NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC NOTE: There’s racism in this thread. It has a purpose, and it’s not meant to sound cool or anything, this story is an important part of Guffingfords history.

IC:
A Story set in the Past

This story takes place in a nation torn apart by colonial powers, the British, the French, the Dutch, Germans and for a small part, the Spanish. Only a few years ago, in 1890, Knootoss, the Dutch Motherland gave the colony of Oos Seeland partial independence because the situation there began to take shapes no government likes to see. What happened? Many things. For example, abolishment of slavery and serfs. This came as quite a blow to many farmers in the nation, and the enduring trouble with the native Indians. When the Vikings entered Vinland and began to colonize it, they called the Indians living there ‘Skraelings’, or ‘Wildmen’ in our language. A name, virtually the same, placed all the natives in a box and the inhabitants and colonists of Guffingford called them collectively Skraelings as well. But you have to read what happened then, it shows many similarities with the United States back then, when they were fighting Indian tribes too. Little Bighorn, Wounded Knee, Nez Perce, Rosebud… That’s the kinda thing what I am talking about. It might be good to take a look at the map of our nation. You can view it here if you wish. Before I start the story, I have to travel a few years back in time, back to the mysterious days when slavery was finally banned in 1872.

Map of Guffingford after the War of Luambo (http://img324.imageshack.us/img324/9352/map18959ag.jpg)

Guffingford, 1872

It was a quiet day. Tumbleweed blowing through the dusty town of Green Flats, one of the many miner’s towns in this land. Three men were digging in the brown soil, turning up ancient rocks, sometimes bones of long extinct mammals and fish, but most of the time gold nuggets. The soil is so rich with the precious yellow material it has passed rarity. The rest of the villagers were either busy with irrigation of the small farmland, others doing things while the women were cooking and cleaning. Days past, day turned into dusk, dusk turned into night and so on. From dusk till dawn life never changed, until the day when a certain individual from the British parts named Lord Somerton introduced some fairly odd laws about slavery. He wanted to ban it because – and you won’t believe me – because it’s not human to have other ‘humans’ as your private property. Unbelievable. This caused quite a stir, and not only in the parts under (in)direct British influence. Especially the Germans could not appreciate Lord Somerton’s nonsense and quickly told the German farmers not to pay any attention to his inane ramblings. Still, the German motherland back in Europe kind of agreed with the British over there and told their governor, a random aristocrat, to ban slavery. This happened against the will of just about every farmer, and German colonial troops had to show off their power by incarcerating some farmers who happened to cause a bit too much trouble. Not much happened afterwards, except for a few protest marches, uprisings and some racist feelings surfacing. Still, things remained calm until many former slaves decided it was time to move on, onwards to the large, and largely unexplored, areas in central Guffingford to build their luck. The colonial powers couldn’t care less about a few slaves moving over there, and let them to move freely around those parts. It’s not like anyone lived there from Europe or America, so all objections would’ve been motivated purely by racism.

1882

Those former slaves were doing well. Very well, in fact. They did not found gold, but silver. One of the first major silver findings in Guffingford. Like I said earlier, gold lost its rarity and silver was a welcome new mineral to mine. Rich silver and other important ore deposits were excavated, rails across Guffingford were laid to transport tools and miners to the new central area’s. Yet nobody choose to colonize it. Since everyone wanted a piece of the land, the nations who bordered on the new state in the center decided it was best to leave it beyond European control. However, each of the states encouraged their own explorers and diggers to go out and search for silver – and move it back to their own domain. This system lasted for a few months when a shady individual, an ex-slave known as James Kembe, declared the new territory he founded along with his brothers to be fully independent and a sovereign nation. This caused controversy and quite a shock, since Liberia was the only other nation where ex-slaves were able to found their own ‘republic’. And since the new state, the name already passed away into obscurity as I write this… Oh yes, the name was ‘The Democratic Republic of Luambo’, named after an African chieftain killed by Spanish troops years ago. That was something back then, when the Spanish managed to capture him. Tied to a bullwhip, they dragged him through the paved streets of Del Monte Pelado, his feathers and clothes serving as a primitive war loot. Naked he was carried around, people laughed at him, enjoyed every sight of him when he was in pain. Eventually the Spanish wanted to leave him to rot in some deep dungeon far away, some even say they wanted to take Luambo to Mexico, so he couldn’t cause any more grief and trouble. And don't tell me you didn't saw this coming, but a few bounty hunters from Spain killed him before he was thrown into the belly of the ship. The Spanish soldiers just allowed it to happen, all of them looked to the sea when he was stabbed seventy six times.

