Mr Saturday

Mr Saturday is a character in The Fearsome Encounter.

Biography:
Five paces. ''Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Click.'' Bo rested his gun on his shoulder, slowly turned around, and lifted his hat from his eyes. The girl had already turned and leveled her gun at him. As he predicted, she hadn't shot him. Her face was pale and she shook from head to toe. Poor little thing.

"Well?"

His voice startled her. She opened her mouth, jaw trembling, and might have said something until she changed her mind and snapped shut. She urged the gun in his direction, as if willing herself to shoot. Nothing came. She only stood there, shivering.

"Y' beat me to the draw, darlin'. You've all but won. All 'at's left's to pull the trigger."

Her grip tightened. She lowered her head and shut her eyes. Bo heard half-sniffles and saw a few shiny droplets fall to the grass at her feet. She tried so hard to hide it, but it couldn't be plainer. She wasn't cut out for this.

He wondered what must be going through her mind now. Maybe she heard her daddy's voice. First the sugary-sweet tone he took with her. Then the lesser-heard, the anger, the shouts from down the hall, when he thought she was asleep. The drunken tirades, the crashing and shattering.

Maybe she was hearing what people said about him. They said he was a fiend, he was a coward, he got what was coming to him. This versus her insistence that he was a good man. They'd give her a sad, knowing look and move on, but she'd keep insisting. She kept insisting even after she stopped believing. The poor thing didn't know what to believe, Bo figured, yet here she was. She didn't belong here.

"You've just got t' shoot me. Just got t' squeeze the trigger. Just that, 'n' I'll give 'm back. You want 'm back, don'cha sweetie?"

She yelped, couldn't hold it in. Her arms bent. She drew the gun close to her. She never aimed it at herself; no, Bo knew she wasn't thinking about that. The gun came to rest on her head, pointed absent-mindedly at the heavens. He mused to himself how appropriate that was. There wasn't anything else she could do, was there? There was no one else left to be angry at.

The girl dropped to her knees and sobbed. That was it, then. She'd reached her limit, finally bumped up against the lie she'd been telling herself. Maybe her head didn't know it, but her heart finally did. She didn't want him back. She wanted the idea, not the man.

Bo let her sit there 'til he was absolutely sure she wouldn't change her mind, wasn't just having a moment of weakness. Then he walked over and knelt by her. He laid a hand on her head. When he spoke now, his voice was soft and comforting, like a dear old friend consoling a mourner.

"It's rough, my child. It's a hard thing to swallow. But don't you ever doubt what you thought of your daddy. That's a side of 'im, much as anything else is. A side that's all yours."

He stroked her hair as if she were his own daughter--as if he were the father she thought she'd kill to see again. She looked up at him, so broken and pitiful, eyes red and puffy, lips quivering. She looked for only a moment, then buried her face in his chest and cried. He cradled her and kissed her head, wrapped around her and shielded her from the world.

"S'all right, sweetie. You just cry. You cry as much as you got to."

He really did feel sorry for her. Only a precious few knew death like he did--the way it tore a hole in everything around it, made cracks in the world that stretched for miles. And now, among those who did know, only he still steeped himself in it, still walked freely among those who died so quick, so often. Only he had it fresh in his mind.

He knew the look she gave him. His words wouldn't reach her now. She'd be painted by this. It would bury itself deep inside her, become a cornerstone of hers. Who knows what terrible things it would do to her, what sort of baggage she'd have for life because of this. Confidence crippled, childhood stolen. Poor, poor dear.

The barrel crept quietly through her hair and rested on her temple. She never felt it. Never felt a thing.

BAM. Silence.

"...Pardon me, Papa Guédé. I've done ill."

Though Bo's tone was somber, his grin was wide. He set her down, tucked his gun back in his coat pocket, and brought a fresh cigar to his lips. It was a kindness, he thought sarcastically to himself, to end her misery before it had a lifetime to grow. And she had agreed to a duel; generally only one walks away from such things.

He'd expected that she'd come to him. It's only natural when there's a death in the family and a mystic in the neighborhood; she was only one of many to seek him out over the years. As well, he'd expected she wouldn't shoot him. A girl her age pull a trigger? Not on her life. Literally, he realized with a chuckle. He'd expected it all from the second he shot that dumb bastard father of hers for boosting a case of his finest rum.

Bo came to the end of his expectations when he looked up from lighting his cigar and found a little boy with a gun of his own and a dark glare, both aimed at him.

