The Blood Stained the Sun Red Today

[Sadistic]

Somewhere in the backwoods of Kentucky during the height of the Wild West...

“Well, well, well... If it ain't Ronnie Frown,” smirks Charlie Bowdre from atop his leopard appaloosa. The unkempt man with the tilted Stetson accentuates the fact by hocking a sloppy wad of snuff at Ronnie's feet.

Story starts. Quiet town. Small town boy. Big time frown. Never talks. Never plays. Different path. Lost his way.

“I lost my way,” is all Ronnie has to say, the corners of his mouth downturned into a perpetual scowl. The wide brim of his straw hat shades glacier blue eyes from the group of gunmen that have come to confront him. Cardinal: The color of sin and the shade of the unruly wisps of hair peaking from beneath his topper. He'd done some bad things while wearing that hat.

A heavy Kentucky breeze whips the hotter-than-Hell dust into a frenzy around the quintet of armed, hardened horsemen. “We've got a warrant for your arrest, old man,” says Doc Scurlock, the assumed leader of this group of Regulators. Judging from his stature, he's the most educated out of the bunch, too. “We're gonna bring you in.”

Unfortunate, but the glint in Ronnie's shaded eye goes unnoticed. “A warrant? For me? I've committed no crime. The only thing I'm guilty of is founding the thriving community you see behind me.” Ronnie motions with a wide arm to the church and the smattering of small homes beyond the giant oak tree.

“Doc, let's just grease 'im and get it over with,” quips the youngest of the group stationed to the far left. The smirk from beneath the brown bowler cap has been all over the front page of the papers. The remark lassos Ronnie's attention.

“Aren't you a little young for rustling, kid,” comes Ronnie's response, an intentional attempt at antagonism.

Before the riled youth can respond, one of the others cuts in. “Billy here,” he begins with a chuckle, “why, he's killed nearly twenty men.”

Ronnie is immediately provoked to laughter. The lone, crimson-haired farmer takes a step forward, causing the five riders to reach for their sidearms. He does not flinch. “You,” he says, pointing to Doc. “And you. You and you.” He continues pointing to the rest of the bunch. “Sure. But the Kid...naw. He ain't spilled a drop of blood. Ain't done nothin' but git famous off all your killin'.”

“Is that so?” questions an irate Billy the Kid, leveling his .45 Long Colt at a defiant Ronnie.

“Enough!” shouts Doc, pulling the warrant from his overcoat pocket. Unfolding it using his teeth and his free hand, he begins to read. “Wanted: Dead or Alive. One Ronald Long Dillinger with a reward of five hundred dollars.”

“And what is it I'm wanted for, if I may ask?” inquires a grimacing Ronnie Frown.

“For...” Doc fumbles with the warrant as a gust of wind whips it from his grasp. Scurlock gives an unsure glance to his stablemates. “For...accusations of doing the Devil's work and...crimes against humanity.”

The frown vanishes, replaced with uncontrollable, undeniable laughter. All five gun barrels are trained on the howling farmer. Once the laughing subsides, Ronnie squares up with the mounted gunmen. “Welcome to Hangtown, gentlemen. I'd invite you in, but...”

“But what?” sneers the Kid.

“But the sun stained the sun red today,” warns Ronnie's premonition. “Shall we dance?!”

Ronnie draws twin fast draw revolvers from their holsters as shots echo through the streets of an infant Hangtown, Kentucky. But I think we all know how this story turns out...

* * *

William Ian Dillinger's knuckles are white knuckle tight on the steering wheel of his vintage faded black '67 Chevelle as he rips down an abandoned old logging road somewhere in the uninhabited Kentucky wilderness. This particular road shall go unnamed for two reasons: It leads directly to Hangtown, which shall continue to remain tucked out of sight. And, well, it doesn't actually have a name. The fat rear tires vomit a towering trail of dust that's dry as Blade and Bow Kentucky Straight Bourbon.

