₩hen ₣⬭rbidde₦ ⎣⭗v∑ Drew ⚬n〰 In₹xplicable ✧〰 🔫 ₮∈⊂hη⭔↳⭔ℊγ T⚬⇴Carry ⚬ut the ₮∈☈☈ible ⊅∑structi⚬n ⚬f 🅱isbee, 🅰riΖ⚬na

⚡🌵↯~Located in the Mule Mountains of southern Arizona is the Sonoran desert.

In the Year of Our Lord 1880, troves of minerals & metals were discovered in that rocky terrain by a prospector named Judge DeWitt Bisbee.

The Copper Queen Mine was quickly opened.

Money quickly flowed.

The settlement of Bisbee was established.

The town boomed.

Young pioneers seeking fortune flocked to Bisbee, where they worked in copper mines, just as other adventurous men rushed to nearby Tombstone, 25 miles away, to toil in silver mines.

In April of 1888, Brimley Horace Burton came to this western frontier, a burly man wearing a tight gun belt, a loose red duster, and a broad Stetson hat. He was handsome enough, except for missing his two front teeth. For that reason, he never smiled.

His plan was to work his ass off, save every penny he made, and then, as soon as possible, he was going to buy a remote farm back in the Appalachians, where he could live out the rest of his life in solitude.

For Brimley, things never seemed to work out as planned.

🏜 ↯↬1888- Now↫↯

Slowly ascending the steep hills of the high desert, Brimley rode his horse Barley, with Hope trailing behind him.

Slumped over the back of Hope was Johnathon Henry Thomas, as inanimate as a burlap sack filled with precious gold nuggets.

Hope was Johnny's stallion, Johnny's trusty mount, his champion.

The way Brimley saw it, Hope might as well be dead too.

His hope was.

It had been Johnny's role in their relationship to keep the faith ⭟before he had a chunk of his face blown off. His right eye, which always sparkled when it winked ⭟it was gone, no longer having a socket to sit in.

The damage was hideous.

That cur Donovan left Johnny to die in an alley, like a rat. And there was nothing Brim could do to mete out justice.

There never had been justice in this world for men like Brimley and John.

The best Brim could do was to give Johnny a decent private burial.

Both horses were sure-footed as they trekked up the rocky terrain. They had practically forged their own trail in the past, just the two of them, having taken this dusty route so many times before.

Cresting an incline, they came to a level area shaded from the harsh sun by two ironwood trees. Cacti and creosote bushes grew high only at the parameters of this safe space that Brim and Johnny had often shared.

The horses were accustomed to being tied up to the trees.

Trembling, Brim lifted Johnny's body off Hope. One side of the horse was totally painted in Johnny's blood.

He laid his friend face-down on the ground, keeping his eyes closed the entire time.

Donovan's Colt .41 caliber Thunderer had pulverized Johnny's head.

Brim couldn't bare to look at his face.

From nearby brittlebushes, Brim retrieved a spade & shovel. He never told Johnny he had hidden them here. It was a secret act of rebellion by a fatalist, in response to an idealist's ridiculous optimism.

The miner began digging a grave.

Uninvolved, the sun watched from low on the western horizon.

Brimley felt impotent, scared, condemned. Worse than all that, he felt weak. These weren't new feelings, but John's murder intensified his self-loathing.

He had only been digging for a few minutes when he hit something hard.

Assuming it was a stone, he shifted the spade and shoved downward in a different spot...

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿Vibrations‿︵‿︵‿︵‿shimmied up the taut shovel, chattering into his wooden muscles, slick-slithering up his shrinking arm, and spurting into his ballooning brain. In the same seconds that it took for those impossible pulsations to rise, there was a ⇜₱⭘₱!⇝ underground, like a muffled gunshot, accompanied by a burst of dirt puffing up into his face.

He closed his eyes, coughing, gasping. He sat down, sneezing repeatedly. He kept coughing and wiping his face until the dust cleared from his sight and sinuses.

Then he opened his eyes.

↯↯ The gun was unreal. ~~↯↯↯

↯↬Four months earlier↫↯

Brim exited the Heretics Gambling Hall, drunk and disgusted with himself.