No one was particularly happy with the new republic, and many voices were raised in desperate anger. Racism, racism and more racism followed. Houses were burned, people lynched and other nasty things. But this did not bend or break the spirit of the Luambo people. To put it stronger, they began to kick troublesome white citizens from their land. Even Lord Somerton himself was asked to leave when he wanted to speak with their King, James Kembe the 1st. Lord Somerton in his fury swore he was going to take revenge one way or another, some day. Kembe laughed at these accusations, calling them lies of a bitter man. A man who can only write libel, a lewd personality. That’s what he said. Nevertheless, Somerton wasn’t as vengeful as he claimed to be, and the whole issue was dismissed by both parties. The Germans and the Dutch weren’t interested in making political connections with King James Kembe, and only economic things attracted them. The Spanish weren’t welcome and the British did not want to deal with the Rep. of Luambo at all.

1895

The year of the catastrophe. The year of the war. Unlike any other war in Guffingford this one had zero meaning. No resources involved, no politically connected happenings, just racism and hatred. Jealousy and inequality is a highly dangerous mixture to start hating a certain group of people, and it is exactly what happened.

Captain Morgan Bucksley of the 3rd Dragoon Battalion, someone from Guffingfordian origin sat in a backwards saloon called ‘The Waggon and Horses’ in the little town of Blue Boar, sipping from his millionth glass of gin. He didn’t even felt the burn in his throat anymore, the only thing he felt was the need to drink. Bucksley was kinda depressed about a lot of things and he was bitter. Bucksley waved with his hand and the bartender shambled to Bucksley’s table, dropped a bottle of gin and went off to polish shot glasses again. In an instant, Bucksley had enough of his drinking habit. Suddenly his mind was as sharp as a knife, and crystal clear. He left without paying, and the barman didn’t even seem to care. Upon leaving the building, Bucksley was confronted with the insane amount of sunshine, scorching the fractured earth beneath his leather boots. As he stood there, searching for his tobacco to fill his pipe a man on horseback came riding to the city limits, swift and as fast as the wind. The horse was black, probably a Friesian beast imported from The Netherlands. On the horse’ back sat a man from the Dem. Rep. Of Luambo. Moments later he halted near Bucksley, smiling and showing a row of the whitest teeth you can imagine. Obviously this man was rich enough to pay a dentist in Redmound or wherever those physicians are located.

“My good man” he began talking “I am wondering where I can find a carriage, four horses to transport some money to Hoogenbosch. It’s a payment to Mr. Egon Vimes. He was so kind to lend me tools I need, but now the greedy bastard wants to get paid for it. Wretched man… Well, speak up man. Where can I hire a carriage and four horses?” Bucksley wasn’t in the mood to talk to this man, and demanded he’d introduce himself first. His name was Spivey Adelba, a rich investor from Luambo alright.

“Well Mr. Adelba what if I say you’re nothing but a piece of shit to me.” Adelba didn’t even look up, until Bucksley took out his military piece of hardware from his holster and pointed it to Adelba’s forehead. Sweat began to form on Adelba’s face, but he didn’t move a muscle. If he was going to grab his Rundevelt pistol, this man was going to kill him.

“Easy there my friend, why the hate? I just want to know where I can get a damn carriage. Is that so fuck… bloody difficult? Put your gun down now!” This wasn’t smart. Bucksley – drunk and agitated by the heat – held his hand still and the gun barrel did not move an inch from the point between Adelba’s eyes. He cocked his gun.

