Scribblertown - So Very Tired - Tumblr Blog

-2024.7.20①

Got 8 likes on twitter trying my chance here

Learning to draw my sunshine wife

New Hanover ⚡

saturn devouring his son

sketches from recent main post

•

oh my dear arthur

i gave you all i had

thign that blew up on twt ig

We ain’t both gonna make it :(

As a rule of thumb, don't reblog donation posts or people asking for donations unless they've been vetted and reblogged by Palestinian bloggers. We usually go to lengths to verify this shit because we know scammers have been faking to get people to send them money, using the urgency of our genocide as bait.

It's disgusting this is what we're dealing with, but people are losing money because of some truly evil people out there.

Accounts don't just randomly spring up on tumblr without gofundmes while asking for someone to help them create a campaign. Fuck out of here with that shit.

and if you leave here, you leave me broken, shattered I lie.

You got sad eyes mister

created an oc for the rdr universe because I wanted to see arthur morgan happy.... anyway she's a seamstress in valentine & i have pages of lore. 😐✍️

Fates of the Fateless Ch 10: Service with a Grimace

it ain't much, sanitary, humane, dignifying, well paying, or fun. But it's honest.

This is a mature story, this is where themes start to become mature and trigger warnings are relevant from this point forward. You have been warned.

TRIGGER WARNING!!

violence against women, graphic description of body horror and violence, implications of rape/non-con

ao3

wattpad

“Hey! Girly, pay attention! I got dishes that need cleaning and customers that need servin’!”

“Yes sir Mr. Roper! On it!” Struggling to corral the mob of drunken men out of your way to reach another soiled table. Quick to wipe it down as quickly as possible while juggling a plethora of shot glasses piled nearly over your head. Dashing to and fro through a crowd with absolutely no regard for your wellbeing. But then again, they were probably too shitfaced to even comprehend anything beyond shoving even more booze contaminated with who knows what down their gullets. Bumping into each other exchanging foul words and even more foul bodily fluids. Leaving you with various questionable stains along the hem of your skirt and shoes. It was dirty work. But at least it was honest work.

“Heeeee—eeeey llady! Me ‘nd my buddies need shomore drrrrinks. Pronto!” Another one of your regulars who you’ve never actually seen leave the saloon slumps against the bar top slapping his hand into the wood to emphasize his pronto, soaking his shirt sleeve into a puddle of mystery liquid that went flying in every other direction upon impact.  

“Ok, ok! Give me a second Albert!” You scrambled around the bar quick to deposit your load of dirty dishes into Mr. Ropers hands as you scramble down the cellar door ladder, shuffling through the sawdust to grab as many bottles of cool liquor as you can while still being able to climb back up. “Money first! Then you get your drinks.” You scold the many grabby hands that lamely flop to their pants, creating a pile of rusted coins that you then swept into your apron’s skirt and over to the large old cash register.

“Hey! Hamish, I’m not paying you to sit around!” Mr. Roper screams over the mob, wiping down glasses with an old rag before deeming them “clean” enough to be served back into the masses. Hamish who was most likely skimming drinks and used cigarettes began an upbeat tune on the old piano, stirring up the group of men even more into a mass of dancing bodies. Busy pouring shot after shot you felt yourself seize up with dread as you watched one particular man lose a boot, soaring through the air before landing a straight bullseye into one of the unemptied spittoons. Pouring it’s viscous and rancid contents all over the floor, only to be stepped in and dragged across the rest of the wooden planks as you felt the start of sick sour the back of your throat.

It’s honest work. It’s honest work. It’s honest work. It’s honest work.

________________________________________________________

It wasn’t until well into the night did the masses finally decide to call it a day, slowly filtering their way out the saloon’s swinging doors leaving anything and everything undesirable for you to clean up. The scene was the same every night. Chairs and tables were strewn across the room, usually not standing and in the wrong places. Playing cards strewn every which way, never adding up to a full 52. Shattered glass shards were to be expected. Vomit was the norm. Someone’s forgotten hat or boot or… shirt? Cigarette butts everywhere but the ashtray. And you’d clean all of it for the hefty sum of $1.42 a night.

But it’s the most fucking honest $1.42 you’ve ever made.

“I’m gonna call it a night Mr. Roper… I’ll uh… see you same time tomorrow.”

Mr. Roper was sucking on a cigar while satisfyingly counting out his piles of cash. “See you then, you too Hamish.” He nods the two of you off with an exhale of white smoke before going back to his counting.

The night air was cool and crisp. A slight breeze brought a light shiver as it passed through your soiled layers. Ones you’ve had to wear for the 3rd week in a row. Now with a full-time job that sucked every ounce of energy and time you had, left you with no time to clean your only other pair of clothes. Your feet barely leave the final wooden step when you hear someone call your name.

Your eyes drift upwards toward the balcony to find a woman. One of the working girls. “Madame Penelope wants a word with you.”

