text: The man had been on my list for quite some time. The perfect candidate, a story of sadness, pain, and regret. Since birth, he had been marked by tragedy and it hung on his back. Its arms wrapped tightly around him, weighing him down. Did I pull some strings? Of course. In the beginning, I always do. It is much easier to guide somebody to inevitability if they have no hope. They no longer care about their choices afforded to them by free will. And if they were open to the choice, I was certainly going to take the opportunity to guide them to my end. He had summoned me many times before, but this time I obliged. It had been in the evening that I had received the call. At the time, I had been in my study reading. My favorite chair, a crimson red with a high-back and ornate dark woodwork along the edge, was positioned by the fire. The carvings on the wood held the faces of men and women with visages of torment and despair. It was while I was reading An Essay on Man that I heard the unmistakable sound of a deal, a quid pro quo, as it were. My interests piqued, I set out immediately towards the source. A man, blood-covered and sulking, sat in a damp and dirty jail cell. The green rotted stone walls perspired and throbbed, drawing in closer with each pulse. Slowly, he walked towards me from the back of the cell and placed his hands on the bars. His head was lowered slightly, but his eyes were fixed intensely on me behind his sweat-soaked hair. I stepped forward out of the darkness. "You have summoned me. What do you want?" I said as I leaned against the keeper who was drunk and sleeping heavily, leaned back in his chair. An empty bottle of whiskey sat overturned on his desk. “Are you supposed to be The Devil?” he asked unphased at the thought. “If that is what you wish to call me,” I said and gave a slight bow. “And you are the infamous cattle-rustler and murderer John Ringgold.” “You don’t know nothin' about me,” he said, spitting. “Ah, but I do. I have been watching you for a long time,” I said as I paced, clicking my cane against the rusted bars. “I know you. I know that gimpy walk you try to pass off as a cowboy gait because that man ran you over with the wagon. Was that?- Yes, it was, right before you saw your first murder. Dear old dad was there to set it right, wasn’t he? That man just had to pay.” “Get to the fucking point,” he said. I jumped up onto the desk, kicking the old man square in the jaw. “Oh! And then your daddy shot off his own head. Man, that was something. Couldn’t have been no more than fourteen from what I recall. Hell of a thing for a boy to see.” I said, pouting my lip in sympathy. “What a summer!” I laughed. He scowled and curled his lip like an angry mutt. “You did that-” “Oh no. I can’t take credit for that. That was the way his story was supposed to end. I didn’t write it. He did. Every choice he made led him to that point. Just like your choices have led you here.” I said opening my arms. “If you want to blame somebody, blame that guy,” I said pointing up. "We merely set the traps. You can go around them or go through them. Like I said it's all about choice." “So the cards are stacked against me. What’s the point in even making the choice?” he grumbled. “Believe me I have sympathized over your lot in life. You’ve been dealt a most unfortunate hand. Despite what you might think, I am here to help. What do you want most of all, John?” “Power,” he said with certainty. As if he had always known exactly what he needed. "Power over those who stand in my way. I want them to fear me." The lantern flame flickered. The walls began to tremble as a rumbling from below arose and grew louder. Johnny held on to the bars. Legion answered through my voice. “Est virtus in tenebris,” they said in unison. It was quite entertaining, his lack of fear in my presence. Most were too afraid to speak until coaxed. I enjoyed this fear immensely, but he was numb to it. “You know the price of this then?” I asked as I stepped back. “You can have it. I have no use for it,” he said. In an instant I was on him, pulling him towards me against the bars. With my fingernail, I carved my ancient name into his chest. The signature glowed red as it burned his flesh and disappeared inside of him. He gritted his teeth but did not scream. “It is done.” I unhooked the keys from the keeper’s belt loop and tossed them to him. “Enjoy your ride. I’ll be seeing you soon.” I smirked and retreated back inside the darkness as quickly as I had entered. Johnny Ringo was the fastest gunslinger in the west. His skill with a pistol was rivaled by no man, not even by that hypocritical liar Wyatt Earp whose vendetta ride had taken the lives of those few Johnny had called friends. His reputation preceded him. With each town he visited, men and women looked upon him warily. His unpredictable nature was volatile, his temper short. And with each life he took, his debt to me grew equally larger. Trouble seemed to find him, or maybe he searched for it, feeling his invincibility as a result of our deal. But he found no solace in taking life, only the desire to fill that anger festering in him. His desire to inflict pain would not be sated. He could feel my presence looming and so he lived as ferociously as he wanted. Taking vengeance on those that had slighted him. Unfortunately, a man cannot thrive on vengeance alone and for my part, this would be a waste if his soul had been completely covered in black Stygian tar that quickly. There is no fun when it is this easy. It was at Skeleton Canyon that the seeds of regret sprouted within him. It was an ambush, payback for the massacre of a group of Mexican smugglers who had crossed the border. As his friend, Old Man Clanton, lay dying in his arms, a .44 caliber slug in his chest, he uttered his last words, “and for what? ” and slipped from that unforgiving world. And for what? $4000 in bullion and some cattle. That is what nine lives were worth. Months later he made his way west to San Jose in a pitiful attempt at reconciliation with his family, trying to find that last chance at forgiveness. His attempts were met with coldness as they had known what kind of man he had become. It was then, he realized there was no hope for redemption. Inevitability drew near, and nolens volens, he was bound to accept it. On the banks of Turkey Creek, I found him. It had been thirteen years since the jail in Mason County. I appeared out from behind one of the blackjack oaks that encircled, each growing from the same root. He aimed the gun straight at my face and pulled the trigger. This annoyed me slightly. I liked that face. With melodramatic effect, I flew backward. "Ohh oh you got me, you bastard!" I howled, exaggerating my reaction. My moans of anguish turned into a sinister chuckle that grew louder as I popped up from the dirt. The gaping hole in my head pouring blood over my face. “What a great shot! Just like your daddy,” I said as the hole closed itself. Of my many abilities, sarcasm was the one I enjoyed using the most. It took effect immediately and his face twisted, at first to bewilderment and then into rage. I laughed. "It ain't time to collect yet. This wasn't what we talked about," he said. The wind blew and whipped the dust up against his face. He moved back, shielding his eyes. “And what more would you do? What would you do with more time? You already made your choices. You can’t go back.” I yelled against the wind. “You feel that murky nothingness moving through your veins eating you alive from the inside out? That will never go away.” With a flick of my hand, I threw him against the forked tree. His gun fell to the ground. I picked it up and handed it to him. “You deserve this. I think deep down you know you do. You wished for power, but you’ve really been a coward hiding behind your bitterness. This is your chance to do the right thing.” I left him there and as I walked past those blackjack trees I heard a single gunshot. I smiled my most debonair smile at Johnny who was ahead and waiting. We walked forward together into oblivion. In darkness there is power.