‘Cowboy Jones and the Rootin' Tootin' Revenge of the West’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Cowboy Jones was the fastest hand West of the Mississippi and I’d be willin’ to bet East too. He’d walk into a saloon and ‘fore anyone could spit he’d take ‘em out. Yup, he was that fast.

Cowboy Jones liked shootin’. Sharp shootin’, regular shootin’, any shootin’. He’d shoot a loose hair from yer head at 20 yards or clean shoot yer little finger off at 30.

He came out the womb shootin’. Pistols akimbo, he shot his own damn foreskin off ‘fore any doctor could get ter hackin’ at it. That’s what the legends say anyhow. His momma didn’ wannim no more after he did that. His daddy was proud.

Okay, I’m through practicing my southern accent. However, this story is still the story of Cowboy Jones. The reason I chose to write about Cowboy Jones this particular day is the need to grease my wheels. I’ve been on vacation for a week and need to recover my land legs. My land legs of writing that is. I was on a cruise from writing and now that I was back I needed to readjust. So I’m experimenting a little bit and hoping the result comes out fine. We’ll see. Anyway, back to Cowboy.

It’s true what I said before. Cowboy Jones did love to shoot and he shot indiscriminately. He shot his own rabid dog, he shot his mother when they wouldn’t euthanize her and in the end he shot himself. But we’ll get to that when we do.

Cowboy Jones was tall and intimidating. Some estimates say he was six feet seven and others even say six ten. He always wore a black cowboy hat and matching cowboy outfit. He fitted himself with four holsters. Two for each hip and two for each ankle. Rumors said he kept an extra gun under his hat.

He was large for his size too, like Goliath. He was around three hundred pounds and hairy as can be. His weight was well distributed, giving him an appearance closer to Zangief than E. Honda. Rumors say he was bald under the hat, but he never took it off, so it’s hard to say. Even the coroner took the news of his head to the grave.

Cowboy Jones was angry with the world. He came into the world angry. Obviously, he didn’t actually come out of the womb shooting. That’s a legend a la Romulus and Remus being raised by wolves. But I wasn’t there, so I couldn't say with absolute certainty. If I had to guess, I’d say it was legend.

He did, however, come out of the womb with the umbilical cord around his neck, which he tore through with the few teeth he was born with. The doctors were horrified, they had never seen anything like it, his mother wondered what was happening and his father fainted. When all was said and done, he wasn’t screaming crying, he was smoldering mad.

Soon as Cowboy Jones could walk, his father had a gun in his hand. His father had waited all his life for a son and finally got it. His own daddy had died when he was young, so he wanted to get all his fathering in as soon as possible just in case he suffered the same fate. So at two years old Cowboy Jones was shootin’ cans and squirrels and all sortsa things (forgive me for my accent creepin’ in. I can’t help it sometimes when tellin’ sucha story as this).

Having lived past when his own daddy died, Cowboy Jones’ dad decided to teach his boy about the Old American West. He had heard tales in his youth from his grandaddy about the wonders of the west. Wars between Cowboys and Injuns (as his grandaddy said), wrangling horses, hunting buffaloes, diggin’ for gold, spittin’ in spittoons, shootouts in saloons at high noon…

Young Cowboy Jones’ impressionable mind was fascinated. As much as he was fascinated, though, he was pissed. All this glory and adventure and exploration had been stolen from him by urbanization and industrialization. There was nothing left to explore, nothing left to wrangle if ya didn’t have a permit, nothing left of the Olde American West. He started to get his revenge.

As a teenager, Cowboy Jones went ‘round his neighborhood stealing all the carburetors from the cars. He lived in suburbia, a byproduct of industrialization. If he had his way, he’d live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, living off the fatta his own land. But now everything came from the convenience of grocery stores and all the jobs were cushy office jobs in the city. So he stole all the carburetors. Nobody got to work that morning and there was a lotta yelling and head scratching in front of smoking carhoods.

