The Story of John Jacobs

It's 5am and the sun is just about to rise. This day would be the same as any other day for John Jacobs, if it wasn't for the fact today would be his last. As John slowly gets up, his mangled gray hair falls in front of his eyes. His elbows fall against his knees in much the same way they have been lately. He pushes his foot down hard against the wooden floor to bring himself up. A loosely button shirt comes undone and John's chest feels air for it's first time that day. With grace, John's rough hands move and pick up his belt; on it are two revolvers. Memories of his youth flood back to him, before he knew what he was doing with his life and when he took his first life. His head forcefully shakes off the memory. The sun blistered arm of John's stops right before it pushes open the door, he takes one look out his window. 'There must be dozens of them out for this' he thinks to himself. 'I'll give em a hell of a show'.


“If it isn't the famous John Jacobs of the south. What do you say old man, are you ready to give in or die?”. 'A pompous asshole' are the only words John could ever use to describe Edward Black.


“Son. I rather die 10 times on this here earth than give in to any wish from you”. The way the words come out of Johns mouth mimic a preacher who has had enough of lying to his congregation.


“Have it your way then, I assume you brought your girls?”. Edward Black takes his name to a point. His all back suit comes together with a black tie; the sun seems to avoid him.


“I haven't left my girls behind in over 36 years, I'll be damned if they miss daddy's finest moment.” Johns left and right hand respectfully move down to his revolvers. 'The daughters I've never had'. It's a thought he has repeated to himself since he first received them. John killed his first man with his bare hands after, he can't even recall the name of the man, drew a gun on him and accused him of sleeping with his wife. To hell and back John doesn't remember if he did or not, but he knew just then he hated the idea of a gun being drawn on him while he was empty handed. After breaking the mans finger while he was holding the same gun pointed at John, a question was asked. 'Fella, do you have a second gun on you?' Yes was the mans response and John pulled it out from his coat. 'Reason I ask is because I've never held a gun before, let alone two. You see, I have always wondered what would happen if a man, like yourself, had both of his thumbs shot off at once. Which one would hurt more? My guess, the one you use to pleasure your self when your whore of a wife is sleeping with another accused man'. John never forgave himself for all he did to that man before he killed him, then again, he never really cared.


“Come on John, don't just stand there people are watching.” They take their place back to back on a line drawn in the sand. '10 steps. Seems like waste of energy just to kill a man'. From what he can remember, this is the 17th time he has had this thought. Each of these times John thought it would be his last time to ever even have a thought.

The steps don't come quick enough. John feels his good mother earth who has been kind to him all these years resisting his steps. The wind is at his back. 'Hell for luck today I suppose'. John's right boot lifts up after the ninth step; dirt falls off like a calm rain. Two ticks of John's heart come slow. During the first tick John turns. During the second his daughters come to his aid standing front in center in the mist of his eyes. Edward Black is ready to meet whatever doom approaches.


John Jacobs closes his eyes and lets his throat crawl up to his mouth. Skin rips. John doesn't hear anything as he opens his eyes. He doesn't see the dozens of people standing around mindless with their jaws hung open. The only thing John sees is Edwards head snap back and bring the body shortly after. John is about to die. The only thing John Jacobs says, the thing that will be his last, “I am the last American cowboy.”