“I’m not your friend ******, now go away or I’ll shoot you like the cowardly dog you are!”
Adelba wasn’t going to wait until Bucksley fainted or fell asleep so he took his chance… And died. He knew his chance of taking out his revolver, aiming, cocking and firing was going to take too long. A gaping hole between his eyes, and blood, brains and bone splattered out the back of his skull as his body fell lifeless onto the sandy soil. Blood gushed from the wound, and all Bucksley did was inspecting the body for money. And indeed, money is what he found. Silver, gold. Very nice indeed.

What Bucksley didn’t know is that the consequences are going to be of his actions. Mr. Adelba happened to be one of King James Kembe’s most trusted and important advisors, set out to secure major business deals with Dutch industrials. Because the identity of Adelba’s assassin remained a mystery, the Rep. Of Luambo’s administration thought is was a German attempt to sabotage the very lucrative business contract. With Mr. Adelba’s death the business deal was in serious jeapardy. The Germans denied any and all connections with the murder. The Dutch somehow knew a white man was behind it – and the Germans were likely to suspect the same thing but Catholic Dutch Christians living in Hoogenbosch weren’t very keen on making connections with Luambo being a protestant country. So they blamed Lumabo nationalists having plotted to kill poor Mr. Adelba, because he wasn’t loyal to their African culture and heritage. Germans accepted this theory as truth and so it went into the records. However, people in Luambo were sure a white man did this, they were all too familiar with hatred and racism whenever they visit a town with a white majority.

And soon enough, the same voices who yelled the proclamation of Luambo Sovereignty (not recognized by any of the colonial powers present in Guffingford) began to rally their people to create an army. With the money earned with their farming, silver mining and other economy related things the Ministry of War was made, and 10,000 troops were equipped with the most modern rifles and pistols, bronze cannons, artillery and mortars.

To be continued…

Ok, that wasn't quite unexpectable. Especially when you take all the tensions between the Zarbia nation to the west into account, the border tensions and all related crap. You see, in 1895 – the year where we are right now – the world is carved up between France, Britain, Imperial Russia and a few other, lesser imperialist nations. Guffingford was, and still is to be frank, a very volatile place to be. Racial tensions are a daily occurance, and things haven't changed since slavery was banned many long years ago. I'll continue my story.

Redmound, a so called “Independency”

Edmund Rappen, people knew him by the name 'Ed Rappen', a Swiss adventurer, a hitman and a notorious bounty hunter came to Guffingford a while ago, and immediately he knew how to get everyone's attention. Raiding parties into Luambo, killing off hordes of independent farmers who didn't want to hand over their land to a rich and fat Land Master. Punisher of people who refused to pay landtax, or clean-up man of unwanted foreigners, namely the ex-slaves.

“Hi ther' Ed, done a few hits today?” A young guy, in his early twenty's helped Ed Rappen off his smart horse, and took his bags.

“I'm doing fine my good man, and I have to disappoint you for once.” he replied, and with an energetic pace he walked into the nearest saloon for a drink. He only drank 'Absint', something from Switzerland. Everybody liked the guy, and not because he killed them blackies in the first place, no, they just liked him because he's the typical adventurer, a strong man with no fear. Well there was one annoying thing about him: his German accent. Terrible, he couldn't pronounce 'the', 'their', or any word starting with a 'th'.

“Jolly Josh, also known as Josquinne Faber I want you to pour me a drink.” The bartender grabbed his bottle from under the bar, removed the cork and poured a little bit in a glass.

“Stop there parter, I want a double today.” The bartender poured the same amount of the colorless liquid in Ed's glass, and once Jolly Josh put the cork back on the bottle Ed shook a little with the glass, and started drinking. He looked around the Saloon, not much people for a Saturday. Ed walked around the dusty place, but did not want to sit down. And on that very moment Morgan Bucksley walked in, drunk of course.