What did this accomplish? Nothing. Cowboy Jones didn’t give a damn about accomplishing nothin’. He was just mad and he took out his anger however he felt compelled to. It didn’t matter to him if people lost their jobs or kept em. The industrial world was his enemy and he was lashing out.

He started growing crops in his yard and taking school off to harvest ‘em. He argued with all of his teachers, saying all they taught was nonsense and of no importance. If anybody wanted some real learnin’, he said one day, come to my house after school. I’ll teach ya how to shoot, how to grow crops, how ta live damnit.

Only one guy did show up and he and Cowboy Jones became the besta friends. This guy was, of course, Cowboy Jones’ notorious companion, Killy the Bidd. At least, that’s what Cowboy called him.

Killy had no daddy. Cowboy Jones Sr. (real name unknown) took Killy in as his own son. Whenever he got back from work, no matter how exhausted he was, he’d be happy to relate old tales or balance an apple on his head so they could shoot it off, no kiddin’!

This went on for some years. Cowboy Jones and Killy the Bidd were like brothers. Killy always stayed for supper and Mrs. Cowboy Jones Sr was happy to make it. Cowboy and Killy lassoed mirrors offa cars, took out carburetors, freed horses from the local fair just so they could wrangle ‘em (and wrangle ‘em they did), and had all sortsa more innocent adventures.

When Cowboy Jones Sr. died, their innocence did too.

Cowboy Jones Sr. grew progressively wearier and wearier over the years. Long hours and little pay all to support his family. He never took a vacation cause he just couldn’t afford it. Over time, he wasn’t able to relay tales or balance an apple anymore. His hair grew greyer and thinner and he could hardly hold an apple, let alone balance it on his head.  One day he never woke up for work. His alarm rang and rang to no avail.

Cowboy and Killy were a wreck. Of course, they were too tough to acknowledge they were a wreck, but whenever they lay alone in their beds at night they wept silently for the departed Cowboy Jones Sr.

Those tears of anguish soon turned to tears of anger.

“It’s this damned system that killed my daddy!” Cowboy Jones said to Killy, furiously pacing and jamming his fist into his palm. He turned to Killy the Bidd, who sat watching attentively.

“Y’know what we gonna do Killy?”

“What?” he responded, almost in a whisper.

“We gonna get revenge…”

What revenge entailed, Killy the Bidd didn’t know. Over the next coupla months, Cowboy closed himself in his room, only coming out to shoot targets or test dynamite. Of course he couldn’t do this in his own suburban neighborhood. He rode his horse out to a secluded plot of land they’d bought with his daddy’s life insurance money. Killy would follow behind on a steed of his own asking questions all the way but never gettin’ answers.           

Killy looked up to Cowboy as an older brother. He was only two years older than himself, but Cowboy acted so grown up that he mighta well been ten years older. He trusted Cowboy and was excited and nervous for whatever plan he was gonna unfold. He was angry about Cowboy Jones Sr too, who he considered his own daddy.

One day, the plan was revealed. Killy the Bidd lay in bed one full moon night, his room dimly illuminated. He was silently crying about the death of Cowboy Jones Sr when something banged on his window.

“Open up Killy!”

Killy jumped up in bed and turned his face from the window, quickly wiping his tears and collecting himself. He threw the window open and hoped it was too dark to tell he’d been crying. Cowboy Jones all but threw himself in.

“Tomorrow, Killy,” he said, panting, “it’ll all happen tomorrow”

Cowboy explained the plan to Killy, pacing and punching palm as before. Killy sat on the edge of the bed and listened intently. Cowboy Jones was a silhouette against the moonlight as he paced, but as he drew his face close to Killy’s it was half illuminated.

“Ya got it Killy? Are you ready?”

Killy the Bidd nodded. He was ready as he’d ever be.

Cowboy Jones had enough dynamite to bomb a city and that was exactly his plan. Over the months he tested different combinations of dynamite to produce the most monumental results. He’d finally perfected his recipe and was headed for his daddy’s old office building.

