Pulp Fiction: Boot Hill

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Postby Mr. Volf » Thu Oct 09, 2008 7:49 am

A new version of El Gaucho, inspired by the Worlds of Freedom book.

Thank you Libra, it reminds me much of the Shanghai Knights of Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson. A humorous take on a violent world where only the fastest survive.

El Gaucho

Sancho Jose de San Martin Belgrano Vega was born Free and Equal to any man. Had not his Abuelo - a true gaucho who had ridden with the army of the North, beside San Martin himself as the country won its freedom - not told him this? His parent’s had found the money to travel to this America, land of opportunity, truth and justice so that the law would acknowledge this plain truth, so why could the wretched landlords, bandidos y ladrón not see sense and leave his neighbors and kin to peacefully till their land?

Since he was a child he had always found himself fighting with bullies, beating up thieves and in other such troublesome situations. When he became older and responsible for his families farm he merely attracted greater troubles.

Hostile gangs arrived from time-to-time, but Sancho’s grandfather had fought for freedom with the tools and skills of the Gaucho and had taught his grandson these same skills since he was a small boy. He drove them away, time and again.

One night, the Black Hats (May God smite them with smallpox!) came; they caught him with his guard down, burned his ranch and rode away howling into the night. Sancho remained and restored his home.

When he finished the job he left the task of taking care of the farm to his little brother, saddled his fastest horse, took his bola and rode in pursuit – To California, where the goons he searched for hid out, according to the rumors.

But the trail was long and Sancho began to think. Why did the raiders (Those sons of hell and concubines of the Evil One) return, again and again, despite their repeated defeats? Why did they not fear his skills? He was a man – there. That was the answer. As he rode into California it came to him – The bandits did not fear him because they knew him for a mortal man. He could win a hundred times and still they would return because they need only win once and their triumph would be complete.

No other in the neighborhood resisted so sternly for they lacked the skills and the hope to do so. They needed inspiration. They needed a hero and Sancho, listening to the tall tales of California, found his inspiration. . .

Flamboyantly costumed he stooped to conquer the ruffians. After dealing with them - violently - in the event now known as "The Battle of Ten Mexicans" he became famous as "El Gaucho, The Cowboy from Beyond the Border."

Proud of his success, he rode home, a grin on his face, hope in his heart - and a mask in his saddlebags.
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Postby Libra » Sat Oct 11, 2008 11:55 am

Thank you for the kind words, Mr Volf. I'm hoping to continue this theme of taking the brief descriptions of the characters in the 'Freedom by Gaslight' chapter of Worlds of Freedom and make a slightly larger entry.

I may not post regularly, but I will try to post. :D
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Postby Mr. Volf » Tue Dec 02, 2008 12:26 pm

Mr. Volf wrote:
Davies wrote:He(Broken Crow) didn't face threats on the scale of Malador or his ilk, so he doesn't need to be as powerful as Eldrich.


Just thought about it today, I still have plans for him, and his foes, so expect for great arcane horrors to come. :wink:


It's been awhile, but I'm finally begun the work on this specific plot line which set the heroes of the wild frontiers against the forces of darkness in a new-world like apocalypse.

I have one more introduction to make and that I would begin developing the main parts.
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Postby Libra » Wed Dec 03, 2008 1:19 pm

Right and that's when you mucklucks out on the Think Tank had better start posting nice things about this very fine thread! :wink:
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Postby Mr. Volf » Mon Dec 15, 2008 10:06 am

Western Apocalypse - Prologue


Bounty Hunter

The old man stood on the edge of the cliff, as funny it may sound, he saw his life against his eyes, all the demons he tried to cast away as far as he could manifested inside his old heart. He saw the salesman handing him the contract forged in the belly of hell, "You'll be able to draw as fast as the devil, we just take your soul and leave you for your life", that's what he said, smiling his crooked smile. But the forces of evil did grant him the ability to draw his six-shooters faster than any miserable fighter he ever met, by god, he draw faster than his shadow on occasions. He killed them by the dozens, even killed an entire town once, all but the traveling preacher who stopped there. "Look around you spawn of Satan, and tell me what have you done?" the preacher said, "You have enough bodies for an entire boneyard here, are you pleased with yourself?" the geezer spoke, and then he had a proposal of his own, "Repent, and we will save you, in the name of the son, the father and spirit, we will save your soul from the pit…" he never mentioned that they will keep it for themselves, "…you will do great service for the Lord." That what he said when he granted those cursed revolvers and set me on my way, and they asked me to do the only thing I knew, to kill, not murderers or rapist, much worse.

