked. More stuff Five had learned. It had only been during this time that he had learned how little of the world he actually knew. The station was coming in a bit clearer. "And if, you don't love me now, you will never love me again," Five didn't hear the song as he sang it, it was just there, "I can still hear you saying, you would never break the chain..."
Edited by The Iron Wolf, Feb 11 2018, 04:20 PM.
Five Two -HC-
7.5.7.4.5.7.5 Lvl:5 K/D:35/0
BT +25, BY -25 CR +25
Inventory: Confederate Rough Leather Armor (T2),Confederate Renegade Jacket (T2), Confederate Repeater (T2), Deuce-Shot Pistol (T2/GC), Swamper Blow Dart Set (T1/GC), and much more...

Emile Arkwright
6.7.6.5.7.6.3 Lvl:2
Inventory: Post-War Formal Wear (T1), Homburg Hat, Corn-cob pipe, Twin Rudimentary Revolvers (T1), Dagger (T1), water skin, .357 rounds (x30)
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The Iron Wolf
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2Legit2Quit
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The second month had not been as quiet.

After those two had left, Five found himself in an extraordinary position: he needed a job. Chrysa and DeWinter had been paying for most of the food and drinks, relying on their Confederate earnings, which happened to be no small amount. Apparently, DeWinter's family also owned a modest plantation way back in the Remnant, and that gained him a sizeable amount every few months. Now they were gone, and Five needed to eat still.

He tried his hand at hunting first, a potential way to both get food and make some hides for trade. That was when he'd met Baird and his partner Ava. They'd been supportive and had tried their hardest to teach him, but as it turned out, Five was the worst hunter. Game trails, tracks, foliage deformation, scents; none of it every seemed to click with him. He could follow one man's footprints for days and miles, but tracking a coyote, or a raddlesnake, or a radstag seemed time and again to prove impossible. He'd lead the way for a while, confident in where they were going, until suddenly realizing he'd been circling the area for the past three hours, and the old couple was too kind to say anything.

Next, he tried his hand as a bouncer for La Ranchero, pinning that Brothel Inspector badge he had earned so long ago onto his belt. His job was simple: make sure no one roughed up the girls, or the guys, or made too much trouble in general. At first it seemed like the perfect fit for him, until he was called into Madame Rose's office on the third day. Apparently, he had been driving away customers. He had only broken a few arms and put one or so guys into emergency care, but everyone definitely kept their hands to themselves now. He was given his week's wages and promptly fired.

A handful of odd jobs later (including plumber, janitor, and being a temporary deputy which was almost immediately revoked) Five found himself in the ruins of the Boneyard, kicking at stray pieces of junk and rocks. Finding something he was good at was tough, something he could do for a living.
"I understand what you do though, Five, and it's very simple." The wind seemed to bear a faint echo in the voice of a dead friend. "You kill." He shuddered in the breeze that brought those words, his eyes resting on a chunk of torn metal that vaguely resembled a knife.

He picked it up, twirling it around his hand. Well-balanced, simple, good steel. He stabbed forward with it. Comfortable. He did have a workbench now and while he didn't trust himself to work on his guns just yet, tampering with components that fine would take practice, he thought he'd try his luck turning that piece of metal into a knife or dagger. That wasn't how they were made, not most of the time anyway. He'd witnessed the fires and listened to the hammers of a forge-yard, producing hundreds and knives, axes, etc. But he might make something out of it, something useful if not perfect.

That first attempt was both useless and terrible. The hunk of twisted and contorted metal he ended up with would hurt no one but the person holding it, he had the fresh scars on his hands to prove it. Mostly, he had learned what not to do in going about turning scrap metal into a knife.
Learning what not to do shows us the path towards knowing what to do, standard process of elimination. Phil again, cropping up in his head during the quiet hours, when he was alone. But he had always seemed to be right, and that time seemed to be no exception. In between job hunting and being fired, Five started spending more time learning how not to make knives. More scars piled up, knicks and cuts from the product and the tools. But he was making progress.

