The norsemen

By , lockwood, MO
The shadows fell heavily over the road as I made my way toward the old tavern. Musing dark and sinister filled my troubled mind. Why had Billing insisted that I meet him at this out of the way spot on an equally desolate road? It has been years since I had seen him and I had to rearrange my work schedule to secure enough time off to make the arduous journey.

In the mists of my reverie suddenly my horse whinnied and began to shy away something it sensed on the edge of the road.

“Easy, boy easy” I said, trying to calm my uneasy mount but there was no calming him. Labouredly I eased him over to the wonder what was upsetting him so much, slowly and carefully approached the ditch at the side of the road.


There I saw Billings lying there, unmoving. I could not see his fatal wound for he was face down, as I turned him over there was hole the size of a quarter.

I ran, as fast as I could to the near-by tavern. I burst thought the door unnoticed. I took a look around the dimly lit tavern. It was empty except for a large sinister-looking blonde fellow and a short bartender. I walked up to the bar and asked for a room. After I acquired the room, I asked if a man named Billings had been around. The bartender said he did and that he seemed bent on killing someone by the nickname One Shot. After that I left to find out why he wanted me dead. I went to my room for a nap because I will sneak out and find his room. At 12 o’clock I found his journal. It said I insulted him in a way and he took it to the fullest extent. Then it describe the hitman he hired to kill me as a Norseman. Could it be the same man from this evening? As I turned around, there he was. He overpowered me and it went black.

I woke up cold. He was standing over me with a colt .45-caliber revolver.

“You know, Billings hired me to kill you,” he said with a thick accent

“I know. I read his journal,” I said hoarsely.

“Now, shut up and let me explain why Billings is dead, for it is such a lovely tale.” As he said that I could see the cold gleam of a psychopath in is eyes. “He hired me and told me the details of how he wanted you to die,” he said as he sheathed his pistol. “Face down with your face blown off. Because you made him feel ugly, your handsome face was to be no more. Just so you know the name of your killer, my name is Kier the Norseman, and I am the last thing you will see.” As he said this I was plotting how to get out of this. When he drew his gun again, as quick as a cobra I grabbed for it. Missed! I push him to the ground instead, the gun go flying. We fight to get to it. He punched, I kick, he bites, I spit into his eyes. Then we both grab it, it turns into a mercy mach over.

A shot rang out! Then almost in slow motion, he fell, a gunshot to the stomach. He started, coughing up blood. As he lay dying, I said, “That’s why they call me One Shot”

The End





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