“Finally...” the Phenom muses to himself in mock disbelief overlapping the rock music playing from the Chevy's stereo. “Finally, we get to finish this once and for all. Eira's actions have gone unpunished for long enough, but that's about to change, now isn't it?”

Dillinger cranks the wheel hard to the left causing the muscle car to fishtail around a winding dogleg in the road, his foot seemingly restricted from using the brakes. Gravel shoots out into the Bluegrass and spruce trees with true Dillinger reckless abandon as he shifts down into third and floors the accelerator.

“You know what they say?” Sadistic asks nobody in particular. “When the going gets rough, the PCW legends all fall down. And just when I thought I'd rid myself of those meddling bitches, Frank Foley and his big, fat brain have decided to feed me Eira and Gem back-to-back. He'll be forced to answer for that, of course. But in the meantime...”

“Who are you talking to?” interjects young Walter, William's unofficial protege of sorts riding along in the passenger's seat. “And what are you talking about?”

Sadistic's anti-freeze green eyes turn to meet Walter's inquisitive gaze. “I'm talking to...myself,” declares William. “And I was talking about an enemy of the Black Hand.”

“Eira? And Gem?” asks Walter. “They're enemies of the Black Hand? Why?” Kids and their questions...

“Gem is merely a victim of circumstance. That relentless dog that just keeps digging and digging because it doesn't know any better. The only solution is to...well, shoot the dog,” rations Dillinger. “Only, Gem does know better. She knows exactly what she's doing, yet she persists. Luckily, her dear, dear father came to make the save or I'd have eviscerated her for the paying audience to adore at Return to Glory. Because Gem was trying to take something from me that she's got no business setting her sights on: My most prized possession.”

“The wax statue of Heavy Metal in your wax museum?”

“No,” sputters William as he extinguishes a chuckle. “The PCW World Championship.” Sadistic snatches the belt from the backseat and places it in Walter's lap. “That belt signifies the pinnacle of the wrestling world. It signifies power. With that title, the Black Hand is afforded a platform to reach the people.”

“But what about Eira?” The mood in the car turns grim(m).

“Eira is a member of the Order. Her, Murdoc, and Sean Rhodes. Whether they realize it or not, they and their affiliates have been undermining the Black Hand since the beginning of time. We look to promote intelligent thought and reason as a natural progression of humanity. The Order looks to enslave them in their quiet quest for global domination and the accumulation of power. They must be stopped at all costs. Eira must be stopped at all costs. Much like her unborn hellspawn, she must be destroyed.” Judging from Sadistic's vice-like grip, he must be wishing it was Eira's throat he was crushing rather than the steering wheel.

“Oh,” is all the boy can muster. Much of William's explanation went over his head. “Are you worried that she'll beat you?”

Sadistic ponders the question for a moment before abandoning an attempt at fibbing. “Yes.” Sadistic downshifts as the speedster slows to a more manageable speed. “Along with Gem, she's one of the deadliest strikers on the roster. Her speed and agility are off the charts. And she must dream of new and exciting ways to disembowel people, because she could physically offload an opponent's organs on the black market in alphabetical order while she sleeps. Probably even has it priced out down to the finger.”

The child grimaces. “But you're bigger and stronger than her,” counters Walter.

“And she's been given the luxury of choosing the match stipulation,” Sadistic counters back. “The Devil only knows what kind of funhouse match she'll pick out. Something with whips and chains...and chainsaws, no doubt.”

“I really don't think any of that will matter,” Walter states. “You've got the Devil's own luck.” Kids say the darnedest things. And sometimes those things are true.

The car stereo is turned down to a whisper as the wind howls through the open windows. Somehow, Sadistic's old ears are able to make out the tune on the radio and his eyes light up. Quickly, he turns the volume nob clockwise.

Story starts, quiet town,
Small-town boy, big-time frown.
Never talks, never plays,
Different path, lost his way...