“Look I’m not interested or will ever be interested in that kind of work so-”

“I’m just the messenger. As far as I know she just wants to talk.” She gives you a once over with her eyes, face blank and tired. “I’d at least listen to what she has to say.” She turns her back to you, walking a few steps before stopping and turning her head in your direction. “She’s the only one looking out for us girls, not just her whores.” She then disappears from your view. You almost don’t go back in, far too tired and dirty to really socialize any more, but against your better judgment your feet find themselves climbing up the main level of the building, down a luxurious hallway and finally to the lavish door guarded by the most popular ladies of the night, who swept you inside quickly. 

There was low light inside, a lantern hidden behind a red curtain cast everything in a rose-tinted glow. You spot a large woman scribbling away at a desk, a deep baritone voice finally acknowledged your presence. “Give me a moment darlin’.” A moment passed with only the sound of pen and paper.

“I’m sorry but…I’m not interested in your line of work. And I’m not going to change my mind about it.” You break the silence. 

“Oh, yah’ve proven that much, turnin’ every generous offah me and mah girls throw your way.” She chuckles deep in her chest, she collects whatever paperwork she had into a stack, tapping them into uniform order before placing them to the side, eyes now falling upon your person. “Hm… Young. Pretty little thing.” she eyes you up, taking a moment to really take you in. “Make the sweetest little pet.” She stands, pulling a cigarette from a little metal compact. Lighting it as she comes ever closer. A flick of her hand and the match is extinguished, a deep inhale and a musky cloud of burnt tobacco fills your lungs causing you to cough. “How’d yah end up here?” The wispy smoke clears and you finally get a good look at the mysterious and powerful woman you’ve heard only through whispers and gossip. The boss of the boss. Her hair was a vibrant red, styled in those classic old fashioned sausage curls, perfectly shiny and uniform. Stripes of white and grey could be seen amongst the fiery locks. Her eyes were a deep green, bloodshot, framed by sagging lids and heavy makeup. Lines deep in her face evidence of a long life lived. She was large in stature and frame, ruby colored lips sucking in another puff awaiting your answer. 

“Life happened.” You wave her second puff out of your face. “Are we done here? I’ve got a long day of work tomorrow.” She smiles, another laugh billows past her lips.

“Ah yes, the stable is where yah sleepin’ ain’t it?”

“Can’t afford anything else.” You cough into your elbow, trying to dispel the tickle in your throat. It practically shakes your whole body in the process. She makes a grab for your arm, pinching your wrist and clicking her tongue.

“Haven’t been eatin’ well either. Gettin’ skinny.” Her bright eyes give you a knowing look just past the dark strands of her lashes. Caked with far too much mascara. “Yah could be liven’ bettah if yah come work for me.” As if to rub it in your face she tinkers with the heavy gold set necklace resting along her freckled throat. “Make thrice the commission. A roof ovah yah head. No longah sleepin’ in that filth and gettin’ by with scraps.” Her nails clinked against the shimmering metal.

“I’d be sleeping with the filth instead.” You snatch your hand back. Mr. Roper may be the manager. But she was the boss. If she really wanted to, she could increase your pay without trying to traffic you into sex work.

“Hm, still have that naive vigor of hope in yah eyes.” She taps off the excess ash building up on her cig, “Just haven’t learned the lesson all women come to learn eventually.” She toys with one of her curls, pulling on it before it springs back into form. “We don’t get a choice.” She’s deliberate to blast the next exhale straight into your eyes, causing them to burn and tear up. She glides to her velvet couch, decorated with fine pillows threaded with bright colors. “I didn’t call yah up here to recruit yah.”

“No?” You give her a confused look.

 “A man came by, flashed a big bag of money in mah face askin’ about the new flowah servin’ the devil’s nectah at the bar. Got real haughty when ah told him yah weren’t one of mine.” He. A man has noticed you, the last thing you want in a time where men are free to do whatever they want without regard for someone like you. “Don’t know him, just know he comes through every once in a while.” Her face scrunches up in annoyance. “Don’t trust his kind…” she taps off the extra ash accumulating at the end of her cigarette. “Got that air about him… used to takin’ what he wants. Don’t care if he gotta hurt others to get it.” Her fingers tap aggressively against the velvet arm of the couch, leaving little divets in the fabric as they land.

“Yah got a gun?” you nod your head and a small “yes” leaves your lips. “Good, ah suggest yah keep it on yah person from now on.” She turns away from you, her cigarette a nub in her fingertips now snubbed out into an empty glass cup. She remains transfixed on the ashes. “By the way, I had mah girls fix yah a bath.” She turns to look at you, lids heavy and gaze uninterested. “What’s been said stays between you and ah, undahstand?”

_______________________________________________________

You can feel the cold metal of the gun pressed against your stomach, engulfed by extra fabric and held there by the ribbon on your apron. A poor attempt at a makeshift holster. It’s odd comfort nonetheless. Your hyper aware of every new body that comes in through those swinging doors. Eyes critical and intense, attempting to take in every single detail of each new face that enters your eyeline. Picking apart how their looking at you.