"Damn all of you, that's the last I have to say" he spoke to no one, "Half my life I've been a pawn in the hands of others, but my death will belong to no one but me, the last soul I will collect will be mine own, so damn all of you."
He took final look at the horizon, the sun was hot, yet the man could barely notice it.
"You don't want to lose that battle, bounty hunter" Broken Crow said as he approached the devastated gunslinger. "Take a walk, chief" the bitter man replied.
"If you jump this cliff you will wake up among the same creatures you've been hunting for a long time with great effort. I know about the deals you made, the contracts you've signed…both of them." The bounty hunter didn't turn around, "You know, about the salesman and the preacher? Hell, you're probably a big bug in the business if you so much." Broken Crow nodded, "They don't really get much bigger than me, and I have an offer for you, one last job, one last soul, and they will let you go." The gunslinger turned around, "Who they want me to catch this time?" he asked,
"You've got your guns?" the shaman asked, "Couldn't get rid of them even I wanted, what's the poor bastard's name? Answer me, old man." The shaman took a deep breathe, "You know him, he's the one who got you involved in all of this in the first place, the one with the devil's charm"
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Postby Mr. Volf » Tue Dec 16, 2008 1:22 am

The Wicked

The man in tattered shirt and pants walked barefoot on the desert sands, scorching his soles, yet he couldn't pay attention to such meaningless details at a time like this, he needed to gather all the strength he had - and he had plenty – to go as fast as he possibly could.

A month ago he’d encountered that infamous god-%^*& Redskin gunslinger Tuwahana Smith, known to folks back East as the Eagle Rider, ally to such infamous characters as Madame Colt. Yet the beef between the Indian lawman and the miserable refugee was between them alone, it hadn't reached the attention of more mature heroes. Not yet.

A month ago the infamous Wolfgang Pack, scourge of the Rebel south during the late war, butcher of Chikamauga and the slaughterer of countless “redskin savages” (amongst other private citizens) in his spare time, reached the small town of Hamburg Texas, armed with his Navy Colt revolvers and an endless hunger for mayhem, preferably bloody.

He headed straight to the saloon, searching for some poor bastard to cross his path and suffer for the experience.

Well, he did meet such a person, but he was much more than the outlaw expected or - indeed - desired. Not only had the man broke his nose, he’d then shot him, several times.

Wolfgang fled. Bloody and wounded - both in flesh and in spirit – he’d run away.

But Smith followed him, for he knew his work was not yet done. He intended to kill this monster “For he had committed such crimes against my people - and all people - so despicable to deserve nothing but death, swiftly brought.”

And now he was getting closer by the hour. Pack felt him, smelt him, his body starved for raw and bloody flesh, which was rare indeed in this desolate wilderness. He finally fell, powerless.

He saw a shadow over his body, a figure blocked out the sun and for a moment he knew his life was over. The stranger smiled at him, a smile he had only seen when he looked into the mirror.

"I would wager that, as of this moment, you desire a humble libation above all other more sublime pleasures of the flesh, heh?" the gentleman asked.

"You should bet on more important things, mister, with intelligence such as yourself" the outlaw said. The mystery man handed over a flask of water and it tasted like the nectar of Gods to the dying Wolfgang. "Who the hell are you?" Pack asked.

"Hell? Pedestrian but close enough to define me for the moment, Mr. Pack. I am a travelling salesman, a broker in articles great and small, deeds great and terrible and a gentleman of some small wealth and great taste - and I have a proposition for you."

Wolfgang grinned.

"There is a place I require you to pay a visit, Mr. Pack. You will find there a grave and inside it a dead man's hand. Bring it to me."

Wolfgang laughed. "You're sure as $^%£ crazy, mister, I guess all that sun done some damage to your health. Why would I rob a grave and steal not money nor riches, but a hand of a dead man?"

The salesman tilted his head - and smiled.

"I know all about you, soldier. Your days in the army, the Rebels you have butchered, The Private Citizens you have . . .mistreated, the Indians you have poisoned. I know what they have inflicted upon you. They danced in the darkest reach of night and called the most Wicked deity they could conceive to prey upon you. At least one of you will accept my offer - the gunslinger tempted by the medicine I proffer and the demon, finally happy to feed on some fresh meat."

Wolfgang took a good look at the . . . man who stood next to him.

"I'll bring you the hand…" he said - and closed his eyes as a great and terrible storm wind blew up. When he opened his eyes he saw a wagon train moving toward him.

Sane mind overcome in a colossal tide of bloodlust, the demon inside him awakened.
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Postby Mr. Volf » Thu Dec 18, 2008 9:17 am

The rotting wooden sign named this hellish place "Boot Hill."

No breathing human visited this cursed locale, for it was never meant for man or woman from the world of the living. It was a place for those who died with their boots on, those brave or foolish enough to take their risks and challenge the gods of luck – and fail.

