“Despite the struggles of my own journey to immortality—the strange and outright weird shite—I found myself in a new business opportunity, dealing with the middleman in upper management. The job took me to all kinds of places and led me down interesting paths. It was a kind of work that had me taxi people from the end destination to a new beginning. Before, I wasn't too pleased with the grunt work, but, since I was one of the last ones standing after the Resurgence, there were more than a few job openings. With a bit of elbow grease, I moved up in my station to where I am currently.

  “Now I get to meet a wide range of people, anywhere between the old and new. Really feeding that extrovert side of me.

  “Granted, they're all dead, but the conversations are so lively at times that I get a bit distracted. Hell, there was one time, before everything changed, that I remember this Sheila from a particularly nasty part of town. She was a nice lady with a stream of bad luck, the kind of luck that ended stories.

  “Her town was always crawling with these thugs, not even the half-decent sorts that would just steal a purse or two. Naw, these little shits thought themselves some kind of ‘new mobsters,’ strong-arming small businesses for protection money, and kidnapping loved ones. And if they didn't like you, well, they would torch your place for the fun of it. The air there hung thick with smoke, and the stench of burnt wood and flesh was a constant reminder of their terror. The streets were constantly empty, and the coppers had totally given up on those poor people. The trees that were left, twisted and gnarled as they were, seemed to whisper secrets of horror to anyone who would listen.

  “Anyways, these villagers, worn and weary, lived in constant fear. Their eyes darted to every shadow, expecting the worst. Unfortunately, I visited this place often.

  “So this Sheila I’d mentioned before, she had a decent husband. One of the last good ones in that town. He and a few of his buddies tried taking a stand. I know you all would've liked him. He was a burly man with a thick beard and a barrel chest. Calloused, rough hands showed years of hard labor. His bright blue eyes held a fierce love for those around him, a spark that spoke of a willingness to fight for what was right. I guess it was that same spark that rallied his buddies to his cause. Arming themselves with whatever they could find—pitchforks, knives, old guns—they made their way to the thugs’ hideout.

  “But you can imagine how it went when a handful of good men stood against thirty. A gruesome sight. They took a few down with them, but all the same, I made a few more trips that day than I would've liked.

  “Those nasty blokes decided to make an example of his corpse. They strung him up in the center of the town square on a light post, displaying him as a warning. His body hung there for days, ripped to ribbons, nearly unrecognizable, except for his eyes. They left his once bright eyes to stare lifelessly at anyone who walked past those cobblestone streets. The nothingness in those eyes still gets my blood hot to this day, personally. The cunts even laughed as they hung a sign around his neck the day before someone cut him down. ‘Mess with us, and you’re next.’ That action led to their kids going frothing mad.

  “The bonking lads went to a few libraries and herbalists trying to make a poison to kill ‘em all since they were too scrawny to fight ‘em head-on. The little men, barely teenagers, spent nights sneaking into the woods, gathering herbs, and concocting deadly brews masked as new beer. They managed to get a few of ‘em. But after the goons smashed a few heads, one of the bartenders gave them up. After that, they were found out pretty quickly. A lot of them got snatched up and forced to drink their own poison. Tough way to die. Hard taking a few young men before their time, but sadly, they left the son of the good man last. They forced him to watch all his friends die one by one.

  “The crooks dragged him back to the village, his body bloody and cut up. The sick pricks decided to make a spectacle of his punishment; they did. The beating was like a game to them. They threw the empty bottles of poison at the kid, smashing them, only to cut him up further. It was merciless; every blow drew out the boy’s agonized screams. I can still hear the boy’s cries when I close my eyes, but he never begged. Fierce like his father, to the end. When the poor kid didn’t make it home, his mother lost all hope. She spent weeks inside, trying to cope and handle the stress of it all, poor lass.

  “After a few days of living like this, she packed a bag and journeyed a few towns over. She set out a bounty, hoping her price would be enough to drive off the thugs. The desperation in her writings was palpable as she scrawled the notice with trembling hands. She traveled home and waited.

  “Before the end of the next day, I pulled up at her home. It was one of those old Victorian town homes that needed a new paint job and a new roof, but otherwise it seemed nice. I exited my car and knocked on her door, bounty notice in hand. She cracked open the door slightly, peeking through to stare back at me for a moment.

  “‘Hello, miss,’ I said, my voice calm, trying to be reassuring. ‘I’m here about the bounty,’ I held up the piece of paper. ‘I think I will be able to help.’ She opened the door, her face alight.

  “‘Come inside, please,’ she welcomed me inside.

  “Entering, I noticed her home was simple with humble furniture, filled with remnants of happier times—a faded family portrait, an old toy left in a rocking chair sat by the window.

  “‘I didn’t expect someone to come so soon,’ she said, her voice a mixture of relief and exhaustion. She gestured for me to take a seat and settled into her own across from me. I sat down, easing my cane on my lap.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “‘I read the situation and figured it needed immediate attention. The whole town seems to be suffering as well by the looks of it.’ Her eyes glanced down at a wedding band.

  “‘They are afraid of losing more people,’ she said. ‘There ain’t much we can do but gather a few donations from some of the other widows to try and make a bounty worth anyone’s trouble.’ She fidgeted with the ring. ‘I know it isn’t much, mister. But it’s the best we can do.’ She paused and glanced back up at me, giving me a scrutinizing once-over.

  “‘Are you sure you are able to do this job?’ Her eyes landed on the cane.

  “‘Oh, this thing?’ I gripped my cane, pulling on it gently, revealing a sword inside. ‘They won’t see what hit them.’ I smiled reassuringly.

