Roll 4 Fiction Ep. 2: An Outlaw's Prison
A randomly rolled short story
Introduction
Roll 4 Fiction are stories written by me based on prompts rolled on random dice tables, something common in tabletop role playing games like Dungeons and Dragons. I make 6 dice rolls to randomly determine Character, Conflict Type, Setting, Genres, Theme, and a Wild Magic Twist.
Here's what I rolled for this particular story:
Character — Villain
Conflict — Character vs. Society
Setting — Mundane
Genres — Western, Horror
Theme — Justice
Wild Magic — Time Travel
An Outlaw’s Prison
I would like to think that when I swing open the doors to the saloon, it would strike fear into the hearts of those inside. That the jingle of my spurs biting the wood floor would hush conversations, and that I could taste the tension in the air as they all looked at my hand resting on the revolver at my hip. From beneath the rim of my hat, I would see men shutter with worry, and women shutter with a dark, unspoken thrill. The barkeep’s hand would reach under the countertop for the poorly hidden shotgun underneath, and the burning lanterns would flicker with the breeze that rolls in at my back.
It used to be that way, but fear hasn’t followed me in here in a long, long time.
Instead, already hushed conversations from men and women and children all too tired of drinking don’t even pause when I walk in. The few who bother to look my way look in disinterested apathy, and Sam Lurch doesn’t even polish my tumbler before he starts filling it from behind the bar. Their fear is long-since smothered by the fact that they know me. They know why I’m here, and they know what I’m going to do.
The lanterns flicker, at least, but that’s the wind’s fault, not mine.
The only one who seems to notice me at all is Pastor Stilman as he gets up out of his chair and fixes me with a steady gaze from behind his glasses. The others scoff at him as he walks by, but the smile never leaves his face.
“Ah, Mr. Wyatt,” Stilman says. He looks around as he approaches, as though expecting someone behind me. Or maybe he’s checking the devils on my shoulders. “You’re later than usual. I had hoped... but, no. Well, perhaps? What do you say? Is tonight the night?”
“Ain’t never goin’ be the night, Pastor,” I say. “You know that.”
I move to step around him, but he places his thin, sun-wrinkled hand on my chest. I look down at it, and swallow the lump in my throat no doubt placed there by the dirt on the wind outside.
“This again?” I ask. “Might want to rethink that, Pastor.”
“You always say that, Mr. Wyatt.”
“And you never listen.”
“That I don’t,” Stilman chuckles. He steps in front of me, a smile on his mouth and tears in his eyes as he blocks my path. Always the tears. “But I like to think God appreciates my efforts nonetheless.”
“I hope so,” I say. And I mean it.
Then I shoot him.
Right in the chest; just to the center of where he keeps his pocket bible. I don’t blame him for the blood he spits into my face that tastes like rust. It’s not his fault. Judging from the staggering gurgle he gives before collapsing to the ground, it isn’t the best way to die, but that’s not my fault. I keep telling him it’d be easier if he moved that damn bible.
The only one who reacts to his death is his wife, Sister Carol. It’s barely a flinch at the gunshot, and then she looks down at his body and shakes her head in disappointment before returning to her drink. Otherwise, no one else even raises an eyebrow as I step over the pastor and seat myself at the bar.
“Evenin’, Sam,” I say. The large man sneers and pushes the drink he’s prepared in front of me. I offer him a smile. “Got anythin’ new?”
“You know damn well I don’t,” Sam says.
“Ah, well. A man can dream.”
“You don’t have to keep dreaming, you know.” The familiar, high-pitched drawl comes from the man to my right. He’s slouched forward over the bar, his own tumbler drawn up to his lips and his dark blue vest and coat are stiff and bunched as they press against the counter’s edge. The badge on his chest glints as he takes a draw from his glass, then smacks his lips. “All you have to do is stop killing me.”
Sam excuses himself; long since tired of our patronage.
“If’n only it were so simple, Jesse.” I pull the revolver from my hip and place it on the counter. “You ready?”
Jesse eyes his tumbler, swirling the reddish-gold liquid beneath his nose as he inhales. “Not yet. Give me another minute.”
I nod, and decide I’ll give him two. My hand leaves the gun on the counter and reaches for my drink. The alcohol inside is thin. A sweetness I don’t taste makes my lips stick together as the burn tickles down my throat. Sam might serve swill, and it might taste like leather, but at least it’s smooth, and it does what alcohol’s supposed to do. And it’ll never run out. Really, I can’t ask for better.
“Stilman thought he could convince you tonight?” Jesse asks after a while.
“He always thinks he can,” I say. “And he’s always wrong.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
I pull the tumbler to my lips again and take another sip.
“Why do you think that is?” Jesse asks.
“Why do I think what is?”
“That you’ll never change your mind.” Jesse looks at me, his thinning hair free from beneath that stupid hat he always wears and dancing in the breeze that barely flickers the lantern flames. “That you’ll come in here, night after night, knowing the consequences, and kill me anyway?”
I sigh into my glass before putting it back down, half empty, on the bar.