The boy turns to observe William. The Phenom stares straight ahead, his mind lost in a different time. The champion's chest swells with pride.

Then streets of red...red, I'm afraid,
No confetti, no parade.
Nothing happens in this boring place,
But, oh my God, how that all did change.

Now they all pray!
“Blood stain, wash away...”

He said,
“Lost my way,
This bloody day.
Lost my way.”

Snapping back to reality, Sadistic can't help but notice curious Walter's gaze. Sadistic turns down the music a bit to explain. “This song is called “Ronnie” and it's a very important song by the band Metallica.”

“They wrote it?”

Sadistic shakes his head. “Sorta. It's inspired by an old legend and many of the lyrics are direct quotes from some of the townsfolk that actually witnessed the life of Ronnie Long Dillinger. A couple of the musicians are Black Hand Brothers. Few realize that, but the signs are there for those willing to pay attention.” Fade to Black. See also: The Black Album.

“Dillinger? Is he related to you?”

This time Sadistic nods. “He's my great-great-grandfather. He's also the man that founded Hangtown.”

I always said, “Something's wrong,
With little, strange Ronnie Long.”

“Was he important?” questions Walter.

“Ronald Dillinger was one of the most powerful Black Hand members in the history of our society and one of the pioneering members in North America. He was very important. You think it's just coincidence this song starting playing at this time on this day?”

Nearly upon Hangtown, Sadistic veers left and parks the car on the outskirts of town. Directly ahead of them sprawls an abandoned field of lush, green grass. And row upon row of cracked, crumbling headstones.

Well, all the green things died when Ronnie moved to this place.
He said, “Don't you dare ask why I'm cursed to wear this face.”
Now we all know why the children called him Ronnie Frown,
When he pulled that gun from his pocket, they all fall down. Down! DOWN!

Turning off the ignition, but allowing the radio to blare, Sadistic opens the door and plants a black cowboy boot on the soft Kentucky soil. Walter follows suit.

“Oh, please wash away.”
But the blood stained the sun red today.

The two take a lengthy trek to the back of the cemetery as the red-hued sun begins to dip below the mountain line. There, sitting alone at the back of the acreage, is a mighty tombstone carved from granite and immaculately chiseled. It is the resting place of the forgotten legend, Ronald Long Dillinger.

Walter digests the dates on the face of the headstone and comes up with the following observation: “Hey! He died exactly 160 years ago!”

William gives a solemn nod as he kneels atop the grave. Producing a single flower from inside his heavy coat, he places it in front of the stone. A dark purple tulip that is both regal and ominous in its beauty, it's become something of an annual tradition for the Phenom. It might also explain his love of the color purple. In addition to black, of course.

“Queen of the Night,” exhales Sadistic. “That's what that flower is called. Story goes that Great-Great-Grandpa Ronnie loved them, but they were harder than Hell to grow here in Kentucky. Their blooming season is very short, and he'd have to order them from the other side of the country. By the time they arrived to Hangtown by train, he'd only get to enjoy them a couple days before they'd start to turn.”

William, so caught up in his story, doesn't even notice the thick fog rolling in. Goosebumps rise on Walter's arms as he takes to shivering. The sun is all but vanished. Detecting something amiss, Sadistic slowly turns on his heel...and comes face to face with that unsettling death rictus.

“So, William,” drones the Man in Black, tall and slender, “we meet again.”

The mere presence of the soul harvester staggers Sadistic back a couple steps. Billy stands with a fist cocked despite knowing full well that it wouldn't do a damn bit of good. The gesture prompts a genuine grin from the man in the wide brim hat. Everything about the man's attire is purely and impeccably black. Not so much as a speck of dust dares affront the man's attire for fear of swift and immediate retribution.

Sadistic clears his throat as his eyes search for Walter. He'd somehow evaporated into thin air. “Phinehas told me your pooch had been sniffing around. I figured you wouldn't be far behind.”

