From SuspireWiki
The Story
Tombstone, Arizona - July 3rd, 1881. You never forget certain places or dates; your first time sharing the company of a fine woman, your sainted mother’s birthday, or the day the posse finally caught up with your sorry ass in the Arizona desert sun - lynching you high up in the loving bosom of an old cottonwood tree. But as memorable as it was, it is still a lousy way to die for sure - slow and torturous. The things that run through a man’s mind as the heat from the desert sun boils his brain and life is slowly straggled out him can’t rightly be described by puttin’ pen to paper.
I wish I could tell you all that I didn’t deserve it none - that nobody deserves to die like that - but I’d be lying somethin’ fierce if I did. In that past life, I had done many things that, each on their own merit, was well worth what they did to me that day, and there where enough corpses layin’ low under the ground to testify to my guilt. Murder, robbery, assault, and cheatin’ at cards were but a few of my greater sins in those livin’ days. It got to the point where, long before I died, I had become a story mothers told their children to make sure they grew up right and went to church – a livin’ legend, so to speak. The fear of the Man Upstairs prolly wasn’t as responsible for the faith of as many, as was the fear of speaking my name out loud in some frontier towns. The way I figure it all now, I was doin’ my own brand of God’s Work even back then.
I know you are just itchin’ to figure out what name I was born with, but it rightly doesn’t matter none now. That was another man and another lifetime - he died that night under the cottonwood tree. Suffice it to say, if I told you, you would recognize it easy enough from the history books. Sacramento, San Francisco, Deadwood, St. Louis, Dodge City, Tombstone – they all have a little piece of me somewhere in their frontier history. An’ I knew ‘em all, at some point or other – Doc Holliday, the Earp brothers, Bat Masterson, Big-nose Kate, William Bonney, Jesse James, Deacon Jim – even rode with the Regulators for a time. Let us suffice it to say that if you don’t like me much now, you would have feared and hated me back then, so what’s the point of ever using that name again? Like I said, those livin’ days don’t matter much now. Now where was I?
So there I was, hanging by the neck from an old cottonwood tree outside of Tombstone, Arizona, breathin’ my last. I was sunburnt and parched raw, and half out of my mind from the heat. The posse had made sure to set-up the noose so as it wouldn’t be a quick death before they all took off to leave me to die alone. I’d like to tell that I was all noble about it, but there ain’t nothin’ noble about dying - especially like that. So I did what any worthless excuse for human being would do – I prayed. I prayed for God to spare my miserable life with empty promises that I would change my evil ways. I prayed for divine intervention. I prayed for a sign. And well, I got them prayers answered, after a fashion.
Despite what people think, the desert is full of life and sound, but in that moment of prayer, there was nothing – the sky emptied and the wind died, the sun set with so much of an actual sunset and there wasn’t a sound to be heard. That was my sign from Above – nothing. Just before everything went black and the world closed in around me, He let me know, under no uncertain terms, that He had turned His back upon me forever.
I don’t know how long I had blacked out for, but when I came to, I was lying on the ground, underneath a waning moon, the noose cut from my neck and there was this older man – another gunfighter - standing above me. I thought I had gotten lucky and been dealt a metaphysical inside straight from the Man Upstairs. I asked the stranger who he was and he told me he was my judge, jury and executioner – that he had been following my trail of mayhem for weeks, waiting for the proper chance to dispatch me.
I must have laughed something fierce when he told me that – rescuing me from being lynched, just so he could do it himself. He just stood there staring at me with this wicked grin on his face. It took a little bit to register it in my mind when he told me that he already had killed me and that I was just too dumb to know that I that didn’t realize it yet - that I had been truly Damned now.
If living didn’t give me any sense of sense of redemption, dying sure as hell didn’t either. I spent the better part of a man’s entire lifespan wandering around the Southern States and Mexico being the same worthless piece of unbound trash I always was. Suffice it to say I did a lot of things I ain’t proud of now, and paid the price for it with my soul - became a real monster, worse than I am now even. But stand over your own grave out in some nowhere part of the desert, celebratin’ the centennial of your lynchin’, with absolutely noboby to give a damn about you, gives a man pause to think. I needed purpose – a goddamn reason for taken up space, otherwise I might have as well just died that night back under the cottonwood tree.
Well, traveling through years ago Atlanta, I thought I'd found my purpose - his name is DuPont. He was head the church there and a damn straight-shooter. There where a couple others with that crowd like Moroses who was alright for negra fella. DuPont's gone, I hear, but you’ll get to meet Moroses soon enough, if'n he's still in the city. I was DuPont's Legate fer a time when I ran with them folks, passin' on messages from place to place when it was needed - but that was years and years ago. It was good deal, mind you. I got to travel around a lot and help put where I could, an' he got some needed trouble-shootin’ from time to time. And some how through it all, he taught me to balance out the man and the beast. I mean I still make my money gambling and doing things that the Good Lord would not approve of, but I don't cheat at cards no more... well, not as much at any rate. To bad DuPont and I didn't see things eye-to-eye on some matters, tho'. I just might have stuck around some longer than I did. Might stuck with the Church too. Who knows? I mean it ain't like I gave up the Faith or nothin', just cause I left. Hell, I still spread the Gospel to those on the road I meet that I reckon'll listen.
Either way, we're heading back after a long time out, back to Atlanta. I heard Gareth was back over there and I owe him that apology. If'n nothin' else, you'll get to meet some of the family. I wonder if that Eveline is still lurkin' about. You'll like her. Hell, it'll be good to get of the road for a little bit...
I guess I am tell y’all this ‘cuz there comes a time when a man has to unburden his soul a bit, and takin' dirt naps just don't cut it, or maybe it’s just ‘cuz I’ve gone a little loco over the years. Either way, you’ve traveled around the South with me long enough that I reckon I owe you an explanation. I don’t ken to tellin’ people that much about my past, especially since it ain’t nobodies’ damned business anyways. Besides, who you gonna tell anyways, Tombstone?
The Haven
The haven is actually a small trailer home which gives him the freedom to up and move when need arises. Fairly non-descript and a little rough-looking, the mobile home has not been light-proofed, but it has been modified so that his personal sleeping area is hidden underneath the rear bed in a storage area. It is cramped but functional and can house two more in a pinch. There is also a hidden trap-door in the floor in the back of the RV for fast escapes, and as such, he usually parks it over grassy areas. It also has a small flatbed trailer that he uses to haul his motorbike around when moving from place to place.