Killy the Bidd and Cowboy Jones galloped through the city streets, weaving in and out of honking cars and barreling past civilians. They each had a knapsack on the rear of their horses filled with explosives. Cowboy Jones had a rifle slung over his back and his four pistols in their holsters. He was large, hairy, and maybe bald. Puberty had hit him like the charge of an angry buffalo. Killy the Bidd was baby faced yet, but his voice was deeper. They both wore black cowboy outfits fit with black bandanas over their faces.

Out in front of the glass windowed building, they tethered their horses to a bike rack, unslung the dynamite, loosed their pistols and headed inside.

“Excuse me sir, do you have a-” came the male receptionist as they entered. Cowboy didn’t hesitate to shoot him dead.

They strutted across the marble floored lobby, their boots clicking on the ground. Oddly there was nobody else there. They approached the elevators on either side of the desk. Killy went to the right and Cowboy went to the left. They operated in unison. Pressing the button, they unslung the dynamite from their backs, pulled out the long wick and lit a match. They didn’t light the wick yet. The matches burned down and down and down.

Ding.

They touched the matches to the wick and threw the hissing bags into the elevator. A few screaming businesspeople tried to exit, but they brandished their guns, silently telling them to stay inside. They entered the elevators quickly, hit the button for mid-building, hit the door close button, then ran through the revolting doors to their horses.

With practiced efficiency, they untied their horses and saddled up. They rode off away from the building with Godspeed. Cowboy Jones, hunched forward against the wind, took out his pocket watch.

“Thirty seconds Killy!” he yelled over his shoulder.

They rode on. They needed to be at least ten blocks away after the initial explosion, then twenty by subsequent explosions. You see, Cowboy Jones’ daddy worked in an undercover munitions building in the heart of the city. He worked on top secret projects for the Military Industrial Complex developing high efficiency explosives. They figured if such a thing were disguised as an office building, our international enemies would never catch on. So far they hadn’t, but-

BOOM!

Glass and mushroom clouds shot out of the side of the building.

“YIPPEE!” yelled Cowboy Jones, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at the loudest damned sound he’d ever heard. He couldn’t even hear himself yell over the deafening roar.

Like Lot’s wife looking back at Sodom’s destruction, Killy the Bidd reared his horse to look back. A sickened feeling came into his stomach as he heard the fearful screams of everyone around. People ran around him, abandoning cabs and cars and briefcases to run. Glass, papers, desks and chairs rained down on the streets.

“Killy! KILLY!” Cowboy Jones yelled over his shoulder without stopping. It was no use. Killy couldn’t hear him over the chaos and was too stunned to even if it was dead quiet. There was a ringing taking over Killy’s ears. His vision was growing fuzzy. Police officers were approaching, but it was no use-

BOOOOOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM!

Tears stung the eyes of Cowboy Jones as he felt the heat of the explosion on his back. He knew Killy had been incinerated along with anybody else within a twenty block radius. He spurred the horse faster and slapped the reins. Yah! Yah!

Ten miles outside the city limits, Cowboy Jones made his last stand.

His weary horse galloped through a wheat field until they stumbled upon a barnyard. There was a large red barn with doors wide open. The midday sun beat down furiously. Cowboy Jones guided his horse into the barn, where there was an old farmer tending to his horses.

“What the sam hill?” the farmer said when he saw Cowboy Jones coming straight at him. He didn’t have a chance to say anything else because as soon as Cowboy processed he was there, he shot him.

He jumped from the saddle and tethered her to a post. He then stepped over the farmer’s body and slid the large door shut with all his might, grunting and cursing the whole way.

Inside the farmhouse to the right of the barn, the dead farmer's wife was on the phone with the police. She had seen the TV news about the city and knew now what the explosions she had heard were. She was telling the officers that she had just heard a gunshot and was worried about her husband. The police took down the address and several patrol cars were on their way.

Cowboy Jones took frantic inventory of his rifle ammo.