Uninterested.

Annoyed.

Shy.

Dazed.

Lecherous.

Drunk.  

But which one has put a target on your back? Who could be so interested in some nobody? What do you have that they want?

You’re vulnerable.

You’re scared.

You’re alone.

You’re an easy target.

You’ve been nursing the same sleep deprived headache since you got the horrible heads up from Penelope, it throbs just behind your eyes. Making you slightly nauseous. Unable to stomach much and in turn low on energy.

Your hands are shaky causing you to spill a whole 2 shots worth of liquor onto the floor. “Dammit.” Swooping down to wipe up your mess. Low to the ground and preoccupied. A large shiny black shoe enters your vision, fancy and expensive looking, deliberately steps right on your rag. Catching a couple of your fingers.

“Ow! What the hell!?” You angrily snap your head up to chew out whoever felt the need to make your already terrible day even worse. The curse words catch in your throat and your blood runs cold. Deep set brown eyes stare down at you. Hair parted down the middle. And a stupid pencil ‘stache sits atop a smirk.

It was Samson.

“That’s a good look on you.” His eyes narrow and his smile extends up the corners of his mouth. “On your hands and knees, all domestic like.” He grinds his foot down harder, you rip your hand out from underneath the force. Taking some skin off as you do. Standing quick and several steps back, cradling your hand as you gape at him angry and shocked.

Your eyes dart across the many bodies within the saloon, looking for the familiar faces of the gang. But none appeared.  

“Don’t worry, none of Van der Linde’s other strays are here. Just you and me.” He puts his hands behind his back, taking you in with a long and tortuous stare. “I for sure thought you’d be dead by now. From what the others said about you.” When he smiles, his eyes remain cold and dead. “Useless. Stupid. And a waste of a pretty face.” Your heart twists a bit, and you ponder why you feel the sting at the thought of the others saying such things.

“What do you want?” You tried to sound strong and confident. But it comes out exhausted. “I got drinks to serve.” Surely with so many people around he wouldn’t dare do anything.

“By all means, serve me up a whiskey.” He shoves a man aside to take his place at the bar, throwing a couple coins carelessly in your direction.

“Hey what’s your-!“ the customer turns in anger, ready to throw hands before taking in the sheer size of Samson. “uuh- ‘scuse me.” Scurrying away. You’re quick to grab a bottle and a glass. Tempted to dump his drink in a dirty one but think better of it with his eyes watching your every move. Slapping the drink down, deliberately causing some of it to spill.

Samson eyes you up, grasping the glass and taking a swig. Tasting it on his tongue before his face twists.

“Don’t taste like 50 cents worth to me.” Despite his seemingly dislike of the liquor, he throws the rest back and downs the glass. “Now you on the other hand-”

“That’s not part of my job description so save it.” You blank at him, monotone. His smirk drops. Staring you down without a word. He slides the glass towards you aggressively.

“Another.” He says. As you pour he continues to feel the need to speak. “And with a smile this time.”

You deliberately force an even deeper scowl onto your face. Slamming the drink down harder this time, causing the liquid to splash up his shirt.

“Hey! What the hell-!” Before he can get his words out you slip away to the opposite side of the bar where other degenerates await your service.

“What can I get you?” in your peripheral you can see him marching over to you. You stubbornly keep your eyes forward.

“Yeah, let me get a gin.” Your current customer requests. Slipping you the cash, before delving into his pockets again. “And something for yourself.” He utters with a smile.

“Thanks, but I don’t touch the stuff.” You counter, sliding the extra money back to him.

“Hey! I wasn’t done talking to you!” Samson shouts, bulldozing his way directly into your view, knocking the man you were just serving out of the way. However, unlike the other patrons, this one seemed much more daring. Jabbing his elbow into Samson’s side and shoving hard, retaking his place at the bar.

“Watch yourself partner, be nice to the lady…” The strangers face appears calm, but there’s a look in his eyes that says otherwise. Samson eyes him up, smirking. Standing up straight to accentuate his clear advantage in size.

“I had my eye on her first. So, how’s about you run along and find some other whore to disappoint.” Samson jabs his finger into the man’s chest.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” You holler, drawing his gaze to you once more. With the focus now on you the other man took the opportunity to roughly grab Samson’s finger and twist him into the bar top. There was an audible pop along with a shout of pain. The stranger is quick to then grab the glass of booze and slam it down hard onto Samson’s face, shattering on impact and leaving a large bloody gash on his brow. Samson whimpers helplessly against the cold hard bar top, held down by his throat.

“A gentleman would apologize to the lady.” He says it in such a casual manner, as if he was simply talking about the weather and not breaking fingers or nearly gouging a man’s eye out with glass.

“I-I’m sorry okay! I’m sorry!” Samson’s cowardice surfaces with whimpers and misty eyes blinking back the blood that edges dangerously near his lash line. The stranger tilts his head curiously at you.

