First off, Coheed and Cambria is arguably the greatest band on the planet. Claudio Sanchez, their lead, has a side project called "The Prize Fighter Inferno" which has out the album "My Brother's Blood Machine."
All of Co&Ca's music tells a massive story. TPFI carries on this proud tradition.
What I have written here is my interpretation of the story that "My Brother's Blood Machine" follows. There will be gore, incest, and rape. It's part of the story. I intend on doing these sections as tastefully as possible. I knew a guy who wrote tasteless smut for fun and expected to be hailed as the next Hemmingway. I didn't like that guy.
The point I'm trying to make here is this is loosely based off of Claudio Sanchez's intellectual properties, and don't get offended at the content.
Secondly, this is my most recent work, and the work I am most proud of. I'm starting off on a high note. It only goes downhill from here, folks.
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The gavel’s sharp snap cut through the heavy silence of the small courthouse, and the matter was settled. The matter had been settled for weeks, but the small wooden hammer would soon find it official.
“Sir Arthur McCloud,” Judge Kevin’s tired voice worked its way through the room “you had been found guilty of the following crimes: Murder, assault, flight from the law, and most heinous and the root of your incarceration, the molestation of your daughter, Cecilia. For these crimes you have spent three years imprisoned, wherein you are implicated in the murder of four inmates, and the sodomy of two more. Were I not bound to the service of the king, and were you not a Gunslinger, I would see you in solitary confinement until you went to find the Lord Judge either in death or life. Even cleaner justice’d find you hanged. The war calls you though. In the eyes of the court, Lord God, his servant spirit, and the Man Jesus, I absolve you of all crimes on the stipulation that you find the front line within a fortnight and fight Jonas Cane’s raiders, who encroach on our lands. If you fail to meet this demand your life is forfeit. You are going west, Sir Arthur, may God have more mercy on your soul than you deserve.”
Sir Arthur McCloud was in his Sunday best. His nicest jeans, brand new boots, dyed black shirt. The oldest thing he wore was his empty gun belt. His father’s father’s father’s father’s gun belt, and now his. His sharp face broke into a wonderfully charming smile. His deep blue eyes lit up. A ruse for the court, he had known his freedom nearing a month. Inside this room everyone knew his crimes. Everyone knew his guilt. The dumbest sons of bitches (and their pretty daughters, too) still held him innocent. Outside these walls he knew a pretty face like his could find much more gullible and useful company. He counted on it.
“I thankee, honorable judge.” Arthur tipped him the smallest of salutes and drawled “I trust a marshal of the law’ll be here to… Guide me by the hand? Hell, I’ll shoot anyone pointed east if’n you’d like. I just need my irons back.”
“The bailiff will take you to the armory. A marshal will be here in five days. Return upon that day or you will be hunted down and executed. Dismissed” Another crack jarred the room with its finality.
“I’m a changed man, honor. See you in five days” Arthur gave Kevin the smallest wink as he turned on his heel and marched out the door with the bailiff. His family called. Martha, the boys… Cecilia. The thought of her made his member start at throbbing. The bailiff knocked him out of his reverie, unshackling his cuffs. The man told Arthur to follow to the armory. The sheer insolence of the small town lawman telling a veteran Gunslinger what to do grated at Arthur, but he never showed it. Had he not made plans to escape the war he would’ve strangled the bailiff right then and there.
Instead he smiled at the man and followed his steps. Outside, two buildings over, through a door, down some stairs to the cold cellar and a massive metal door. The bailiff brought out his keys and undid the padlock. Arthur’s hands itched with the knowledge and anticipation. The bailiff, pulled open the door with a hiss, as cold air rushed into the tiny cellar. Arthur strode past him and walked into the freezing, barely lit room. He brushed past chains hanging from the ceiling, to the small ornate table waiting for him. His pistols, waiting for him.
Arthur picked them up and tested the weight. They were extensions of his body, like long lost hands. He knew them. He was them. With a practiced motion the cylinders swung out and spun, and just as quick were back in place. They were empty. He felt a slight annoyance at that. Those twelve rounds were meant for twelve certain men.
“I believe I turned them in with twelve rounds of ammunition. Serendipitous number, you think bailiff? T’was twelve lawmen what brought me in in the first place. Them what survived, that is.” Arthur knew he was only partially illuminated. He could smell the bailiff sweat more. He could hear the man’s breathing pick up. The man simply pushed a box of personal effects into Arthur’s hands and told him to get out of the armory. The man was iron, Arthur noted. Under different circumstances, he might’ve liked him.
Arthur stepped back into the glare and heat of the early afternoon, his personal effects (knives, mostly) tucked away and hidden on his person. A stagecoach rolled past him on the ancient asphalt, cracked and filled with this town’s version of crude concrete. He walked down the sidewalk, more crude concrete for the businesses that could afford it, and wooden planks for the ones that couldn’t. A sign swung over the business that Arthur was looking for. “Ammo Fer Cheap! Jest Like Citypressed!"
Ten minutes later he left the business with fifty rounds of shitty ammo for his pistols. His price was a smile and bare steel. The shopkeep didn’t dare argue with a Gunslinger. His pistols were loaded, heavy on his hips. He felt like a man again. He turned his way towards a coach station. He could wile a ride back to Dellsprings, he knew. On the way there, however, someone stood in the street.
“Sir Arthur McCloud.” The man in the street called. The sun behind him, the man’s face was hidden, but Arthur knew the silhouette of a man with a rifle.
I welcome any and all feedback. Including formatting. I copied and pasted this out of word, and I noticed that Blogger has ass posing as a text formatting program. There will likely be issues.
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