"Well, look who we have there" Ed said scoffingly, looking towards Bucksley. Ed inspected Buckley closely, much to his dismay and disappointment Bucksley looked quite good today. No stains or any other marks of filth on his army jacket.

"Wha--? Oh... Hi Ed... How's life today?" Bucksley didn't bother to look up, for he was too busy to find some money in his pockets.

"Average, but by the looks of you, you seem a bit... Confused?"

"Ya damn right. So I shot this ****** a few days ago, damn a political riot and lots of other shit and what the hell give me a drink Josh." Staggering to the bar, bumping into tables and chairs and the like, almost tripping over his own feet, he managed to reach the bar.

"Goddamn! That's the stuff I am talking about, two inch of Scottish holy water please." Josh grabbed the first glass he saw, poured the nearly black liquid and gave it to Bucksley. In one sip the glass was empty again.

"So I killed that ****** *burp* oh yeah I did. Goddamn, what a joke. I just shot him through his head. Through his head ya' hear!"

"Morgan Buckley, everyone kills them intruders. Don't act like you're some kind of legendary person. The only guy with half the guts you have lies in the gutter..."

"...Or lives in Luambo!" Loud laughter followed from the few people who were present in the Red Storm Saloon in Redmound. Hysterically they laughed at Bucksley, and yet he didn't even know it was about him. The poor bugger thought it was about his pathetic story.

"So Mr. Bucksley, what was the name of that man?" Jolly Josh tried to be serious, but the intriguing look on his terracotta face, pale and old, was obviously feigned. Giggling like little children, crazed miners, deranged office workers and other sad products awaited.

"Yeah... What was his name again...? Something like, there was this picture of him in the Hoogenbosch Berig... Few days ago. Yeah. I'd say Adelba. Or something. Whatever, give me another one Jolly Josh... I'm dying for a drink, my throat is as sore as your mothers ass!"

When he spoke the name Adelba, everybody became silent. Suddenly, no one knew what they should feel for Bucksley. Respect, hatred or something undefined as human feeling? A mixture of senses and feelings, something is said no one has said before, and has done what no one has dared to do before. Did he do it as a drunkard but perhaps did he want to kill Mr. Adelba? It does not matter now, it happened. Such stories do not stay secret for long, and within a few days after Bucksley made his confession unknowingly, the story has spread to faraway corners of Guffingford.

A Dragoon from the army, not some freebooter like Ed Rappen killed a most important delegate from Luambo.

To be continued...

As said before, a few days later...

Sheriff 'Flowering' Frankie wasn't happy. Not happy at all. In fact, he disliked every aspect of his department Redmound. Frankie himself was quite a religious man, and well. Redmound's not a very religious place. Only three churches, a few missionary (out)posts and that's about it. So what happens? Brothels being full of sexually frustrated workers, sex addicts, pedophiliacs and other scum. Yeah, that was Guffingford back in the day.

Okay, so there were a few rooms for people to fiddle, fuck and do all sorts of kinky stuff to each other. As long as they paid rent for a day, a few hours or even ten minutes the innkeeper didn't look up at odd things. He saw lots of things. Just today, when Jimbo came down the stairs. Jimbo, a plump man in his late fifties trudged down the staircase only five minutes after a young girl, no older than fifteen ran down the same stairs, crying for her mother. Jimbo looked at her as she ran – and fell a couple of times – towards the exit. While Jimbo was busy with his belt and tying his shoelaces, the girl was already on the streets.

"Mommy! Mommy!" That's what she kept yelling, Flowering Fankie saw it, and he did nothing. What could he do about it? If that kid earns a few guldens to make a living for herself and her family, so be it. No matter how sick it is. Now don't say to me those things don't happen quite often. They do happen, and I even want to bet a bag of money it happens daily. Jolly Josh himself witnessed a few murders, assassination attempts, bank robberies and other crimes. But who cares? And even when people did, what can they do about it? Nothing I tell you. The Red Storm Saloon is a major hub in smuggling, 'illegal' prostitution, and other 'under the counter' kind of deals.