“That good enough for you?” he asks.

You glare down at Samson, “No. I want him gone. I want him to leave. Me. Alone.” You growl.

“That gonna be a problem for you? Are you gonna be a problem?”

“Nono! I’ll go, I promise I’ll go and never come back!” Samson squirms, the sight leaving you with a disturbing feeling of satisfaction.

“I wouldn’t mind if you hurt him some more…” you spoke, staring directly into Samson’s eyes. And there it was. That look of desperation. 

“By all means, it would be my pleasure.” The mystery man smiles, slamming Samson’s head down on the bar top. HARD. You can practically feel the force shake the floor boards. He does it again before finally letting go, allowing Samson to fall to the floor. In a flurry of panic, he scrambles to his feet and barrels out of the building. Slamming his shoulder into the door frame painfully hard before disappearing. “I think the next time he looks in a mirror he’ll be sure to remember what he’s been told.” Wiping down his jacket, smoothing out the edges.

“Shit…” You mumble, “He didn’t pay for his drink…” You rub your eyes, no doubt the unpaid tab would be coming out of your paycheck.

Guess I’m skipping dinner again…

“Well, I’ve got plenty to spare,” The mystery man digs around in his pockets, a glimmer in his eyes, a handful of bills placed on the damp bar top in a neat pile. 

“That’s too much I don’t-”

“Please, for your troubles.” He begins to pick up his mess of glass and whips out a handkerchief to wipe down the table. 

Your tongue stumbles around in your mouth, only able to muster up a simple “Thank you…” Scooping the bills into your hand.

He pats his hands dry onto his dusty coat, extending one to you. “Daniel.” 

Your hand finds his giving your name, his grip squeezes yours firmly and lingers a bit too long before finally pulling away. “You new to these parts?”

Before you can utter a reply, one of the working girls sidles up to the scene, nestling herself into the crook of Daniel’s side. “Hey honey. Lookin’ for a good time?” Her hand slides up his front as she flutters her lashes. Pressing her bust up towards his face. She shoots you a sneaking glance that said “Beat it.” 

“Um, thank you again Daniel.” You give a small wave. Slipping off to the other side of the bar.

Keeping your eyes laser focused on your dirty dishes. Lingering on an already clean plate before daring a glimpse upwards only to have your eyes meet Daniel’s stormy gray ones once more. He was watching you. A group of men, each of them taking peeks in your direction, linger with him near the entrance. He finally waves with a smile as he departs out the saloon doors.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s the next day. No sleep, but for once some food to put in your belly. Up bright and early for another day of saloon work. You notice the stable owner isn’t around hauling hay, nor his farrier that usually lingered on his old rickety chair, reading the day away. Only Big Enough and his new friends to spend breakfast with. You find them farther in town, along with practically half the town as well clustered together in one spot. 

They’ve all gathered around the opening between one of the buildings. Chatter and concerned looks are exchanged as they continue to gawk at whatever has such a grip on their attention. You drift closer, eyes trying to peek through the small gaps that form each time a body moves. Soon a lawman arrives and attempts to dissipate the crowd, ushering them further back and finally revealing what was once hidden.

A woman lies dead in what was once a puddle of her own blood now soaked up by the sand leaving a damp dark halo around her head. She was facing the sky when she died, eyes glazed and pale, deep bruises around her throat, practically engulfing her whole neck. Blood coating her fingertips and clothes torn from her form leaving her naked and vulnerable for all to see. Even worse, you recognize this girl. Someone you’d seen often around the saloon, always smiling and with a light in her eyes that is now extinguished. Taken away in the night.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything.

Your breakfast doesn’t stay down for long.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re at the bar somberly serving drinks. Unable to manage even your worst half assed customer service facade. 

 “Was she a friend of yours?” you recognize the voice. Eyes slowly trailing up to a face half shrouded by a gray flat billed cap. Gray stormy eyes peeking out.

Your head shakes. “I just… She was just a kid.” What else is there to say? Just a fucked-up situation.

“Well whatever friends she had have a strange way of mourning.” He remarks, eyeing some of the other girls laughing and flirting. Like it’s just another Tuesday.

You watch one of the girls caress her hand down a man’s vest, fingers slowly plucking away buttons before she reaches the bottom. Hand subtly cupping his crotch, her lips find his ear. Whatever is said causes his eyebrows to skyrocket to his hairline. 

“She isn’t making them money anymore so why should they care?” You spit out in frustration. “Sorry,” you sigh out “Did you want anything?” He eyes you for a minute before he leans away.

“How’re the grits today?” He asks, eyeing the menu and its minimal options. After all, this was a brothel not a bed and breakfast.

“Don’t know, I’m not allowed to eat on the job.” You eye the back room to the dingy stove at the back wall, couple of old and likely dirty pots and pans lingering on a low flame. “Probably a little burnt. And I think there’s some beans and rice stewing away.” He knocks his knuckles on the wood bar top.

