SwornSlayer Diaries: Jake and the Chrono-Revolver
SwornSlayer Diaries: Jake and the Chrono-Revolver
A Western Fantasy LitFilm Flash
(Jake, weary): Dust billows around Jake's scuffed boots as he trudges down the sun-baked street, his hand instinctively hovering over an empty holster. He mutters to himself, "Another day in this godforsaken town."
(Jake, resigned): Pushing open the creaky door of Ol' Pete's Pawn & Sundries, Jake squints in the gloom. The smell of old leather and rusted metal assaults his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose in disgust.
(Jake, curious): His calloused fingers brush over an ornate revolver, its silver barrel catching what little light filters through the grimy windows. "Now, what's a pretty thing like you doin' in a place like this?" he whispers.
(Shopkeeper, disinterested): Ol' Pete, a grizzled man with a permanent scowl, grunts from behind the counter. "That old thing? Five dollars and it's yours, Hawkins. Doubt it even fires straight anymore. Not that you could hit the broad side of a barn these days."
(Jake, defensive): "Watch your mouth, Pete. I ain't as washed up as folks say." Jake fishes out crumpled bills from his pocket, slapping them on the counter, his eyes never leaving the gun.
(Jake, nostalgic): Walking out into the harsh sunlight, he twirls the revolver, muscle memory from better days taking over. For a moment, he's transported back to his glory days, before it all went wrong.
(Townsfolk, wary): Whispers follow him down the street. "There goes Jake the Joke," a man mutters. A woman pulls her child close, hissing, "Don't look at him, Tommy. That's what becomes of a man who can't handle his liquor or his gun."
(Jake, bitter): Slumping onto his rickety porch, he takes a swig from a nearly empty whiskey bottle. "To better days," he toasts the setting sun, memories of past failures clouding his vision.
(Bandits, menacing): Hoofbeats thunder down the street as three rough-looking men ride into town, guns already drawn. The leader, a scarred brute named Butch, bellows, "Alright, folks! Time to donate to the Butch Cassidy Retirement Fund!"
(Jake, determined): Rising unsteadily to his feet, he steps off the porch, new revolver in hand. "Might as well die standing," he growls, squaring his shoulders.
(Lead Bandit, mocking): Butch spots Jake and lets out a cruel laugh. "Well, if it ain't Jake the Joke! Thought you'd given up the gun, old timer. Why don't you toddle on home before you hurt yourself?"
(Jake, focused): Time seems to slow as he raises the revolver, the world around him blurring at the edges. Jake's eyes narrow, his breathing steadies, and for the first time in years, his hand doesn't shake.
(Jake, astonished): The bullet crawls through the air, giving him ample time to sidestep the bandits' return fire. "What in tarnation?" Jake breathes, watching his bullet inch towards its target.
(Bandits, panicked): Their horses rear as Jake's shot finds its mark, sending Butch tumbling to the ground. "He got the boss!" one yells, eyes wide with disbelief.
(Jake, exhilarated): The remaining bandits flee, leaving Jake standing in the street, staring at the smoking gun in disbelief. A slow grin spreads across his face. "Well, I'll be damned."
(Townsfolk, amazed): Doors crack open as people peer out, murmurs rippling through the crowd. "Did you see that?" "It's like he knew where the bullets would be!" "Maybe ol' Jake's still got it after all."
(Jake, contemplative): Later that night, he sits alone, turning the revolver over in his hands, mind racing with possibilities. "What are you?" he asks the gun, tracing its intricate engravings.
(Jake, determined): Dawn breaks as Jake steps out, a new purpose in his stride, the revolver gleaming at his hip. "Time to set things right," he declares to the rising sun.
(Widow Johnson, grateful): Tears stream down her weathered face as Jake returns her stolen locket, impossibly recovered from a gang's hideout. "Mr. Hawkins, I... I don't know how to thank you," she sobs, clutching the locket to her chest.
(Sheriff, impressed): "I don't know how you're doing it, Hawkins, but keep it up. Town's never been safer," the sheriff says, clapping Jake on the shoulder. "Just... try to bring 'em in alive next time, yeah?"
(Jake, confident): Weeks pass, and Jake stands taller, his quick draws and impossible feats becoming the stuff of legend. He tips his hat to passing ladies, who giggle and blush instead of turning away.
(Saloon Patrons, awestruck): Glasses clink as patrons toast to "Quickdraw Jake," tales of his exploits growing with each retelling. "I heard he shot the wings off a fly at fifty paces!" one drunk exclaims.
(Jake, troubled): Catching his reflection in a store window, he notices a few more gray hairs than he remembers. He runs a hand through his hair, frowning. "Must be the stress," he mutters unconvincingly.
(Jake, shocked): During a duel with a hot-headed youngster, he fires three rapid shots, each slowing time. As the dust settles, he sees deep wrinkles forming on his hands. "No... it can't be," he whispers, horrified.
(Town Doctor, concerned): "Jake, I don't understand. Your body's aging at an alarming rate. What's going on?" Dr. Thompson peers at Jake over his spectacles, genuine worry in his eyes.
(Jake, conflicted): Pacing in his small room, he weighs the cost of his newfound abilities against the good he's done. "Is this the price of redemption?" he wonders aloud, staring at the revolver on his bed.
(Jake, resolute): Standing before a cracked mirror, he holsters the revolver, vowing to use it only when lives are at stake. "No more showboating," he tells his reflection sternly.