Avoiding flies swarming around a dead mule in the street, he walked to a nearby alley, twice trying to light a cigarette, to no avail.

The dry desert wind was swift that night.

He had gotten so used to the sulfurous fumes always present near the mines, he didn't even notice them anymore, just like he was oblivious to the trash and dung in the streets.

After the second match went out, with only one more in his pocket, Brim was so frustrated he was damn near ready to bust a streetlamp for its fire.

That's when he saw the man at the mouth of the alleyway, looking right at him.

The dude was dressed in a sack coat, a matching brown vest and trousers. Slightly shorter than the average man, he wore a felt top hat to compensate.

He asked Brim, "Need a light?"

"Yeah."

"Step outta the wind," said the handsome stranger.

Brim followed him a short way into the alley.

The dandy stepped close enough to light Brim's cigarette, introducing himself, "John."

Brim tipped his hat. "Brimley."

"Pleased ta meet ya."

"Likewise."

"You new in town?"

"A few weeks."

"I figured. First time I ever saw ya was a couple nights ago at the Majestic."

Brim was both titillated and uneasy that this dude had noticed him. "So ya know everybody in town?"

"Mostly." John lit a cigar, puffed it a few times, then asked, "Work at the copper mine?"

"Yup. You?"

"I used ta. I work at the brewery now. Easier work; better pay." He winked at Brim, which startled him something fierce.

"Must be nice."

"You staying at one of the boarding houses?"

"Was. Lost all my money gamblin' t'night." Brim shrugged like it didn't matter, but it did. "Gotta tent I can pitch outside town."

"Well," John had a charming smile, "I got my own place up one a'the hills, nice and private. Got plenty a'whiskey too, if ya don't wanna sleep on the ground t'night."

Brim didn't hesitate. "Whiskey sounds mighty fine."

John gestured for Brim to follow him, declaring, "Always willing to help out a man in need."

↯‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿↯

~~The ☈αγ↭gun was real.

The gems on it glimmered like azure skylight reflected in water. The muzzle glowed like a tiny precise sun. The ☈αγ↭gun whirred and clicked like it had agitated insects inside it, whispering unintelligible invitations that made Brim's beard bristle.

Brim picked up the silver sidearm.

Sharp trills in his sinews were arguing with jingles & jangles in his bones.

His nerves talked nonsense.

The climbed out of the shallow grave, pulled his 1851 Navy revolver, and tossed it aside.

When Brim slid the ☈αγ↭gun into his holster, it was like pulling on a well-worn glove. The stiff leather seemed to stretch, then contract, for an easy-but-snug fit.

He thought of Donovan, that self-righteous son of a bitch, and all the other scalawags in Bisbee who were just like the Marshall: hypocritical scoundrels who—

Hearing the patter behind him, Brim made the fastest draw of his life. His hand was a blur, the warbling weapon streaking like a ball of silver & blue __lightning↯.

Twenty yards away was a roadrunner who had just used its exceptional speed to snatch up a small rattlesnake. It was now killing the serpent by beating (⚞smack!⚟ !⚞thwack!⚟!⚞smacking!⚟) its head against stones.

Brim saw the predatory bird for only an instant before the ☈αγ↭gun went off with a noise like a cry out a coyote's nightmare.

≾✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧ ₷₴ℍ☈∑∑₹₹Y¥∈∈-⭘⭘₩･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ≿

He recoiled, jerked backwards, stumbled, nearly tripping and falling. He squealed and kept squealing for several seconds— shocked, awed, horrified. Eventually he heard the womanly sounds he was making and stopped.

Panting, anchored to the spot, he stood there bug-eyed & gaping.

Looking at what he'd done, he had a fiery epiphany.

What if he had unearthed this unearthly object for a purpose?

Reluctantly, he went to Hope. He took off the horse's bridle and saddle.

"Yer free, boy. Yer... free."

Mounting Barley, Brim told Johnny's spirit (without looking at Johnny's body), "If I don't get myself kilt, I'll be back."

↯

Brim rode into town, going straight to the red-light district: Brewery Gulch.

Like every man, that bastard Donovan had his habits. The Marshall spent more time in the bawdy houses than the saloons. It was well known he rarely drank because he liked to stay clear-headed, in case he got into a fight.