The Shaman, of course, knew all about Boot Hill, knew much about its residents - both older and new. But with his new title he could walk through the gates of this forsaken cemetery with no fear in his heart, for the spirits that accompanied him were greater than any demon that dwelt amongst the tombstones.

A crow set down on a nearby headstone, evil undead, blood-red eyes shining with malevolence, body almost naked of feathers, little more than rotted meat and yellow bones and old, old hunger. It’s only joy and purpose death, stealer and devourer of souls, feared and fearsome, cunning and wicked beyond mortal measure.

"Go away" the Shaman commanded - and the creature fled in terror.

Dreadful spirits walked amongst the graves, the ghosts of the slain – and worse. Corpse light clung to them like the mould devouring the long-dead gallows tree at the centre of this feast of death and the skeletal corpse that swung from it. Raucous, unearthly songs echoed unnaturally, songs of what dwelt in the Darkness of the World, outside the light and grace of God. There were ghouls as well, creeping about the shadows in search of meat. All of them fled the slight figure of the old Shaman as he passed by.

Finally the old man found the grave he searched for, one of the newest. The earth of the grave had barely settled. ‘Adam Prophet, Ranger’ the tombstone said.

"Come forth again" the Shaman spoke. "Rise and shine your light onto a world of Darkness"

---

Adam Prophet later remembered only great pain and a blazing light before he woke up inside the Mesa, a rocky castle outside time and space.

"Finally awake, pale ranger" the Shaman spoke to Adam "I am Broken Crow, I am a shaman and you will be a welcome guest in my house until you heal and choose to leave."

Adam was confused. His memory returned to him piece by piece and when he remembered that violent evening of his death he looked upon the small, crooked shaman with great fear.

"This is impossible. I died that evening."

Broken Crow smiled, for the first time in a long while. "Correct. You died indeed, brutally murdered. Yet the spirits have their plans for you and as their tool on this Earth it was my duty to bring you back from the Worlds Beyond the World. Your personal belongings are on this table; if you need something just ask."

Adam rose from the bed and walked over to the table. He saw his silver locket; the picture of him and the girl he had loved most of his life inside, a card - the nine of diamonds - his belt and his holsters. "I have need of a gun, sir" Adam swiftly replied to the offer of Broken Crow. "I have several pistols, but most of them are damaged. I hope you can make something of them."

---

I would really appreciate your opinion.
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Postby Libra » Thu Dec 18, 2008 11:39 am

Well I like it! :D
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Postby Mr. Volf » Thu Dec 18, 2008 11:44 am

And that means a lot. :wink:
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Postby Davies » Thu Dec 18, 2008 12:37 pm

Mr. Volf wrote:I would really appreciate your opinion.


The idea that he was not only dead but buried pushes things just a little too far from the source material for my liking ...

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Postby Mr. Volf » Thu Dec 18, 2008 12:55 pm

Well, the Boot Hill I wrote about is not the cemetery from Arizona, instead it's more of a Valhalla-like dimension for the gunslinger's who died during combat, and it resembles a hell pit and is filled with various monstrosities because that would only fit the nature of wild west, law less and violent. Broken Crow found Adam Prophet in that exactly dimension, after he died in a gunfight. It was his soul which the Master Mage resurrected, not his body. Technically I'm not even sure what could happen to the body, I choose to believe that it is now gone and that by means of magic Adam was given a new body to use in his new vendetta.
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Postby Davies » Fri Dec 19, 2008 1:02 pm

Seems more like Gehenna than Valhalla, but I take your point. Still not sure if I like it -- it's just a little too "high fantasy" for my liking. And also kind of reminiscent of the awakening of the Saint of Killers, which I'm sure wasn't your intent ...

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Postby Mr. Volf » Sat Dec 20, 2008 2:15 am

Personally I wanted to create a Weird West setting, which I believe would fit the "Freedom by Gaslight" campaign.

At least that's the impression I've got from all the MnM books (You have vampires, megalomaniacs with steam punk suits, uranium, magicians and a couple of gunslingers to fight the good fight).
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Postby Libra » Tue Dec 23, 2008 10:31 am

Technically I'm not even sure what could happen to the body, I choose to believe that it is now gone and that by means of magic Adam was given a new body to use in his new vendetta.


Perhaps it is more likely that Adam Prophet was ambushed and killed near Mystic Mesa and Broken Crow retrieved his dead body, but found the soul gone, caught between life and true-death in the cosmic waystation Boot Hill?
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Re: Pulp Fiction: Boot Hill

Postby SaintDharma32 » Thu Aug 25, 2011 5:23 am

This is great stuff, and wonderful background filler for adventures up the road.
Do you have another link to your take on Doc Savage/Axel Brass?
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