“Shit shit shit,” he said to himself, loading the rifle with trembling fingers, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way, damnit Killy”

He slung the rifle over his back, set his black hat more tightly against his (bald?) head and climbed the ladder to the second floor. He propped open the window above the barn door. Outside, he had a view of the long dirt road to the house flanked on both sides by the fields. There was a large open dirt yard with a red pickup and a light blue hatchback parked imperfectly in front of the two story white farmhouse. In the distance, he heard sirens and saw the burning city.

“Serves you right, you bastards,” he said, staring angrily at the burning city.

The sirens grew closer. The police cars came into red and blue flashing view and he sighted them. He clicked the hammer back. Bam click bam click bam click. One car lost control and was all over the dusty road, then crashed into the field. Two others were still making their way towards him.

Inside of the crashed police car, the officer used the last of his breath to weakly say “officer down,” into the walkie.

“COME AND GET IT YOU BASTARDS,” Cowboy yelled, lighting a piece of dynamite he had kept on his belt.

He tossed it between the two cars that skidded to a cloudy stop. Four doors opened like insect wings and officers jettisoned from them. The dynamite blew, taking the two cars with it in a fiery explosion. A flaming hood landed on top of the barn.

“YIPPEEEEE!” Cowboy Jones yelled, clicking back the hammer and shooting the ground around the police officers. He was toying with his food.

Toof toof toof. The bullets struck the dusty ground around the police officer as he covered his head. The heat from the exploded car had singed his back. Into his shoulder walkie, he yelled:

“Officer down, we are under fi-”

Cowboy Jones placed a practiced shot right between his eyes, then reloaded.

The flaming car hood still burned on the roof. The roof began to catch fire. More police cruisers wailed in the distance. Cowboy Jones peered down to the first floor where the horses were whinnying and going wild. He put his own horse out of her misery. Although he didn’t want to consciously accept it, just like the death of Killy, Cowboy knew he wasn’t getting out of there alive.

An armada of cruisers came over the distant dirt road like a swarm of bees. Cowboy Jones closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the barn and stretched his legs in front of him. Smoky air began to fill his nostrils and he coughed a bit. His head became filled with the tales of the Old American West his father had told him.

He removed his hat and placed it next to him. He ran a hand over his bald head (gasp!). He turned the hat over and removed the last stick of dynamite he had. This was the stick to end all sticks. His father had taken it from the lab and kept it in hiding (or so he thought). Cowboy didn’t know what the explosion would be like, but he knew his father often talked about its power.

The wood splintered around his head as officers yelled and shot the barn. The flames started licking down towards the window, feeling hot against the back of Cowboy Jones’ neck. He placed his hat firmly back on his head, lit a match and stuck it to the dynamite wick. He placed the stick in his lap as the bullets whizzed around him and sirens wailed and fired crackled and horses whinnied. He thought of the Old American West and smiled. He removed his great grandfather’s revolver from his waist and placed it in his mouth.

His last thought was about the Old American West. 

And so concludes the story of ‘ol Cowboy Jones. We never did get around to him shooting his rabid dog or his own mother or many things. We’ll conclude with John 21:25: And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website and “The Revenge of the Potato Man'' on Wordsfaire. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

The Revenge of the Potato Man

Photographer - Tobi Brun

You almost wouldn’t consider Captain Sandwich a superhero. Almost. But if you saw how fast this guy could throw a sandwich together, it would blow your mind. I mean, you can’t even see it. It’s like… like… If you’ve ever been unexpectedly hit on the head and your eyes black out for a split second. It’s like that. It’s not painful to watch. It’s just that fast. 

I first met him when I started working at Fatty’s Sandwich Shop downtown. They didn’t even have the guy train me because he’s too fast. He’s physically incapable of slowing down. At least, that’s what he says. I just don’t think he likes training people. 

“Oh, and this is Captain Sandwich,” the grease-aproned owner with the bulging belly said to me as an afterthought on my first day. I must’ve looked confused. 

“Y’see,” he started to explain. The whole time, Captain Sandwich worked away, making sandwiches, stocking the line, filling sauce-bottles. All extremely fast. 