Donovan was a lech.

Brim dismounted outside the Orient saloon, tying Barley to a hitching post beside three other horses.

Then he strolled to the Marshall's favorite fuck nest.

It looked like a common two-story house. The King's Ransom was certainly no castle, but brothels were generally given names implying elegance & sophistication.

Positioning himself in front of cathouse, Brim cupped his hands around his mouth to yell as loud as he was able, "HEY DONOVAN! You in there, ya son of a bitch? Come on out so's I kin make a fool outta ya!"

He immediately got the attention of everyone within hearing distance.

"Wassa matter, Donovan? Yer lily-livered, ain't'cha?"

People scurried out of the way.

People peeked out of businesses on both sides of the street.

Sitting on barrels outside the Busy Bee boarding house, four men drinking whiskey stood up to watch.

"FACE ME, ASSHOLE!!!"

The frightened folk went inside.

The curious came out.

Brim had a moment to wonder if the Marshall was inside the brothel after all. Looking around, he shouted, "Where are ya, ya goddamn coward? I'm waiting, Donovan!"

Marshall Bruce Donovan exited the King's Ransom, shirtless, his hairy gut openly displayed. He wore only jeans, boots, and his gun belt. Waddling out into the street to face Brim, he positioned himself so they were twenty yards apart. "Who you callin' a coward, fucker?"

"You." He nodded at Donovan, glaring. "We got sumthin to settle man-to-man, you and me."

Donovan was drunk and pissed off. "I don't even know who the hell you are!"

Brim seethed. "You killed my pard last night."

Deputy Donovan scratched his ragged beard with his left hand, his right poised near his gun. "Wait... are you talking about Tommy Maxwell? That mollycoddle?" He smirked. "Don't need none'a his kind 'round here. When I found out what he wassup ta, I decided ta take out the trash."

A couple spectators laughed.

Brimley cursed Bruce. "Fuck you, you prick! Yer a fuck-less cad! Think yer fast enuff ta take me?"

"Try me!"

Hands poised just beside their holsters, they glowered at each other like rival demons.

Marshall Donovan had no idea what Brimley was armed with (and Brim really didn't either.)

Without a word, they drew their pistols and fired simultaneously.

The ☈αγ↭gun shot a thin trail of flame that ballooned in a second to become a giant fiery arrowhead, 15-feet in diameter.

The deputy's bullet was headed straight for Brim's neck, but before it could fatally rip open a hole in his throat, Brim's blast intercepted the slug, not only melting it, but neutralizing its momentum.

A sizzling metallic splat dropped to the dirt street.

Bruce Donovan was engulfed in an inferno so intense, he never had a chance to scream. He was burned away in a moment, leaving nothing behind but his gun, his belt buckle, and his ashes.

The giant fiery spear wasn't slowed when it incinerated the lawman. It went on to hit the King's Ransom with savage elegance.

The brothel exploded.

Burning wood became shrapnel.

Shattered timbers became battering rams.

Bystanders were pelted.

Among others who were mortally wounded, three prostitutes inside were instantly charred.

Gawkers squalled, screeched, and squawked.

The burly men watching from outside the Busy Bee dropped their bottles and fled.

One miner shit himself.

Inside the burning King's Ransom, harlots shrieked like banshees for barely a minute before the entire house collapsed, silencing the terrified and the wounded.

Watching the destruction of that den of iniquity was somewhat satisfying, but it wasn't enough.

↯The Copper Queen Mining and Smelting Company was owned by greedy bastards who treated their workers like disposable mules. Just a couple weeks ago, Brim had damn near been killed in a cave-in. That convinced Brim that they didn't pay him enough to constantly risk his life down there in the dark.

So he moseyed down the street to the mining office.

Twice, men shot at him.

Both times, the ☈αγ↭gun fried them, protecting Brim.

The mining office was between the bank and a general store. It was packed with guns; it was where men came to borrow weapons if they were needed for a posse.

Brim wondered if this was how pilgrims felt when they were burning witches.

He unleashed hell.

Dynamite was being stored in the mining office to be used to dig a new shaft. When the ☈αγ↭gun's power licked that TNT, a deafening explosion shattered windows all down the street.