Morgan Bucksley was still – when exactly isn't he? - drunk, lying quite lifeless on the ground while Josh was sweeping the floor. Although nobody paid direct attention to Bucksley's affairs, everybody kept a close watch at any persons from Luambo poking around. News has spread Bucksley did it, and admit doing it, so an assassination attempt is likely. This did not happen, however, the political assassination attempts, the endless sniping at each other did not lessen. Moreover because killing Bucksley would mean even more anger and hatred, and since the majority in Guffingford does not grasp the slightest bit of both national and international politics, its a safe medium to insult and slash at each other. Only one person understood it all who mucks about in the parts of the nation where the most fierce racism is: Ed Rappen.

"My gentlemen, have you heard what this King James of Luambo, black and rude said to our government in Hoogenbosch?" No replies. "He said that we are a no better than headhunters from New Guinea, bushmen from Rhodesia, wildmen from dark parts of Africa! Listen, they are building an army to protect themselves against our so called raids."

"Why should they, its our land they have taken, we should have an army to protect us from their bad influence." Jolly Josh threw in, to act like a wise man.

"Hell yeah!" Someone said.

"It is good to find supporters here" Ed said. "But I must warn all of you fine people, we have to make them pay for all their crimes against us. Bucksley killed a man because he was threatened, and more will be killed if we do not stand up for ourselves." Although Rappen's explanation for Bucksley's deeds were false, people bought it. "My friends" he continued, "tomorrow at midnight, we shall ride into the darkness and take what is ours. Burn their buildings!"

To be continued...

Some time after the last entry...

Some people are born ugly. Some people are born like decent children and grow to be ugly later on in their lives. Some people are naturally born beautiful. The last category is rare in these days, since everybody is dusty, unwashed and for the men among us, unshaven. Every one of them and me included is wearing sandy leather boots, a boring leather jacket, a boring hat (fedora mostly) and carries a pistol, two sometimes and a shotgun or a rifle on his or her, yes her, back.

It was in the same town again, Blue Boar – a dumber name is hard to come by, even in Guffingford. Still, we place ourselves in this town where the citizens are either getting drunk in the saloon or getting drunk in the mines which are only a stone throw away. Yes, and our friendly hero Morgan Bucksley was there too, waiting for someone to bring news, or someone willing to pay his bills. Whichever comes first, it is fine with him.

All of a sudden, people started to enter the nameless Saloon. Among them was a person who was even less popular than Morgan Bucksley, his name was Xaviero Guerra, a typical desperado from Nueva Extremadura, from the far east. Although he didn't came that often to the western parts of Guffingford, when he did came people looked at in a way: "please get the fuck out of here fast." Carrying two Rundevelt .45 pistols, he wasn't exactly a criminal to piss off. Some of his fellow goons stood besides him, their faces not showing the slightest bit of humanity. Bucksley hung over the bar, while the bar tender was polishing his five hundred gulden mirror. He said something to one of his partners in fast Spanish, who went off to the outside of the Saloon.

"I'm looking for a certain scoundrel, a measly thug called Edmund Rappen, people say he's from a undev... Undev..." Xaviero was searching for words when Bucksley interrupted him.

"Undeveloped you moron... *hick*" He returned staring into his empty glass, with a faint hope of some of the liquid reappearing inside.

"Jesus" Xaviero said "we have a joker! Come on men, let's laugh at our joker! He called me a moron! Listen to me scumbag, you're either too stupid or too drunk to know who I am, therefore I... I forgive ya'. Don't expect I'll do it again."

"Yeah whatever." Was all Bucksley found necessary to say to Xaviero Guerra.

"So my friendly bar tender, I want to know where this Edmund Rappen character is. Where can I find him?" He looked around, but he knew better. Ed Rappen would only venture in such a lowlife bar if he didn't had any other options available to him.

"Taking a bath and jacking off, why do you ask?" The bar tender spat out a toothpick he was chewing on, took a big sip of a black liquid, coughed and then returned his red-purple head to Xaviero.