“I’ll take a plate.” He fiddles in his pockets, money in exchange for a dingy plate of food. And as you predicted, the grits had charred bits in it. He saunters off to a table to eat. You find there to be a few extra bucks thrown in, just for you.

Your day goes by as usual. At one point Daniel brings up his empty plate, exchanging it for a drink. You spot him later playing a game of cards. He comes back up to you for lunch and dinner. And when it’s closing time. He’s helping you turn the stools upside down as you sweep.  

“How’s about I walk you home?” He asks. He notices right away how rigid you get at his proposal. He throws his hands up in a mock surrender. “Now I ain’t being forward or nothin’ but I wouldn’t feel it right to allow a vulnerable young woman to walk alone after…” He pauses, eyes turned upwards in thought, “Well, it just wouldn’t sit right with me.”

Your hands grip the broom, twisting it in your palms. “I don’t live far.” You dismiss. Pushing the pile of dust and cigarette butts towards the entrance. “Besides. I imagine you’re tired of hanging around here all day.” You turn to him with a reassuring smile. “You can head on home. I’ll be fine.” You brush the remnants of dirt and debris off the porch edge.

Daniel cocks his head. “I suppose your mama and daddy wouldn’t be too keen at the sight of their daughter coming home with a stray mutt like me at her heels.” He chuckles to himself. Leaning against the wooden beam. You remain silent a moment. Standing with the broom nestled in the crook of your elbow, resting against your shoulder as you gaze out onto the dark empty street.

Daniel clears his throat, “Pardon me, I didn’t realize- I shouldn’t have assumed your family situation.” He apologizes. You remain silent, eyes watching someone across the street dim their lantern in the window. “Do you have… Is there anyone waiting for you?” He asks. He’s met with the same silence. You hear the scuff of his boots on the hard wood as he pulls away from the beam. “That settles it, I’m walkin’ you home.” You finally turn to meet his eyes, dark stormy gray eyes bearing deep into yours. “I insist.”

You awkwardly lead the way, walking at a brisk pace, keeping just ahead of him. Your hands nestled securely atop the hidden pistol, pressing it into your belly. “I noticed the other girls don’t seem too friendly with you.” He comments.

“No, not really.” You blank.

“Don’t like the competition I suppose.”

“I only serve drinks. Nothing more.” You curtly correct. “I guess… they probably assume I think I’m better than them to do… well what they do.”

“Jealous at your conviction.”

“I don’t know about that.” You both fall quiet; you can practically feel his eyes on the back of your head.

“And your boss. He treatin’ you well?”

“I don’t get breaks, I don’t get meals, and I don’t get to keep my tips.” You tilt your head just enough to see him in your peripheral. “So not really.”

“That include-“

“Yeah.” You interrupt, “It was very kind of you to give me all that extra cash but, you’re just lining his pockets.” Or more like Penelope’s. Her girls watching you like a hawk; you’d seen the beatings that came with disobedience.

The two of you had finally made it to the big green wooden door of the stable. You see the farrier smoking a pipe and reading by lantern just outside of the side door. He pays you two no mind, but his presence is a comfort none the less. You turn to finally face Daniel; he slows with a confused look on his face. Eyeing up the stable barn and then back to you.

“I told you; I don’t live far.” It’s true, the barn itself was well within sight of the saloon. Really just a pleasant stroll down the street. “I um- I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.” Daniel calls your name.

“Things’ll get better. I promise you that.” He smiles and winks. You only huff a small laugh.

“I sure hope so.”

The next day Mr. Roper, walking a bit strangely, silently hands you an envelope with your name written in elaborate cursive on the front. There are various bills inside along with a hand written note in the same cursive.  

I keep my promises.

D.O.

raccoon fakemon idea...

diving into rebelle 7 once more

a life for the king

matthew 5:6

ALL EYES ON RAFAH. WE WILL NOT FORGIVE. WE WILL NOT FORGET.

This design is free to redistribute and repost. Download here.

old crush in the west

Fates of the Fateless Ch.9: Outlaw's Staple

ao3

wattpad

Arthur startles awake, the culprit being his own snoring pulling him out of a hazy dream and into the consequences of drinking a bit too much in one night. 

“Ouugh…” His hands cradle his swollen and sweaty face, a throbbing headache just behind his eyes that peaks each time his heart beats. At least he was sober enough to find his cot last night. “Goddamn…” He forces himself up albeit a bit too fast, vision blinded with white and his head swimming. Stumbling until his hands find the familiar lip of the water barrel’s open top, heaving a great handful of icy water into his face, banishing the remnants of his hangover at least for a time. He takes a moment to just rest over the water's surface, staring at his reflection on its rippling surface. 

Good Lord, you're an eyesore… 

Bags under his eyes, red splotches on his face, and his hair cowlicked to high hell. His eyes then draw to the sight of his right hand resting partially submerged in the water. His knuckles were split, red and bruised. A slight dull pain, yet he had no memory of how or what caused the injury. He was so curiously absorbed in the mystery he nearly missed the call of his name. 