“The p’cyoolur thing ‘bout him is: he’s only this fast with anything sandwich related. Can’t run for shit, can’t beat anybody up worth a damn. But man, when he makes a sandwich…” he drifted off and raised his hand towards Captain Sandwich, still working away. 

Mitch trained me. He was a cool dude, laid back. I thought he was my age. I was nineteen then. Later when it came up (I forget how) I was shocked to find out he was ten years my senior. I was also shocked to find out that not a hair on his head was real. One day, when he was walking into work, his hat (part of the uniform) blew off and took his hairpiece with it. He chased it down as I watched out the window. When he finally caught it, he placed it swiftly on his head and neck-snappingly looked around to see if anyone saw. I quickly averted my eyes and continued making sandwiches. 

Mitch and Captain Sandwich and me and Fatty (the owner). They really didn’t need anybody outside of Captain Sandwich, but he had recently converted to Catholicism and wanted

Sundays off. Mitch worked Sundays now even though he didn’t like it. I asked him why he didn’t like working Sundays and he shrugged and said: “just don’t.” Anybody else who responded in this manner could be psychoanalyzed to determine the root of this dislike. Maybe a dislike of being deprived of a morning of sleeping in during their youth. Maybe something traumatic and repressed regularly occurred on Sundays in their youth. Maybe they had been forced to work Sundays against their will their whole life. But Mitch could be taken at his word. If he just didn’t like something, he just didn’t. 

Sundays were the only day of the week I worked which was fine because I was in school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do and felt like I was wasting my time and money in school. Or somebody’s money. I wasn’t involved with the tuition payments. My parents and the government handled things. But I was wasting somebody’s money and that didn’t sit right with me. 

The only reason I had gone to college right after high-school was because that's what I was supposed to do. That’s what everybody else was doing. All the people that didn’t follow this pattern were on Skid Row, or so they’d led me to believe. “They” meaning the adult influences in my life. So it was off to school. 

My first semester I had no friends. Well, there were people you could call friends, technically. People I would talk to in passing or in a certain class, but it wasn’t like we were hanging out outside of that. 

I remember Frankie Midnight (his actual name, I’ve seen his license). He didn’t have anybody in his social circle in our sociology class and we happened to sit next to each other, so we’d exchange comments at the beginning of class. All the talk was limited to the class, though. As much as I desired to break beyond that talk, I never could. I didn’t know too much about him. Maybe I could’ve come up with something. Asking him about a movie or an album or

something. But I never did. I’m pretty sure he was content with the limitations of our conversations. 

I was doing the credit-required classes first and falling deeper into depression. I found refuge in the library. The third floor was the silent floor and there were stacks and stacks of classics to look through. I buried myself in A Farewell to Arms and A Wild Sheep Case as well as several biographies or autobiographies of my favorite writers. The bio/autobiographies depressed me though. Keouac had met all of his lit’ry buddies in college while I was sad and alone. Rimbaud had completed his works by seventeen. I was two years older and hadn’t written a worthwhile thing. Hemingway was on the Italian front at eighteen. I dove deeper into fiction. 

The sad thing about reading was that the library would always close at some point and whenever I put the book down I’d be alone again. Wisps of the characters and their worlds would comfort me in my mind, but confronting the sidewalk by myself as others around me walked laughing in twos and threes always brought me down again. 

Working Sundays was a welcome escape. Fatty’s was far enough away from campus that nobody would pass up the other options along the way to get there. Fatty’s wasn’t renowned or locally legendary. It was just another sandwich shop in the city. The only people that came in were traveling through or lived on the block. 

I’d work other days as needed. My social life was nonexistent and my free time was spent reading, so I was available to work whenever. Fatty would call me and ask if I could come in and I’d always say “yes.” I’d get to witness Captain Sandwich at work. 

Whenever I worked a shift with Captain Sandwich I never had to make anything. Well, sandwiches anyway and that’s mostly what we sold. We only had two salads and they were the simplest things in the world to make. Just a Cæsar and a Greek. People hardly ordered them.