Terrified animals went wild.

Brim was untouched. The fire flowed around him as if it was a rain shower and he was protected by a slicker. The surrounding flutter of lethal energy actually felt cool.

As more explosions detonated because of black powder kegs in the general store, a sphere of silence saved Brim's eardrums from being destroyed.

He didn't understand how any of this was possible. No gun on earth could do what this one did.

He could think of only one chilling explanation.

Walking back the way he came, he shot again and again, pulverizing more buildings, spreading the fires.

Drunks, gamblers, & fornicators looked like panicked wraiths as they ran through the smoke.

Embers and smoke streamed around him on the accelerating winds.

Brim sensed the ☈αγ↭gun was drained. It felt tired and so did his arm as it dropped to his side.

Holstering the wicked weapon, he suddenly remembered Barley.

Thinking he might have made a terrible mistake, he ran to where his horse was tethered.

Barley was fine.

His tail swished like he was eating corn.

Three other horses, however, were nothing but burning carcasses.

Taking Barley's head, Brim told him, "Yer fine, pal. Yer protected. Must be sum kinda spell or sumthin. Musta been--"

He wouldn't voice his sinful suspicion.

Climbing into the saddle, he rode through chaos.

Somewhere a string of bangs went off-- ammunition, he guessed.

There was shouting and wailing and howling.

Brim took malicious delight knowing that nobody in Bisbee would ever hurt him again.

At that particular moment, they were all busy trying to save themselves.

Feeling mean & prideful, he rode away from the conflagration.

↯Hope was gone when he returned to Johnny's corpse.

Brim finished preparing the grave.

It felt anti-climatic. It felt like just another day working in the mines.

He dug up the past.

"You know what's bound ta happen, dont'cha, Johnny?"

"Don't you go all grim on me, mister! Neither one of us is gonna die."

"You know that ain't true."

"Of course we'll die, Brim. I don't mean that. But we don't know when. You and I could both live ta be a hunderd."

"You're loco."

"You're a defeatist. What happened to savin' up to buy a ranch? Somewhere in the middle'a nowhere. You condemnin' us to stay in Bisbee til we're dead?"

Brim had been in a mood when they had that conversation. Brim had tried to persuade Johnny that they should dig their graves in advance.

Johnny wouldn't hear of it.

So Brim had to dig it now.

When it was deep enough to suit him, he climbed out, sweating, fighting every emotion a man could have.

Taking off his Stetson, closing his eyes, he fumbled around, doing his best to cover Johnny's face with his hat.

He got blood on his fingers that he wiped off on the seat of his pants.

The lowering of John's into his final resting place stiffened Brimley's spite. "I told ya it would end this way, ya dunderhead!"

Brimley's mother died from cholera when Brim was four.

Brimley's father was an alcoholic bastard.

Johnny was the first and only person who had ever loved Brim.

As Brimley filled in the grave, he couldn't stop thinking about the ☈αγ↭gun.

America had won the Revolutionary War using single-shot muskets. Those guns could only fire three times a minute. They required five steps to load: bite the cartridge, prime the pan, load the barrel, use the ramrod, then cock the hammer and aim.

For a hundred years, those were the only guns used in America. But now, with the invention of breech-loading Colts and Smith & Wesson's, men could fire off six shots in rapid succession.

Brim couldn't image any weapon that could ever be more sophisticated than that.

And yet here he stood, with a pistol that spat hellfire.

The crazy sounds made by the ☈αγ↭gun gave him goosebumps.

~ If he were to live 100 years in the future, he might say the ☈αγ↭gun sounded like a synthesizer, or like electric guitars on a Pink Floyd album, but as it was, he had no reference point. ~

Brim was certain the pistol had to have been forged in Hell.

Which meant he was damned.

No surprise there.

He snarled, "Whatever this cursed thing is, I was the one that ended up with it, instead of some other dung worm! And I feel obliged ta use it!"

Brim laughed without humor, smiling a black smile.

He patted his gift from the Devil, nestled in its happy holster.

Brimley mounted Barley.

Tombstone was only a four hour ride.

~🔥~

______________Bolt⚡