“Huh?” He hums, eyes wandering aimlessly until he spotted Grimshaw.

Her face twists with amusement, “I take it you had fun last night Mr. Morgan?”  

“Uh-hehheh-course.” He dives back into the barrel, rubbing another handful of water to the back of his neck, the cool droplets trailing down his back. “I always go a little overboard.”

“You put on quite the show, best entertainment we’ve had in a while!” She chuckles.

“Uuhh… yeah?” Arthur mumbles out a confused reply. 

“Anyhow, I was goin’ to ask if you’ve seen our little stowaway?” 

“Uh…” His mind reels back to the night before, playing poker with her at the table, maybe a brief memory of her at the fire pit but other than that… “No, sorry I haven’t been awake very long.”

“Hmph. Alright then, but if you do send her my way.”

“Will do.” Grimshaw skirts away leaving Arthur to stumble back to his tent, leaning over his little mirror. “Might be time for a shave.” He ponders, rubbing the course hairs that have grown especially long. He takes to trimming the length of hair with a pair of shears before slathering his face in shaving foam. Carefully dragging the sharp blade of his steel straight razor across his skin. There stood before him the bare face of Arthur Morgan. Somehow even sadder looking than usual.

Maybe shoulda kept the beard, cover up this ugly mug.

“Looking very sharp Mr. Morgan!” A bright faced Jie approaches. “You’re much younger under all that hair than I thought you’d be.”

“Hehheh, suppose my permanent scowl doesn’t help much.” Arthur pats his face down with a damp towel. “Whatchu’ need?”

“That obvious?” the young man tilts his head with a smile, “I was wondering if you’d take me and some of the others out on a job.”

“Got one in mind?” Arthur adjusts the leather tie on his hat, ensuring its security before depositing it upon his head, shrouding his face from the harsh sun.

“Well, uh not-not really.” Jie fumbles.

“Alright, follow me.” Without missing a beat Arthur leads the way, an idea already in mind. “Hey! Joseph!” He whistles, pulling the red head out of a book he’d been digging his nose into. “Come on kid!”

As the boys saddle up Arthur can’t help but notice one horse was missing, the big and burly bastard the stowaway had taken to.

“Where we goin’ Mr. Morgan?” Joseph asks excitedly. “We robbin’ some folk!?”

“Course,” Arthur leads the way out of camp giving Boadicea a reassuring pat. “Bout time you boys start learning the ins and outs of the outlaw life.”

“Boy howdy! Who we robbin? A train maybe?” The boy was eager. Very eager.

Arthur chuckles to himself, “A train ain’t a job you want to take on without plannin’, no we’re going for the outlaw’s tried-and-true stage coach.”

“You get much cash from those?” Jie inquires, a little doubt in his voice.

“You’d be surprised what you stumble upon. What you don’t find in metals or cash can easily be made up at a fence.”

“How long you been doing this sort of thing?” Joseph asks.

“Long.” Arthur quips quickly. Maybe a little harshly. “Now I doubt we’ll be seein’ a bank coach out this way. Maybe if you’re real lucky, next best thing is the real flashy kind. Fools dumb enough to advertise how much cash they got with a fancy coach driver dressed up in suit. Maybe some velvet trimming along the carriage. Passengers preened and plump with more than what they need.” Arthur chuckles, they settle on a ridge overlooking an obvious road paved down by years of use. It doesn’t take long before they spot someone using it. Arthur whips out his binoculars.

“What about that one?” Joseph asks.

The coach itself was small, dingy looking with one of the wheels a color off from the rest. Pulled along by a single horse and a hunched skinny man wiping the sweat from his eyes.

Arthur can’t help the puff of a scoff come out his mouth, “That your idea of fancy?”

“Well I-I don’t know! I ain’t done anything like this before.” Joseph rubs his neck bashfully. “ ‘sides, couldn’t see ‘em very well from up here…” he mumbles.

The two young men wait anxiously as Arthur scans the road slowly.

“Hold on now…” Arthur mutters, a trail of dust coming down the way revealing a much larger carriage pulled forward by two healthy and bulky shires. “This might be somethin’…”

A moment passes in silence as Arthur watches transfixed on the target. Slowly revealing itself with a heavy load of luggage strapped down tightly to the body. The bright paint while faded still vibrant in the sun.  Maroon curtains drawn to hide the passengers within.

“Yeah? We got somethin’?” Joseph pipes up again.

“I think so.” Arthur smirks. Pocketing his binoculars. “Get yer faces covered, now follow my lead and let me do all the talkin’ understand?” Arthur leads Boadicea down the slope, trailing the road towards the approaching carriage. Joseph and Jie on either side of him.

“When we’re close, each of you pick a side.”

“Yes sir.”

“Got it.”