They weren’t even listed on the menu and most people weren’t brave enough to ask for something they didn’t see. But once in a lucky penny (how often do you find those?) someone would ask. 

The thing I noticed about Captain Sandwich was that he was incredibly slow doing anything else. I mean, Fatty had told me so, but to actually see it? It was the craziest thing. There would be a rare instance, say he went to the bathroom and I had to make a sandwich. He’d come back and notice the wallet-clutching customer and decide to cash them out. He would punch the numbers at a flat tire’s pace. Beep…… beep…… beep…… enter… “your total will be $13.74.” He’d slowly take the money, like he was reaching through frozen syrup, gather the change like someone after coming stiffly inside after a freezing day, and hand it back through the syrupy barrier. 

Whatever sandwich I had made would be long done, waiting on its anxious owner to get their change and devour them. Then he (Captain Sandwich) would smile the biggest smile in the world. It looked like it hurt, with his eyes squinting and all of his teeth showing, and bid them a good day. He’d hold the smile until they walked out the door, casting uncomfortable or shivering glances over their shoulder, then he’d sigh and let it drop like the final rep at the gym. His face would return to normal, he’d pat me on the shoulder without looking at me and then return home to his station. 

I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to be a clock puncher or a pencil pusher or a corporate drone. I didn’t know exactly the meaning of these phrases at the time, but I understood the idea they represented: conformity to a single thing for a lifetime. Whiling away the time until retirement, then being too tired to do anything when retired and wasting away prime years of life. Thinking of doing any single thing

for the rest of my life terrified me. The only things I really wanted to do was… well, I didn’t know. 

I didn't want to be a rockstar or an actor or a lawyer or doctor or teacher. All I wanted to do was be left alone to read and write. Whatever I wrote and submitted was rejected. Maybe my time to be a writer was gone. Maybe I wasn’t even born to be a writer. What did I want? Maybe I could just marry into money and become a house-husband. That’d be easy if I knew any rich women and how to talk to them too. 

My second (which would be my final) semester ticked away. I was already wasting time in life. I needed to get out, I needed my freedom. Time was freedom and if I could control my time I could control my life. That’s what I thought then at least. Why was I learning things I didn’t care for or had already learned in high-school? I was planning on going on leave to sort things out. I needed to know what I wanted before I wasted any more time or money. 

Fatty’s grew on me. If I was spending time doing something I didn’t want to, at least I was making money doing it. But I enjoyed Fatty’s. All sorts of interesting people came in and Captain Sandwich was there too. I’d become mesmerized watching him work on any large orders, the way his hands moved, the way the ingredients flashed away. It was like watching something in fast-forward, but about a thousand times fast. 

One Sunday, Mitch told me the origin of Captain Sandwich’s powers. It had been itching away inside of me, the need to know. I waited and waited until somebody told me, but as time went by, nobody ever did. I finally asked Mitch. His eyebrows raised and he nodded. 

“You’ve been here so long now that I didn’t realize you didn’t know,” he said. I was leaning against the sandwich line and he leaned against the salad line opposite. There were no orders and everything was clean enough. He looked off, thinking…

He looked slowly back at me. 

“Apparently he was born like that,” he said with a shrug. Just then, a customer walked in and Mitch nonchalantly walked over to take their order. I was left incredulous and disappointed. I planned on asking Captain Sandwich (real name unknown) myself one day, but never got the chance. 

After a month of mentally building myself up, I finally decided to ask him. I finished class and skipped the library. Fatty had asked me to come in when I could. That was in the morning before my class. In fact, his phone call had woken me up. 

“Busy today kid?” he asked. Fatty was straight to the point. No ‘hello,’ ‘good-morning,’ or ‘did I wake you?’ I didn’t mind it. 

“Not after class,” I responded, equally to the point. 

“Come in when you can?” He said with a slight note of asking. Somewhere towards a demand like a speeding car, with the added question like hitting the brakes too late when passing a cop. 