  “‘And about that reward, you won’t have to worry, I’ll do it for free. On one condition, of course.’

  “Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘What’s that?’

  “‘That you accompany me,’ I replied, studying her reaction.

  “She hesitated, but then nodded firmly. ‘All right. If it means getting rid of them, I’ll do it. What part do you want me to play?’

  “‘No tricks, love, just some company in case I can’t make it back. You will let the townsfolk know what happened here.’

  “We shook on it and set off in my car.

  “She directed me to their so-called hideout. On the way, she talked about her family, her words pouring out like a flood.

  “‘My husband… he was such a good man. He just wanted to protect us. And my son… he was so brave, trying to fight back in his own way. I miss them both so much.’

  “I listened, letting her voice fill the silence. ‘They sounded like good people. You must be proud.’ My grip on the steering wheel tightened as I said the words.

  “‘I am,’ she said, her eyes misting. ‘I just wish things were different.’

  “‘We all do, I’m sure.’

  “When we finally arrived, it was an abandoned part of town. She explained it was once a thriving warehouse district dealing in metalworking, but it was now out of business since not enough men would show up to work anymore. A burned-down, dilapidated building surrounded the fort. A heavy, makeshift gate guarded the entrance. I stepped out of the car and opened her side, easing her out with a helpful hand. We walked up to the gate arm in arm.

  “She took a deep breath, steeling herself. The thugs at the gate tried to make a move, but I had had enough of their cruelty. A flick from my wrist was all they saw. Opening the space between them and myself, I wrenched their names out of their chests and pulled their very being out of their hearts, snuffing whatever flame of life they had left. All at the front gate died before they took their first steps. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, silent, still. She gasped, looking at me with a mix of awe and fear.

  “‘How did you do that?’

  “‘I told you, I’m here to finish this,’ I said with a small smile. ‘Stay close.’

  “As I opened the gate, a huge fuckin’ barrage of bullets soared at us. She threw her hands up in surprise, only to then realize the bullets had stopped in their tracks. They hung in the air like a deadly swarm of bees. She was at a loss, eyes looking back at me, but I just smiled at her proudly.

  “‘Looks like you got this.’

  “Her stance grew stronger with confidence. With a more dramatic flick of her hands, I watched as the bullets soared backward, pelting every single thug that fired. She looked so surprised, so alive. Her eyes sparkled with a familiar, fierce fire. Vengeance was now in her reach. She reached deep inside her own sorrow and, with a bit of help, opened the space between herself and the warehouse around her.

  “We hunted each and every man down after that. One by one, she dealt out punishments equal to or worse than those they had done to her family and friends. I’ll spare you those details. Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned.

  “In the end, she stood above the bloody leader of this ragtag group of shitheads, a once-imposing hulk of a brute who was covered in scars and reeking of plonk. He lay helplessly underneath the foot of a middle-aged housewife.

  “‘I never thought I’d get this far,’ she whispered, her voice shaking.

  “‘You’re stronger than you think,’ I replied, handing her my cane sword.

  “She grasped it tightly, her knuckles white. I saw her tears as she plunged that sword into his chest. He let out a gurgled cry, his eyes wide with the final rattlings of pain. She spat on the dead man, her lips curled in disgust. I watched as that one act alone gave her so much ease. You could see the tension come off her shoulders. I mean, her entire body seemed to relax. The deed was done, the weight of her grief lifting—ever so slightly.

  “As she returned my sword, she hugged me. Her head barely came up to my shoulder. I felt her body heave out her gratitude over and over again, voice choking as she tried not to cry.

  “We started walking back to the car, the district now eerily silent. The oppressive atmosphere lifted. She paused, noticing now how different my parked car looked: a 1970s black Chevrolet Chevelle with a license plate that read Styx. She was initially confused, but I opened the rear door for her and told her it was time for us to go.

  “‘Is this… is this really happening?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

  “‘Yes,’ I said gently. ‘It’s time to go.’

  “She didn’t fight me and, with a little hesitation, she entered the back seat, her hands still shaking slightly. We drove for a while in silence before she mustered up some leftover courage and spoke.

  “‘Who are you, really?’ she asked, breaking the silence.

  “‘I’m a guide of sorts,’ I replied. ‘I help souls find their way and, in some cases, help them find closure.’ It was about that time that she reached the same realization that so many others had also come to; she had died. She smiled at me from the back seat, with a sad yet peaceful smile, and her hands finally stopped shaking.

  “‘What happens now?’ she inquired softly.

  “‘You find peace, of a sort,’ I replied, meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror. ‘You’ve earned it.’

  “See, what had happened was that the bounty hunters never arrived. The goons ambushed the real ones. So mad with grief, she decided, after weeks of no help, to go herself. She died rather quickly to them, no real fun with a middle-aged woman past her prime. They made it quick, but her spirit had awakened back home. I couldn’t just let that go; I wouldn’t stand for it. I may bend the rules occasionally, but being an immortal of death is what I make of it. I can’t say where I dropped her off, but I’ll tell ya, she is at peace.

  “I felt a strange sense of fulfillment as I watched her step out of the car and into the afterlife. It’s not just about collecting souls; it’s about the journey, the stories, and the closure.

  “She looked back one last time, her face serene, before disappearing behind the veil. I revved up the Chevelle and drove off, ready for the next soul that needed my help.”

  A bit of a twist there at the end too, eh? Kind of makes you wonder if Mister D. is as straight a shooter as he lets on... who's to say?