"...Ah. Didn't know she had a brother."

EPILOGUE

"HAHAHA. YOU FINALLY KICKED IT. YOU'RE A WICKED BASTARD, BO BLACKWELL, AND IT DID YOU IN."

He'd heard a voice when he thought he had no hearing. He'd been woken up when he thought he'd never wake again. He'd felt a spark of life when he thought life had left him. You'd think Bo would be grateful.

"Tryin'a sleep here, jackass."

God guffawed. Well, something guffawed--Bo thought it must be God. Only God would have such a booming voice. Bo wished God would shut up.

"GET UP, BO. YOU WON'T DIE SO EASILY, NOT ON MY WATCH. I'VE USE FOR YOU YET. BUT AS LONG AS YOU'RE HERE, I THINK I'LL MAKE SOME ADJUSTMENTS..."

Description:
Tall, about 6'3". Not particularly scrawny, but looks like a stick because of his height. Bowlegged, and long in the arms and legs. Looks to be in his mid-forties. Long red hair in a big braid, down past his lower back. Red goatee. Triangular face, high cheekbones. Golden eyes. Skin is painted black on the right side and white on the left; eye sockets are the opposite, and around the lips is a black-and-white teeth pattern. Speaks with a slight Louisiana drawl, simple yet elegant--and crude, when he feels the need.

Pinstripe suit; the coat and leggings are black on the left, white on the right. Black suit vest and white undershirt beneath. Burgundy trenchcoat over top of the suit. Black top hat with a small skull adornment, six skeletal fingers splayed out from the sides of the skull. Metal cross on a chain necklace, usually tucked under his vest.

Saturday's a man of many vices. He drinks, he smokes, he gambles, he burns and kills and tortures, he loves the company of women (or men), and surprisingly a lot of people enjoy his company too. Because above all else, he's charming. Even if he's a lech, a murderer, and a bastard, he had a devoted fan-base in life and keeps it in like-but-not-quite-death. For all his flaws, he is unfailingly honest and sincere; he's just honest about being a beast of a man. He is peculiarly particular about his friends and associates, but when he takes a liking to someone, he gets a manic look in his eye and he's got to either fight them or befriend them (or both). Feels a borderline obligation (perhaps god-given) to take any contracts he receives having to do with life or death. Takes payment in... unorthodox ways. Also susceptible to gambles. He's no stranger to a fight and doesn't mind getting into one, but if given the choice, he'd really rather talk it out... And he's tried (and succeeded) to talk to some pretty strange things.

Items/Abilities:
Lines his coats and belt with weapons: six revolvers in total, and plenty of ammo for each. Also carries a cane with a sword concealed in the shaft. He's no slouch in marksmanship or swordplay, but given the choice he'd rather gun you down.

Has a number of magick abilities falling under the general pretense of "voodoo mysticism and miscellaneous @&%#ery." Though technically his powers are magnified by his opponent's imagination, they also rely on his own, which is limited; he is only sort-of-but-not-quite-human, has the acumen of a real human in the real world, and his usual response to things sufficiently cosmic or horrific is "What the #$%& is that LET'S SEE IF IT'S FLAMMABLE." He adapts quickly, but his creativity is by no means infinite. Among his most favored tactics are pyrokinesis (obviously), voodoo dolls (for the biologically quantifiable adversaries), that sort of "deal with the devil" contract that takes pains to fulfill itself if the contractors run astray, and the illusion of the immediate surroundings becoming a quiet black-and-white room with two nice chairs, a nice table, and a nice big bottle of rum. And shot glasses. Sometimes wine glasses, if he's feeling fancy.

Saturday is immortal, but in a peculiar way; he can only be murdered, cannot die of natural causes. Being thrown into a free-for-all deathmatch is likely to make this a moot point, but for reference here's a few examples: He would live through a car accident, but not someone deliberately ramming into him with a car. Being eaten by a lion would be painful, but not life-threatening; having that same lion set loose on him by a sapient creature who intended his death would prove fatal. Catching a virus would not kill him, but biological warfare of any kind (poison in the food, anthrax bomb, etc.) would do the trick. If you could be arrested and do time for it, even if it took a no-nonsense jerkass detective with a heart of gold to prove you did it, it would probably work just fine. Which also means if you could stop him from dying of natural causes, but chose not to, it would not work. You gotta mean it, baby.