Vigilante
Vigilante
He walked in the door
a little John Wayne
a little Jesus Christ
six foot tall
giant guns on his hips
so emaciated you can count all his ribs.
twelve bullets flew and
twelve persons fell
reload
repeat
the deafening clash never ended
until all you could count was the dead.
He stood among patrons
of the local pub
and made a decision
like he always does
that he would never do this again,
never again
see the blood on their faces
and blood on the floor
but forever carry
their blood on his hands.
He sighed,
sheathed his hard steel
turned on his heel
and walked right back out that door.
That wasn’t the first time
and wasn’t the last
that he shot the hot lead
and dropped steaming brass
leaving no trace
but the spent cartridges strewn about.
He knocked the dust off his boots
and kept walking on
humming a tune
couldn’t remember the song
unsheathed his steel
and just let them play on
that deafening clash never ended.
Copyright © Harold Grimes Iii | Year Posted 2008
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