The driver clearly spots them, his posture straightening up in alarm as he slows the horses.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes, we was wonderin’ if you could point us in the direction-“ Arthur quickly unholsters his gun and whips it trigger ready at the drivers face. “-of any and all the money you’ve got.” The sound of surprise that escapes the driver is comical, his hands shooting straight up eyes wide switching back from the gun to Arthur’s piercing gaze. Jie and Joseph are quick to draw their weapons as well, aiming their sights on the driver.

“D-don’t shoot!” The driver shudders.

“Now we don’t want trouble. So ‘slong as you and your passengers behave, my bullets will stay where they are.” Arthur makes eye contact with Jie and nods his head towards the coach. Jie in turn quickly hops off his horse, approaching the door cautiously before whipping it open. A bout of screams follows.

“Money!” he shouts, “Everything you’ve got!”

“Watch the driver.” Arthur speaks to Joseph as he dismounts and circles to the other carriage door. Inside are 4 people. A woman and 3 men. All agitated and desperately throwing out all their valuables onto the dirt ground in haste. The woman struggling to pull her earrings off with shaky hands. The men emptying out their pockets of bills and coins. A pocket watch flying ungracefully out of one’s hand and bouncing off the carriage step into the dirt with a thud. Jie crouches down to gather the goods as Arthur stands guard.

“Keep them hands up!” Arthur commands. Observing each member carefully before his eyes drift toward to a carpet bag nestled between one of the men’s legs. “What’s in the bag?” The man whom cradles the case visibly pales at the question.

“N-nothing!” The man speaks with a strong accent.

Arthur whistles to catch Jie’s attention, he’s quick to lean in and grab the handle and pull. But stalled by the stranger’s desperate attempt to keep his cargo from being taken.

“Nē, nē, nē, nē! Lūdzu!” he cries in a foreign language. Pulling vigorously, “Please, you take enough!”

Arthur steps in quickly, taking the butt of his pistol and ramming it into the man’s nose. “Well now I’m real curious.” The others cry out in alarm as their friend whiplashes back into his seat.

“Henriks, Dieva dēļ, vienkārši ļaujiet viņiem to paņemt!”

“Vai jūs labprātāk zaudētu savu dzīvību?”

Whatever they say seems to keep his protests at bay allowing Jie to snatch the bag out and nestles it onto the ground, rustling about its contents. Some papers, a horse bristle brush, smelling salts. He stalls at a tied balled up handkerchief.

“Dzīve ir izšķērdēta jums, zagļu zvēriem!” The man grovels past his fingers that cradle his nose, blood pooling out past the digits and dribbling crimson onto his white collar. Jie looks to Arthur with a face of confusion.

“What is it?” Arthur inquires.

“An egg?” Jie shrugs in confusion, holding up the prize of a pure white chicken’s egg.

“This man was so up in arms over his lunch?” Joseph utters in disbelief.

“Just a moment…” Jie inspects the egg further, giving the surface a few good taps. “I think it might be porcelain.”

“Looks like your tea set will be a piece short. Now put your head down and count to 100.” Arthur urges with a thrust of his gun, causing the inhabitants to flinch. But they do as they’re told quickly. “Same goes for you.” Arthur threatens the coach driver.

“1.2.3..” He begins shakily.

“I can’t hear you!” Arthur yells as he and the other two men saddle up quickly.

“4!5!6!” The driver shrieks. The echoing of “10,11,12” could be heard on the wind well after they’d left them in the dust.

“Jie how much we get?”

“Close to a hundred at least. And that’s only the paper money!”

“That more than 2 months pay!” Joseph excitedly exclaimed. “I could buy Agatha a new dress and shoes and and-“

“Don’t go counting yer chickens yet kid, the camp gets its share remember?” Arthur jumps in before Joseph can continue on his shopping list.

“Oh-uh- right right. But it’s still beats the mines I’ll tell you what!”

“Not coming home with a bad cough and an aching back.” Jie says, “And money in our pockets in the matter of minutes!”

“To think no one else thought to join up, even after all that money Mr. Van der linde distributed from the treasury.” Joseph recalls with a shake of his head, “Hell! To think I almost didn’t!”

“Still plenty of time to regret that choice.” Arthur teases. Soon enough the camp site fell into view, the men making one last look around before descending home. Upon arrival Agatha cheerfully approached welcoming Joseph with a smile and a tight hug.

“Where’d you go you silly man!” She playfully scolds, “I was gettin’ worried!”

“Oh, Agatha you won’t believe how much money we made!” Joseph pulls down his stained bandanna. Face sweaty and red from being in the sun, a toothy smile as he beamed with excitement. “And from just one job!”

“Hey, Jay let me see that egg.” Arthur motions his hand in a “gimme” motion. Jie complies opening the kerchief and depositing in his hand. The thing fills out the majority of his palm, significantly bigger than any chicken’s egg. The surface is shiny, and smooth to the touch. The pearlescent surface appeared almost pure white, but upon closer inspection the barest etching could be felt and seen in a certain light. Depicting a country side, a homestead, and various livestock. All framed by Victorian escue floral patterns.  “You said this was porcelain?” Arthur asks Jie as he turns the odd treasure in his hand, inspecting the many intricate details along it’s surface.