“Sure” 

“Thanks” 

He hung up. 

When I arrived at Fatty’s it was no longer Fatty’s. There were fire engines lined all down the street, cop cars, ambulances, lights flashing, hoses spraying and misting. Ironically, the mist from the fire hoses made a rainbow in the air. Before the remains, outside of the emergency responders buzzing about, were the infuriated, fist-clenched Captain Sandwich and the greasy-aproned fat-bellied Fatty, trying to hold back tears. 

Before I could say anything (I had no idea where to start), Captain Sandwich’s

fire-eyed gaze met my helpless and confused one. 

“Come with me,” he said and began to walk. I followed behind. Fatty stared at the smoking blackened remains of his once not-so-renowned restaurant, oblivious to anyone else. The sun glinted off of Captain Sandwich’s blackout ‘77 Mustang. He got in and reached over to open my door. I slid in. It smelled like a new car. The leather interior was spotless and the sun gazing down from the blank blue sky hardly penetrated the tinted windows. “It’s about time I ended this,” he said, staring forward angrily and firing up the engine. Before I could ask what we were ending or what happened or if he was really born like that, we were peeling out and zooming down the street. 

When I said he was slow at everything else, I was wrong. Apparently he was a fast driver. Captain Sandwich was an enigma full of surprises. And not only was he a fast driver, he was precise too. He drifted around corners on a dime. He weaved in and out of honking cars, his only focus on the road ahead. I felt at ease, despite the speed and ferocity with which he was driving. “Potato Man,” he brooded, “Po-tay-to Man.” 

He rounded another corner and there was a long empty straightaway. At the end of the straightaway stood the city’s renowned restaurant “Potato Man’s: Burgers, fries ‘n stuff.” “What makes you think he did it?” I asked, unease creeping up on me. The packed parking lot of Potato Man’s lay ahead. We entered and Captain Sandwich slowed, stopped, then reversed quickly into an empty spot. 

He put it in park and fished in his pocket for something. 

“THIS,” he said, removing his hand dramatically from his pocket to reveal a single french fry. I didn’t get it.

“THIS,” he said, bringing the fry slowly in front of him, his gaze focused venomously on it, “Is the Potato Man’s calling card.” 

“We’ve been enemies from the start,” he said to himself, then looked me in the eyes, “But today I end this.” 

We marched in. Captain Sandwich marched straight to the front of the long line. Several people raised voices in objection, but we paid them no mind. Well, Captain Sandwich didn’t. I gave them apologetic shrugs and helpless hand gestures. 

“Bring me to the Potato Man,” Captain Sandwich demanded the freckled, potato-hatted cashier. The cashier nodded nervously. 

We were brought through the busy kitchen to a door that looked like the door to a walk-in cooler. 

“He’s through there. Or, uh, he should be. I gotta get back to work.” 

He quickly moved away. 

The door opened inward to a dark wood paneled and floored hallway. It was lit overhead by warm lights hanging at intervals from the ceiling. Captain Sandwich entered and I followed. The door shut behind us. 

At the end of the hallway there was a potato-skinned door with a golden plaque that read “Potato Man.” We entered without knocking. 

The Potato Man (I assumed) was behind his desk. He stood when we entered and between the short time between him standing there and him raising the revolver, I gathered that he was short, fat, bald, and wore a white suit with a Potato Print tie. He fired and I winced, shutting my eyes. I heard a thud. It was a gut shot to Captain Sandwich. 

My mouth hung open. My mind raced. What the hell was–

There was a second shot and the bullet thudded into my gut like a boxing glove hitting a heavy bag. I was down for the count. I looked over to Captain Sandwich and he looked at me. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Is this really how it ends? I thought. Captain Sandwich smiled. I was confused. 

“Y’see,” he strained, “he thinks he’s won.” 

The Potato Man still stood, only the top of his bald shining head visible over his desk from where we lay on the ground. 

“But he’ll never, never–” 

There were two more shots and everything went dark.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.