“Because you lawmen are all the same,” I say. “You strip away a man’s right to freedom, slap the word ‘civilization’ on the robbery like it’s a fresh coat of paint, and then get paid to force them to follow your rules. Way I see it, none of you deserve to live.”
“How’s that any different than what you’re doing here? Today’s three twenty-seven, you know that?”
“Who the hell’s keepin’ track, Jesse?”
“Cordelia.”
“The five-year-old?” I turn to look back through the bar and spot her easily enough. Cigarette hanging from her lips as she plays a hand of poker. Her eyes flick up at me through the curls, then back to her hand. There’s no resentment in her eyes, at least. Not anymore.
“She hasn’t been five in a long time, Wyatt,” Jesse says.
“Suppose you’re right.” I pick up my glass and try to take another drink, but Jesse’s hand covers the rim and keeps it down on the counter. I look at him, and he’s standing up now. Agitated.
“How’s it different?” he asks.
“How’s what—”
“How’s what you do—killing me, keeping us here—how’s it different than what you say a lawman does? You’ve taken away our freedom, Wyatt, and we’re forced to follow your rules.”
“I didn’t make these rules, Jesse.”
“How’s it different?” he shouts.
I glance around the saloon hoping to find my answer in the walls somewhere. Instead, I’m met with the stares of all those around me. Sister Carol, Cordelia Thompson, farmer Miller and his two sons. Dozens of eyes, finally turned to me. They’re sure as hell paying attention now.
“I don’t get paid,” I say.
Jesse gives a scoff more filled with disgust than I’ve heard in a long time. His hate doesn’t surprise me, though. They all hate me. It can’t be helped. He removes his hand, sits back down, and drains the rest of his tumbler in one final go.
I place my hand on the revolver, but Jesse just stares through the bottom of his glass; twisting it left and right.
“Is your vendetta really worth this purgatory?”
“You’ve asked me that before,” I say. When he’s silent—when the whole saloon is silent—I lean back on my stool and stare up at the beams crossing over our heads. Straight. Strong. The small spec of rot in the far right corner still as big as it always has been. And always will be.
“You know,” I say, “in a way this is a perfect world. Sam could poison my cup, and we’d be right as rain tomorrow. The good pastor could stab me in the back—hell, he’s done it before—and he wouldn’t even have to repent to his God come mornin’. We can fight, steal, murder as much as we want, and in the end it doesn’t matter. It all goes back. Peace remains. The kind of peace you lawmen have been tryin’ for decades to achieve out here, before all... this. And all I have to do to maintain that peace is kill you. Again, and again, and again.” I look over into Jesse’s eyes, and I’m met with his sorrow and disappointment in my answer. “Seems like a small price to me.”
Jesse places his empty glass upside down on the counter and stands. I follow, leaving my glass and taking my revolver as he tugs down his bunched up coat and polishes his badge with his sleeve.
“You still didn’t answer my question, Wyatt,” Jesse says. He locks eyes with me as I level my revolver between his eyes and click the hammer back. “Is it worth it?”
I stare at him as long as I can, my finger tickling the hair trigger. His eyes are wet and red, and his fists are clenched at his sides; shaking in frustration or anger, I’m not sure which. But he doesn’t cry.
Jesse King hasn’t cried since seventy-three.
Finally, unable to hold his gaze, I let my eyes go slack and stare through him instead. ‘Til he’s barely there. Until I don’t have to look at him anymore.
“No.”
This shot rings louder than the one that killed Pastor Stilman on account of the hushed quiet all around me. It’s followed immediately by Jesse’s body thumping to the floor. I stow my revolver, the barrel’s warmth pressing through the holster and against my leg. Then I drain the rest of my glass and slam it back down on the counter before making my leave.
I step over the pastor’s body and through the silent crowd of those I’ve damned for one more day. The doors swing open at my touch and I turn to look them all in the eyes before I leave. Scared, disappointed, angry, the feeling as varied as the people inside. I stand up as straight as my pride will let me, and give them all a nod as I grab the rim of my hat.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
About the Story
There's a time travel story I really like called Through the Flash by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. It's a time loop story, similar to Groundhog Day, only where the characters all have become aware they are inside the time loop. There's a ton I love about the story, and I'd had this idea of a time loop prison inspired by it for a while.
When I rolled these prompts, I had no idea what it was I was going to write. Even the Wild Magic roll ended up being a natural 20 (a critical success in a game like Dungeons and Dragons), allowing me to choose a twist, rather than have one thrown at me. Sometimes with these stories, a particular roll will give me a sense of direction, but not this time. I had to rely on my brainstorming time a lot with this one, and a Through the Flash inspired time loop story couldn't leave my mind.
My biggest cop out with this story was the setting: a western bar. It's a location that isn't necessarily exciting, but it isn't really "Mundane" either. So, I decided to approach the mundanity of the setting through the lens of the characters instead, figuring that no matter where something was set in a time loop, the setting itself would become mundane. What do you think? Would you have chosen a different setting, or perhaps a different interpretation of the Time Travel twist if you had been rolled these prompts?
Copyright Stuff
First published by Quain Holtey 2024. All rights reserved.
An Outlaw's Prison © 2024 by Quain Holtey is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.