Tying up the last bundle of meat, he started wrapping it up in wax paper so he could shove it into the freezer. How Baird had managed to get a working freezer was a secret he never seemed willing to share, but it ensured he always sold the freshest meat in Bucket Town, and that increased his prices. Demand drives profit, another lesson. Phil would've been proud at how much Five was learning. "Listen to the wind bloooow, dooown comes the night." Careful, methodical wrapping, and another tie to hold the packaging together. "Running in the shadoooows, damn your love, damn your liiiies." They all went into a large cardboard box which he shoved into the freezer, a dark, cold hole in the wall which he had to make sure stayed shut. "Break the sileeeence, damn the dark, damn the liiiight..."
Five Two -HC-
7.5.7.4.5.7.5 Lvl:5 K/D:35/0
BT +25, BY -25 CR +25
Inventory: Confederate Rough Leather Armor (T2),Confederate Renegade Jacket (T2), Confederate Repeater (T2), Deuce-Shot Pistol (T2/GC), Swamper Blow Dart Set (T1/GC), and much more...

Emile Arkwright
6.7.6.5.7.6.3 Lvl:2
Inventory: Post-War Formal Wear (T1), Homburg Hat, Corn-cob pipe, Twin Rudimentary Revolvers (T1), Dagger (T1), water skin, .357 rounds (x30)
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The Iron Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Month number three was a rough one, but not without its perks.

With his hands looking like mincemeat more often than not, and the wounds taking a while to heal since he just kept on aggravating them by cutting new ones open, finding work was tough. Nothing stable seemed to come his way, so he mostly tried helping out around the Boneyard. New residents were putting up houses, old residents were fixing them, there was always some small favor that needed to be done, a beam lifted or a crack patched up. He wasn't much good, but Five helped where he could, sloppy work and shoddy craftsmanship more often than not, but as with the knives he learned more by learning what not to do.

His work would never be masterful, but eventually he figured out ways to prop up supports which, if not perfect, at least would hold. It had been years since he'd done it, but he still remembered scalping that gang of hoodlums down here, after they'd been harassing the girls of La Ranchero. He hadn't felt any remorse then, but he felt a tiny bit now. With the passage of time, and the growth of his hair and his beard, he hoped none of the people recognized him from that, and so far they didn't. If anyone seemed to recall him it was as the grave digger, and he was just fine with that.

Every now and then, one of the people he helped out building a house was one of the slaves he'd rescued when the warehouse had burnt down. Some recognized him, others didn't. If he had expected to see thanks or gratitude in the eyes of those that remembered him from that night, he was sorely mistaken. Most often they'd glance at him in fear for a moment, looking him over for weapons, or cowering slightly. The others would simply let out a quiet sigh, a resignation at how hard life must be if even their savior had to do small jobs to scrape by.

Scrape by he did, often with a simple meal from the person he helped, or a drink on one of the other workers, but he managed. It was on these trips to the Boneyard he'd collect the scraps he practiced knife-making with. Progress was slow indeed, but by knowing what not to do, it was actually getting better. Most of the things he made ended up being shaped somewhat like knives, and a couple even had edges that would tear if not cut. He'd begun heating up the metal in one of the big communal fires and then hammering it into a rough shape he wanted, then working it from there, much closer to the real deal than he'd been doing the previous month.

He'd had plans to try learning how to make a forge, what it would take to get the fire that hot and get the gear to not get burned by everything, as he had now managed to add blisters to the list of damage to his hands. Five put those plans aside when Baird had approached him with an offer. One of the butchers he had in his small enterprise had retired to live out the rest of his time in that strange coastal city, Ces't. Baird knew Five was desperate, and hired him on as the new butcher. Training at it was awkward, as many of the fine movements of the cutting caused him pain as the knife handle pressed against his scarred hands, but he endured and made progress, both in butchery and his knife hobby. Slowly he was getting less injury prone, and his hands were beginning to heal.

It could've gone on like that too, quietly and contentedly, if the next month hadn't brought what it did.


"…And if, you don't love me now, you will never love me again," The chorus to this song was simple, Five knew, it just repeated itself a few times, "I can still hear you saying, you would never break the chain…" Repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Repetition was routine, and routines were comfortable. He hauled another fresh carcass off a meathook and laid it out on the table. They were already skinned and emptied by the time he got them, so he set right to work cutting it up. Some things were bound to happen, over and over and over again.
Five Two -HC-
7.5.7.4.5.7.5 Lvl:5 K/D:35/0
BT +25, BY -25 CR +25
Inventory: Confederate Rough Leather Armor (T2),Confederate Renegade Jacket (T2), Confederate Repeater (T2), Deuce-Shot Pistol (T2/GC), Swamper Blow Dart Set (T1/GC), and much more...

Emile Arkwright
6.7.6.5.7.6.3 Lvl:2
Inventory: Post-War Formal Wear (T1), Homburg Hat, Corn-cob pipe, Twin Rudimentary Revolvers (T1), Dagger (T1), water skin, .357 rounds (x30)
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The Iron Wolf
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[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Month four was when shit hit the fan.

