text: Three-fingered Jack Garcia. That’s me. Most lawmen and evil guys call me Three-Fingers. I am the most feared anti-hero on the planet. And the most popular. I was created by my former friend, writer Horace Lovestreet III. Horace is an Old West aficionado. He keeps a vintage Colt .45 in his desk. He pulls it out occasionally, hoping for inspiration that never comes. It all began one rainy night in Los Angeles. Horace was finishing a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon, wondering how he would make a living now that the writing thing clearly wasn't working out. There was little protection against me in Horace's inebriated state, infiltrating the creative portion of his brain and putting ideas into that head. ‘Western’ was the first idea. “Bounty Hunter’ was the second. ‘Anti-Hero' was the third - a protagonist who, when necessary, would do things a typical 'good guy' wouldn't do, like fatally shoot a defenseless bad guy out of revenge and to collect the reward money. Three-fingered Jack Garcia was born that night, and, with my help, the outline of the first novel sprung, fully formed, into Horace Lovestreet’s Bourbon-soaked consciousness: A Price on Their Heads. Horace and I couldn’t have Jack Garcia just all of a sudden arbitrarily decide to become a bounty hunter, we had to give him some motivation. So we gave him a fiancé, Linda Sue Darlinquez, who was beautiful, wonderful, and engaged to marry Jack. One night, three bad guys broke into the Darlinquez farmhouse, killed Linda Sue's Parents, dragged Linda Sue outside, repeatedly raped and sodomized her, and left her to die after burning the Darlinquez farmhouse to the ground and stealing every penny they had. Bastards! On the pages, I sprang into action. I got two six guns and tracked the three perpetrators down. We had it out in a blazing gunfight on a hot, dusty day on the streets of Laredo. They had a three-to-one advantage, but it was no contest as they had no way of knowing they were dealing with an up-and-coming anti-hero. Two fingers on my left hand got blown away during the gunfight. Thus, I became Three-fingered Jack Garcia. You can call me Three-fingers. The bounty I was paid for bringing the three banditos to frontier justice was both unexpected and substantial. It led Horace and I to decide on my new career: Bounty hunter, but only for the bad guys who deserved it. That led to the second book, Echoes, from Linda Sue . It turns out the three hombres who attacked the Darlinquez farmhouse that night were part of a much larger gang, most of whom had a price on their heads. The second book was spent with me tracking down and killing every member of that gang. My fans became legion. The movie was a huge success. The third book started with me being rich, fat, happy, and semi-retired. I didn't like the direction Horace was going with it at all. It seemed like he was introducing a young character as my protégé. I waited until he spent a night with Jim Beam and persuaded his brain to change the story to where I would offer my services to a deserving widow or family who had been terribly wronged by bad guys who now had a price on their heads. The title was Once More for Linda Sue. Just when you think it will never end and things will last forever, you find that forces outside your control are making changes that may have nothing to do with your goals or desires. That's what was happening to me, Three-fingered Jack Garcia. Horace's publisher was furious and called him onto the carpet for a meeting. The room was full of publishing executives and movie producers. Nobody was smiling. The publisher swung a copy of Once More for Linda Sue like a sword. “What the fuck is this? We agreed that Three-fingers takes on a younger protege, and we use this book to promote the young gunslinger and move Three-fingers into the background.” “I couldn’t do it,” Horace replied. “I felt Jack had one more good story left in him. Maybe more.” Attaboy, Horace! Give 'em hell! "Oh, you did, did you? Well, let me tell you something, Horace. The movie people aren't interested in this story like it is now. They're not interested in Three-fingers anymore, either. There’s only one way to regain their financial backing.” "I'm not bringing the protégé back. That's off the table." “Who said anything about bringing the protégé back?” “Then what do the movie people want?” “Three-fingered Jack must die at the end of Once More for Linda Sue . Then you start a whole new trilogy with a brand-new anti-hero.” Horace thought for a minute and nodded. "I can see that happening,” Horace said to the publisher. “In fact, I think I can write a great dramatic scene around Three Fingers' demise.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had inspired Horace, a writer of marginal talent at best whose career was going nowhere, to create the greatest anti-hero in the history of the annals of the Western genre. Namely, me. I had given him story ideas that made him rich and famous and now, because some Hollywood suits thought they knew better, he was prepared to kill me off, dump me to the side of the literary scrap heap like yesterday’s garbage. The good news was on the way home from the publisher's meeting, Horace stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon. There was still hope. Horace was finishing the final scene of Once More for Linda Sue , where Three-fingers dies in a hail of bullets, ambushed by a half-dozen desperados. Horace was also working hard on the bottle of Jim Beam. I must admit his writing had improved dramatically since starting the Three-fingers series. The final scene was emotional and dramatic. It actually made me a little misty. But I had work to do. The bottle of Jim Beam was nearly empty. It was time for me to enter Horace’s Bourbon-soaked brain. The idea I planted into Horace’s brain was simple: What if he killed himself just as he typed ‘THE END’ of the Three-fingered Jack Garcia trilogy? The stories would become immortal. They would live forever, right beside Three-fingers. I saw the idea gradually taking hold in Horace’s mind. Horace opened the desk drawer. He slowly pulled out the antique Colt .45. He checked it. Loaded. He held the muzzle of the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger. He died instantly with a smile on his face, That’s the last thing I remember.