(Townspeople, curious): Whispers circulate about Jake's sudden reclusiveness, his legendary status taking on a mystical quality. "Maybe he made a deal with the devil," an old-timer suggests in a hushed tone.
(Jake, tempted): A bar brawl erupts, and Jake's hand twitches towards his holster before he forces himself to walk away. "Not worth it," he growls, ignoring the disappointed looks from the crowd.
(Jake, introspective): Under the starry sky, he contemplates the nature of redemption, wondering if his past can ever truly be undone. "Is saving a few lives enough to wash away all the blood on my hands?" he asks the silent stars.
(Stagecoach Driver, panicked): Bursting into town, he shouts about a notorious outlaw gang heading their way. "The Blackheart Gang! They're coming! We're all done for!"
(Jake, grim): Loading the revolver, he feels the weight of his decision as he prepares to defend the town. "Guess this is it, old girl," he says to the gun. "One last dance."
(Outlaw Leader, menacing): Riding in with his gang, Black Jack sneers at the lone figure standing in the street. "You the famous Quickdraw Jake? Let's see how fast you really are, grandpa."
(Jake, focused): Time slows as he draws, the familiar sensation both exhilarating and terrifying. "Come on, you bastard," Jake mutters, watching Black Jack's hand creep towards his holster.
(Outlaws, confused): They watch in disbelief as their leader falls, Jake's bullet finding its mark before they can even reach for their guns. "What sorcery is this?" one outlaw cries.
(Jake, determined): Ignoring the burning in his joints, he fires again and again, each shot aging him visibly. "Keep... going," he pants, feeling decades slip away with each pull of the trigger.
(Townsfolk, awed): From behind shuttered windows, they witness Jake moving with impossible speed, taking down the entire gang single-handedly. "It's like he's everywhere at once!" a child exclaims.
(Jake, exhausted): As the last outlaw falls, Jake stumbles, feeling decades older than when the fight began. He leans heavily on a hitching post, gasping for breath.
(Mayor, grateful): "Jake, you've saved us all! Come, let the town thank its hero properly!" The portly mayor waddles forward, arms outstretched.
(Jake, resigned): Turning slowly, he faces the gathering crowd, knowing what they'll see. "No need for thanks," he croaks, his voice now thin and reedy.
(Townsfolk, shocked): Gasps ripple through the crowd as they take in Jake's now-ancient appearance. "Good Lord," someone whispers, "what happened to him?"
(Child, innocent): "Mama, where's the hero? That's just an old man," a little girl asks, tugging on her mother's skirt.
(Jake, heartbroken): The revolver slips from gnarled fingers as he realizes the full cost of his actions. "Guess the joke's on me after all," he says with a sad chuckle.
(Doctor, baffled): "I've never seen anything like it. It's as if you've aged fifty years in an afternoon," Dr. Thompson says, shaking his head in disbelief.
(Jake, reflective): Sitting on his porch, now stooped and gray, he watches the town celebrate its salvation without him. "At least they're safe," he muses, a bittersweet smile on his wrinkled face.
(Saloon Patrons, dismissive): "Quickdraw Jake? Must've been exaggerated. No way that old timer could've done all that," a young cowboy scoffs, downing his whiskey.
(Jake, bitter): He chuckles mirthlessly, the sound turning into a wheezing cough as he overhears the doubts about his legend. "Youth is wasted on the young," he grumbles.
(Widow Johnson, kind): She brings him a bowl of soup, her eyes filled with pity rather than the admiration they once held. "You rest now, Mr. Hawkins. You've done enough."
(Jake, regretful): Flipping through a worn photo album, he traces images of his younger self, wondering where it all went wrong. "If only I'd known then what I know now," he sighs.
(Sheriff, respectful): "I know what you did for us, Jake. Even if no one else believes it," the sheriff says quietly, sitting beside Jake on the porch.
(Jake, accepting): Nodding silently, he realizes that true redemption isn't about glory or legend. "Maybe this is how it was always meant to be," he muses.
(Jake, peaceful): Days pass as he sits on his porch, watching the town he saved flourish. He smiles, content in the knowledge that his sacrifice meant something.
(Young Boy, curious): "Mister, is it true you used to be a great gunslinger?" a freckle-faced boy asks, eyes wide with wonder.
(Jake, wistful): With a sad smile, he begins to tell his story, finding solace in passing on the truth. "Well, son, it all started with an old gun in a pawn shop..."
(Townsfolk, oblivious): Life goes on in the bustling town, the legend of Quickdraw Jake fading into myth. New stories and heroes take his place in the saloon tales.
(Jake, fading): His breaths grow shallow as he feels the weight of his accelerated years. The revolver sits on his nightstand, its power spent.
(Jake, resolute): With trembling hands, he writes down the full account of his impossible feats and sacrifices. "They deserve to know the truth," he wheezes.
(Jake, content): Sealing the letter, he addresses it to the sheriff, knowing his story will live on even as he fades. "Make sure they understand," he whispers to the empty room.
(Jake, serene): Closing his eyes for the last time, he finds peace in knowing he chose redemption over glory. A small smile plays on his lips as he takes his final breath.
(Sheriff, solemn): Standing over a simple grave, he clutches Jake's letter, vowing to ensure the true legend of Quickdraw Jake is never forgotten. "Rest easy, old friend. Your story's safe with me."