"He'd better be jacking off cus' no whore wants to fuck him... Not after what happened back in South East Galway..." Bucksley was giggling softly, but the others could still hear it. A gentle smile appeared around Xaviero's cracked lips, for he knew damn well what happened there. Even the bar tender couldn't help himself but started smiling, showing off yellow teeth, bearing brown spots here and there. Bucksley returned staring apathetically into his empty glass.

"Anyway" Xaviero returned to the original topic. "enough with the fun and jokes. Where is he?"

"Don't know. Bucksley saw him a couple of hours ago, that was in Redmound. Ed was organising some kind of raiding party deep into Luambo territory. Redmound's seventy miles awa..."

"I know how far Redmound is away from here, damn you. And I know what Ed Rappen said there." Xaviero interrupted the bar tender, who didn't seem to care. Cowardly or brave, the bar tender decided to ask why he wants to know where Ed Rappen is.

"Well" he answered, as dry as the deserts of Africa, showing a complete lack of emotion, "I have a business proposal for him. I will help him in raids against Luambo, if I get a fat part of the loot."

"But who told you to do it, I thought news like this spreads very slowly." The bar tender said.

"Well, it depends on who helps speeding up the news. Let's say, the rich Oos Seelanders, those fanatics of the Volksparty. Yeah, the ones who say blackies should go back to Africa where they belong." Xaviero winked to the bartender and left.

"I thought we brought 'em here in the first place." Bucksley mumbled this to himself, and if others heard him they'd probably tell him to shut up.

To be continued...

Near the city of Bloupaarl

"Man! That was a long ride wasn't it? Good thing this steed knows how to avoid sharp stones, instead of that dumb beast I had before..." Ed Rappen carefully went off his horse, looking around for any other people besides him and Xaviero Guerra.

"Si senor Rappen, my good friend. I was already wondering why you acted like such a serious man to me. But we needed to talk in private, walls have ears in Redmound."

"So true. You know I left a couple of days ago into Luambo, casing the joint and plundering a little. Gots me a sack of scalps from their black heads. Should earn me a lil' money." A chill crawled through Xaviero's spine, from his neck to his lower back. This wasn't the Ed he liked to see. So cold, so ruthless. It was hard to imagine this funny man talking in such unhuman manner.

"Aye, compadre. Still I say we shouldn't become too much of a pain to them Luambo putas, people say they have a fairly large but very well equipped army." From under his curly and black eyebrows Xaviero was watching Ed. Ed was a good guy, a true friend but somehow Xaviero didn't entirely trust him. There was this auro of 'not-good' around him, something to steer clear from.

"People talk! People talk!" Ed yelled to the dry pine hills surrounding them. Nobody was there, and Ed raised his voice like this only when they were alone. "Xaviero, them blackies are occupying land we, we have discovered. It is ours. There's no we, us or them. Only we count. The rest can go back from whence they came. Even if they came from the moon!"

"True, true. But cannot just kill them all. Remember what happened in Masapa years ago?" Ouch. These historic references aren't really helping Ed to calm down. Xaviero already felt this, but it had to be said.

"You weren't there! And I wasn't there! That was nothing, exaggerated by that infidel and fake King James Kembe! A liar, a no-good thief!" Ed continued to yell, but not as loud as he used to.

"Guffingford needs no stinkin' king. What we need is leadership, people who can tug us through these times of peril." Xaviero agreed.

"And by God I will! I shall lead my men to that vile place Luambo, even if that means I have to haul Bucksley's lazy ass away from the Saloon to gather men from that Dragoon brigade he's commander of. I will succeed, you trust me on that one."

"I trust you Ed, but I'm just saying we have to be very cautious. What if we organise another raid, and happen to be in the wrong town at the wrong time. Who will save us? The British? They don't care about us. The Knootians? Who says they want to save our bandit asses? Hell, I think they'd just be happy they got rid of us. The Germans? They sit on huge piles of whatever they own and don't seek trouble. The French? The Spanish? I ask you, name a group of people who are going to do it!"