“Indeed,” confirms the thin man from behind those charcoal sunglasses. “And I take it you've pieced together why I'm here?”

“Naw,” drawls Sadistic. “Actually, I haven't. But you're starting to make a bad habit of popping in right before big matches. Are you trying to distract me? Help expedite my stay here before you drag me back...below? Give Eira the advantage she needs to finish me off for good?”

Sadistic's assumptions are met with a lifeless chuckle. “I'm surprised that you haven't figured it out yet.”

“We had a deal,” hisses the Phenom. “Phinehas sent me...down there. I bargained my soul for a chance to tie up some loose ends. Why do you keep interfering?”

“You never were the bright one, were you?” The Man in Black inspects Sadistic for a reaction. “You ought to read the fine print, William. You weren't granted a second chance at life.”

William's eyes narrow. He waits with a quizzical expression.

“Have you tried checking your pulse lately? See if you've got a heartbeat? Of course you haven't. We're in Hangtown, after all. Why do you conveniently find a way to avoid all of those doctors and trainers at your place of work? Did you ever bother questioning why you've got a heightened sense of smell? Sight? Touch? Hearing? Or did you just not notice? Ever wonder how a man, a mortal man, in his mid-forties is able to hang with trained assassins half his age. At a point when most athletes find themselves in mental and physical decline, you've managed to flourish. Is any of this making sense yet?”

It is, but Sadistic's jaw muscles have suddenly stopped working. Could it be? Or is this one of the stranger's tricks?

“Are you saying that I'm...”

“Dead?” The Man in Black finishes his question. “Not quite. But you're not exactly alive, either. You don't experience the same human...urges...that most men fall victim to. You're one of us, now.” The bony intruder finishes with a broad grin. Raising a knobby finger towards the tombstone behind him, Sadistic's gaze follows.

To Billy's horror, the name on the engraving has inexplicably changed. Instead of “Ronald Long Dillinger”, the inscription now reads “William Ian Dillinger”.

Today's Forecast: The blood stained the sun red today.

Billy turns to face the Man in Black, but he's predictably vanished. The chill, the fog, the haunting shadows...all of them gone. He doesn't bother checking his own pulse out of fear. As he tries to collect his thoughts and focus on Eira and the mystery match at Trauma, he scans the graveyard for his companion. The faint smell of Ruth's Shepherd's Pie graces the evening breeze and the comforting aroma helps William collect himself. That's when he spots Walter peeking out from behind a crumbling gravestone.

“You smell that, Walter?” asks Sadistic. “We'd best get back home for dinner or Ruth is liable to string us up by our toes.”

Walter's younger, more perceptive nose inahles the warm Kentucky arm before he shoots a look of confusion at Sadistic. Moments later, Ruth's triangle dinner bell cuts through the silence. Remembering the Man in Black's words, Sadistic simply shrugs. Not wanting to frighten the boy, Billy broaches the subject softly. “So...what did you hear?”

“Nothing,” responds Walter, clearly worried about what he's just seen. “You two were talking too quietly. I couldn't hear anything. But you looked scared.”

Shit. It hadn't been just a dream. “That man was...an old friend.”

“He was different,” explains Walter. “It was like...like the wind went right around him. Or through him. And the sunlight didn't dare touch him. It was like he was there, but he wasn't. The air didn't want him there, and the grass refused to bow beneath his weight. Like oil and water. A ghost.”

“That's because he's a magician,” lies Sadistic in an attempt to calm the boy. “Now let's just keep this between us, okay. He likes to perform his tricks, and he's very good at them, but if you tell the people in town, they won't understand. It'll spook them. Do you understand?”

“But...”

“No buts, Walter,” says Sadistic. “This stays between us.” With that, Sadistic marches out through the graveyard.

When Walter speaks next, it's in a whisper. “But...you looked like a ghost, too...”

NEX ADDO