The small bell above the door rang as the man walked in. A long, dark duster swirled around his ankles, exposing the revolvers on his hips. A toothpick stuck out from his five o'clock shadow, and his dark eyes swept over the interior, settling on Five as he set about carving up a coyote. It was one of his first times doing it alone, Baird trusted that he'd figured it out at this point.

"Well howdy there, amigo." His voice was low, but companionable. "I'm here to inquire about prices." He stepped off to the side, perusing a slab of hanging Brahmin meat that Baird had cut up the other day. The bucket beneath was almost filled with blood, and it would be done draining soon. "Word is you know how to handle that knife pretty well, cut these varmints up real good."

Five continued slicing.
"You'll have to talk to Baird. He's off in the hunter's camp." Something was rubbing him the wrong way about the newcomer. He wasn't the first person to come here asking for ribs or steaks without talking to Baird first. But most of them were townsfolk or farmers. They seemed honest folk. This man... he just didn't.

The man turned away from the hanging slab.
"Funny thing is, I used to have a buddy. He was pretty good with knives himself. Ran a small operation out in the Boneyard, a little warehouse and some men." He raised one hand to adjust his hat and Five realized why this man seemed untrustworthy. He'd seen him before. This man had been with Grayson, Five's former master, the last time he'd been captured. "Wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would ya? Eh, slave?"

Five's hand, still injured from his attempts at knife-making, clenched tighter onto the fine pointed butcher knife, stopping mid-cut.
"Can't say I know what you're talking about." He set the knife down and put his hands on the table, palm down. "Now, are you gonna buy something or get out?"

Their eyes locked. Like before, there was a calm malevolence, a quiet hatred. Slowly the man reached for his gun. Five stayed still. Even as he undid the strap and place his hand over the carved wooden handle, Five refused to move. Finally, after a few moments of intense silence, the man withdrew his hand, reaching up to give a tilt of his hat.
"Apologies. I've mistaken you for someone else." Before he'd finished speaking, Five was vaulting the table, grabbing a pair of the butcher knives hanging off the edge.

The man's draw was fast, but as he swung his arm up to point at Five's head, Five drove the point of one knife through the gap between the bones in the forearm, twisting it outward until he released the weapon. Even as he let out a shout, Five was pulling himself forward with the knife, slamming his elbow into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe and silencing him. The door opened again, another man coming through, a sturdy club in his hands. Five threw his second knife through the man's throat before he'd taken three steps.

Cutting the first man's throat, he rushed to the door, checking outside. Due to the smell, the butcher's stalls were on the edge of the hunter's camp. Luckily, it seemed no one had witnessed two men disappear inside the building. Shutting and locking the door, Five set about disposing of the bodies, stripping them of everything and wrapping it all up in the dark duster the slaver had been wearing. It turned out carving up a person wasn't too different from carving a coyote or a radstag. They were just meat and bone anyway.

He hid the remains in the freezer until that night, when he brought the hunks of human flesh to the kennels. There were some knife wounds in a few pieces, but that didn't seem to matter. Dogs didn't care too much about extra cuts in what they ate. By the time the sun rose, nothing was there to distinguish the cracked and cleaned bones of the men from those of the coyote. The other things, including the heads, he buried while the hounds were busy devouring. Far off the edge of town, at the base of a lightning-cracked tree.


That was when the nightmares started back up, Five remembered, jabbing too hard into a bone and snapping the tip of a knife. Cursing, he carefully picked the shard out, and laid both it and the remains of the knife in a pocket lying off the edge of the table. It clattered against a handful of other busted knives that Five had managed to shatter. Another danger of losing himself in his thoughts while working.

The song had ended, and the radio station had fallen into static, Raspy shutting it off with a quiet beep.
Five Two -HC-
7.5.7.4.5.7.5 Lvl:5 K/D:35/0
BT +25, BY -25 CR +25
Inventory: Confederate Rough Leather Armor (T2),Confederate Renegade Jacket (T2), Confederate Repeater (T2), Deuce-Shot Pistol (T2/GC), Swamper Blow Dart Set (T1/GC), and much more...

Emile Arkwright
6.7.6.5.7.6.3 Lvl:2
Inventory: Post-War Formal Wear (T1), Homburg Hat, Corn-cob pipe, Twin Rudimentary Revolvers (T1), Dagger (T1), water skin, .357 rounds (x30)
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