MJ No More

Post your short story here! It can be anything, from a love story that takes place between two MJ fans in front of the hospital as the news comes out of their hero's death, to a murder-mystery that takes place in the hospital… Be creative!

A stone cold morning full of rough clouds brushing over the plains heralded the arrival of the angry, gun-slinging bastard with a hole where others have a heart.
His inward, radiant presence quickly pervaded the scene. Pulling in attention with trademark slow but firm movements around an almost non-human gravity hidden far away, somewhere in his black leather dress, bound up with rags, and severely mud encrusted from days of a draining ride over unforgiving mountains.
With his advent in the only sparsely populated ghost of a town a cool stillness descended heavily onto the facades of every home, every porch, and even the saloon – that soon to be dead man’s trough, sending all the human tumble-weeds on their darkness-bound trajectories of either many hollow-happy returns or just to inglorious fade-outs on their ways, but never home.
Where a dust covered piece of cloth and a pre-metaphorical tumble-weed got entangled in the fork of a fence, the only perceptible movement emerged by the fleeing push of the shadow haunted wind descending on the still live of death abiding characters who don’t move. Their trust knows the game of persistence, and the lead of their tongues is keeping them to the ground even now, while this imperceptible fist of a man’s presence announces its unholy arrival. Themselves they are nothing more than a loose swarming number of free roaming elements. Coincidentally gathered to the pressure strained knot of an asocial force field. And it’s got nothing to do with anyone else around here.
Far, far out here. Where the clowns had died long ago. Where even the saloon and the brothel are now only a travesty of their original misguided ideas. Where togetherness and society are just words on so many sheets to the West-wind, which must have taken them, together with his disarrayed interpretation, back to where they had come from. Far away from out here.
And thus, to that restless hissing sound of the panicky wind fleeing the scene, the thorny presence of our dirty rider with his conspicuously huge, black pistol on the hip walks up the main - and indeed only - road. Slowly. Firmly. As before. As they had all routinely done so many times. Down a lane of seemingly disinterested stares that neither fear, nor threaten, just observe. With all the excitement of perceptible tension tucked away behind eyes that read only epitaph. As it’s all got nothing to do with them. They could tell you that.
So. Walks up the main entrance of the saloon; tugs his hat to the old whiskey-soaked, drooling chap on the porch, apathetically spread out in his own misery; turns around in a quick and uninterrupted movement which pushes him past the doors swinging back with a rusty creak, into the temple of the wrong liquid; to quicken the heart with the spirit of a bad, bad day and give rise to the refreshing smile of pain witnessing from a sinister distance, perhaps.
Meanwhile, outside, nothing but the quiet hiss of the restless wind continues to wring a few dust whirling flaps from that torn and dying cotton cloth, sending it back and forth between the dead bush and the fence. Otherwise, there may occur a few meaningless shifts within the same position of some figures in the assemblage, but all the while nothing discernable happens. For a long time that no one present would care to measure.
As the black gun reemerges, it is only after the hard thump of a body hitting the ground has abruptly turned heads in the direction of the muddy street in front of the saloon. Where unfolds from a helpless bundle of arms and legs all jumbled up a bizarrely misfitting, surreally twisted, circus-like, life-size doll, seemingly all done up in brightly coloured and glittering golden attire.
The hateful gun must have picked him right off the long devoided boards of that ignored stage at the back of the saloon. Our dark, self-confessed avenging angel now storming to the unmanly creature on the ground, picking up his equally inhuman other, and lifting him up just to land a blow as pointedly hard as nails in the instantly crumbling face dissolving in dirt watery tears and blood; the severely indented mask only shortly visible before the wooden sole of a forcefully unleashed boot does not miss its target, too; effectively bringing to completion a strange disfiguring that had long started before our gun man even arrived.
But the laden knight of a storm cloud is not finished. Brimful of lost time in which he moves, he raises his revolver to his right shoulder at an imperative angle. Only then he walks up to the remainder of what has long been only the travesty of a man. And with his left hand, at arm’s length, lifts the blood-dirty head with the slumping appendix of a limp anticipating body up into a straight line with the gaping black muzzle. The first words of the day further chill the perverse humour of this god-forsaken town. In a long, slow, hard drawl from behind barely moving lips, the words come thick and ugly: “I-f y-o-u n-e-e-d t-o k-n-o-w: i-t w-a-s t-h-e s-o-n-g: y-o-u g-o-t i-t w-r-o-n-g: y-o-u d-o n-o-t a-s-k, b-u-t I t-e-l-l: n-o-t ‘W-h-o’ s b-a-d?’ … b-u-t w-h-o’ s d-e-a-d!!!”
And with a roar of the pistol as it went off the day returned to a quiet, no-news-morning for those unmoved, roaming souls that just keep quiet about it. For the abyss their words would open, must swallow the whole and never give. Those long hardened lost on the long hardened plains sweetly caressed by the unforgiving wind of the mountainous West.

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