“By the feel and look of it, I’d wager its enamel. Especially the way it reflects the light.” Jie points out. Confident in his assessment.

“You know a lot about this kinda thing?” Arthur asks curiously.

“I had family in Jingdezhen.” Jie answers, only to receive a confused look. He rolls his eyes slightly, “I’m from China. I know about china.”

“Aw of course!” Arthur nods, his attention turning back to the egg. His brows furrow. “How’re your repair skills? Looks like there’s a crack in the-“ before he can finish his thought, the egg splits down the middle in a perfect line.

“Shit! You broke it!” Joseph cries out in disappointment.

“No! I didn’t do nothin’!” Arthur denies defensively.

“There’s something inside!” Jie excitedly points out. Along the perfectly split seam something larger gleamed out at them. Arthur delicately pries one side away to reveal the prize inside. A gleaming solid gold chicken nestled inside a crimson velvet nest.

“I guess we know which came first then.” Agatha commented, bewildered by their discovery.

“My God.” Arthur delicately plucked the bird from its luxurious resting place and held it up in all its glory. The eyes sparkling gems, the feathers varying shades of precious metals.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” Hosea had sauntered over, arms behind his back as he also admires the small trinket. “You go robbin’ some giant at the top of a bean stalk?”

“Stage coach.” Arthur replies, carefully depositing the golden chicken back in its container. Handing it off to the old man. “These boys did good; job went without a hitch.”

Hosea delicately twists and turns the egg in his fingers. “Curious treasures people carry these days.” He turns to the younger men, “And worth a pretty penny no doubt.” He shakes the egg at them, they smile excitedly. “Oh, and did you boys happen to see our little stowaway while out on your little egg hunt?”

“Stowaway? Who’s the stowaway?” Agatha asks confused.

Hosea speaks her true name, “It’s quite a story-“ He stops himself, “Not important, but have you seen her?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her all morning…” Agatha replies.

“No, m’fraid not.” Arthur shrugs his shoulders. “Grimshaw was asking earlier today. She still missin’?”

“Hm.” Hosea hums, “Thank you boys, you’ll be sure to get your fair share.” He dismisses the others.  

“Everything ok?” Arthur ponders.

“Probably.” Hosea replies, his attention drawn by the sight of Tilly approaching hurriedly.

“Arthur!” Tilly calls out, her voice cracks slightly. “Arthur, have you seen (y/n)?”

“No, no I’m sorry but I haven’t.” Arthur peers out over the camp, no sign of said woman. “She been gone long?”

“No one’s seen her since the party. I’ve searched high and low. John went out to search up by the water but he hasn’t come back yet.” She squirms in place a moment. Fidgeting with her skirt nervously. “I’m real worried.”

“I noticed that horse she’s been usin’ was missin’ too…” Arthur mutters. Tilly perks up, her gaze looking past him to John freshly dismounted from the saddle, alone.

“Did you find her?” She urgently asks.

“Nothin’.” John shrugs. Tilly’s fidgeting worsens.

“Now let’s not panic,” Hosea says, a hand on Tilly’s shoulder. “She’s a grown woman, I’m sure she’s fine.” He smiles.

“But-“

“I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Hosea interrupts, patting her back as he saunters off.

“Would you boys mind-“ Tilly starts.

“We’ll keep an eye out.” Arthur assures. John nods in agreement.

“Thank you.”

Hosea’s no doubt right, he’s almost always right. But Arthur can’t help the sense of suspicion he has at the timing and strangeness of the stowaway’s disappearance. Hosea’s probably right. His feet carry him to the resting place of Samson. One of his shoes are missing, bottles that once held booze lay empty around his unconscious body. The only tell that he was still (unfortunately) breathing was the slow up and down motion of his pot belly stomach.  

Arthur’s eyes draw to the bloody, swollen split in Samson’s lip. The lower half of his face puffy and red. Arthur unconsciously rubs his thumb over one of his bruised knuckles. “He been up at all?” Arthur interrogates Abadiano, whom sits nearby rolling a cigarette. The old man chuckles as he deposits the cig between his lips. He digs around in his jacket before pulling out a match.

“Been out since you put him down.” He puffs, “Maybe he rolled over in his sleep and crushed that girl you’re looking for.” He grins, kicking his boot into Samson’s shoulder roughly, whom twitches but remains unconscious.  

Arthur huffs. A shake of his head, turning to leave. Hosea’s probably right.

hi everyone, i decided to make another zine. its free to share and print and translate, you dont have to ask me, you dont have to give me credit. you can download the full png here . the situation is dire, please check out gaza funds and donate if you possibly can. yes, one euro, two euro donations stack up, there is power in numbers.

there are tutorials on how to print and fold a mini 8 pages zine, so check that out if you wish to print these and leave them around. please share share share donate boycott protest email do anything you can