"We are going to do it. People who are loyal to their heritage and proud of being not tied to any of those ridiculous colonies. Loyalty to the cause of freedom, not playing dead when told to, or to hear invisible shackles wherever we want to go. I speak in the name of freedom."

Xaviero had nothing more to say. Although him and Ed shared the much of the same thoughts, Xaviero was very sensitive about this point of freedom. In Nueva Extremadura many things were forbidden that were accepted in the free lands between the colonies. If that freedom had to be attained by wiping Luambo off the map, then so be it.

To be continued...

“Look ******, you can’t come around here to come and demand for… What was it again?”

“I want you, sheriff Bridges, to apprehend and chastise the one who killed my envoy. He has done thing, I tell you, wrong to any one man.”

“Well apparently he did cuz’ he got himself killed. It wasn’t a robbery, it was just dead. It was a just thing to do.”

“No it wasn’t! It wasn’t, I assure you…” Sheriff Bridges did not allow this conversation to continue any longer. He told the man from Luambo kindly to piss off and never to show his dirty face around again, or he’ll open fire as self defence. While mocking and insulting, the man left the sheriff’s office and went his own way.

“Goddamn. Making demands, asking this… But asking for permission to do something? Hell no.” Karl Wedge, a farmer from outside Redmound strolled into the Waggon and Horses saloon. Bucksley was still getting drunk, Ed Rappen was gone again and the other customers weren’t an amusing company. But there was no other place to go. On the other hand, there was this guy from the far east of Guffingford called “Curly Bill” Buford. He sat on a barstool, sipping from a gin and he was telling all kinds of stories. Apparently he knew Xaviero Guerra quite well, and judging from the details, his stories are genuine.

“…So I was sayin’ to that blackie… shut up or challenge me. And that moron agreed! I blew his brains out… Do they even have brains?” Laughter followed this rather unoriginal anecdote.

Karl sat down next to Bill Buford, on the other site was a guy named William Walker. Karl knew this person from rumours and vague stories, all of them filled with mystery and legends. William Walker was a most unpleasant sight. Wearing a duster as old as the world, muddy boots, greasy beard with food particles left, a smell with which you can kill cities and a raging temper caused by liquor and lack of love. With a fingernail he was scratching brown filth from his teeth and gums – and bleeding a little. Clearly the man has an infection of some kind. Gruesome teeth. Yellow, stained and skewed.

“Wha’da ya lookin’ at?” He asked Karl in a most rude and unfriendly manner. Karl replied carefully, saying that he was just staring at nothing. Deciding that it would be best just to ask a question to divert attention, Karl made a mistake.

“Does anyone know where Ed Rappen is?” Everybody, yes, everybody looked at him. This was a question not supposed to be asked. Everyone knew what Ed’s been doing lately. Everyone knows where he gets his wealth from. And everyone’s waiting for the signal from the authorities to do the same thing. “Well… I… eh…” Looking for words, Karl tried to save his dignity but lost.

“Tha’ was a dum’ thing to do mate.” Walker said. “If you don’t know what Ed’s been doin’, ye shouln’ be here in th’ first place.”

“Yeah!” Curly Bill added. “The man’s a saint. Or at least equal to a damn saint. He steals from those who stole our land, our land man! You need not to ask where the good man is, but when we can follow his great footsteps, and his great deeds.” And while people were talking to Karl, no one noticed a messenger walking in. He carried nothing but a bag and a gun. He took it from his holster, cocked it and fired in the air. “Holy shit” “What the hell?!” cries of anger and fear followed. But when they saw his uniform, peace was restored. All eyes were focused on the man. I don’t recall it exactly, but it was something like this: “gentlemen, Hoogenbosch says ‘yes’. Go now, and don’t forget, you are fighting for your family and our country. Good luck!”

Not even a single cheer, but people grabbed their guns and started to run towards their horses. It has begun.