Bijeli Vuk
nedjelja, 06.07.2014.
Once upon a time, in the Wild West lived a man by the name of Red Davy. Let me tell you, that man was one the toughest sons of bitches I have ever seen. To hell with it. He was the toughest son of bitch I ever saw. And I saw a lot of them. His skin was dark because he walked through the desert on his bare feet, his hair was long and proud as a country’s flag underneath the wind, his teeth crooked because he could eat steel, beard so thick you couldn’t cut it off with an axe. My God if there ever was a God Red Davy would be Death itself. I mean he was a reaper walking with a gun, ready to shoot everything that crawls.
His eyes were so God damn red, sometimes I thought they were a burning sun.
There are many legends about him. Some folks say that he shot sheriff and five of his lackeys in a salon just for fun in 1867. They say blood ran through the doors as Moses himself stood upon the Red sea. Others say he killed six Texas rangers down in Louisiana in 1871, marking their foreheads with a red cross with their blood. People always said he liked to carve up the dead body’s, make a damn mess out of them. I assure you, that’s not a lie I witnessed that kind of twisted things myself. How? Because I rode with him until his final moments. Even in death, I can’t forget his words.
One story goes like this, and I would say this one is the proper truth about origin of his name.
Red Davy was born way down the south. His mother, God rest her soul died during the birth. A bad sign if you ask me, coming in this world by sin. But such was his fate, to touch and destroy. His father always resented him that. But what can a low life drunk like him say anyways. There wasn’t a day in a week that Red Davy wouldn’t get a nice beating. Not just once, but two, three times a day. Maybe that was a cause why he was so strong and vicious. Born from sin and molded by it until the day he found his peace.
When Davy was seventeen he already rode with a local gang. They pillaged locals, terrorizing them to death, taking all they could take. One time Davy killed and old lady just because she wouldn’t look at his eyes. He looked at her with mad red eyes. His eyes were flames. And I could swear that sometimes instead breathing air he breeded fire.
- Look at me you old filthy whore!
- Look at me, look at me!
- Don’t you hear me, are you deaf?
- You want this?
- Look me in the eye!
The old lady was shaking, crying, withered like a leaf on the breeze. Her face was melting under the sun, and tears they looked like spiders streaming down her old wrinkled cheeks. He yelled almost ten minutes and finally he decided to put a bullet in her chest.
- Davy are you mad!
- Mad I am, come on, let’s ride out of here!
A few years later when he was almost twenty years old, somewhere in 1873 his gang and him robbed a train that was due north transporting about two hundred thousand dollars. Red Davy was the first man on the train shooting and screaming. He mounted one of the passengers. A younger girl. He took her by her neck, set his pistol on her forehead.
- You look like my mother.
- Did you know I killed her when I was just a child?
- Do you, do you?
After moments he threw her off the train. Just like that. No remorse. As if his heart was blacker then hell itself. The rest of them laughed. His hands were red like sunset. As the red sea itself spilled on his fingers and nails.
Red Davy did many atrocities, there is not enough fingers on my hands and feet to count them. But still, why Red Davy. Why?
Because every time he would’ve killed someone he said.
- Have you heard of Moses? Did you know that he divided the Red Sea for his people. The God almighty gave him powers to do so. He made him God for a second. Do you think I’m a God? Who is God?
As he would say these words people cried, their tears would drop in the pools of blood underneath them. Resonating. Slowly. And Red Davy, he carefully looked at every tear that fell. Thinking. I am dividing. This blood is river, and the tears they are Gods words. They cry for my sin.
- Remember the Red river.
Those are the last words you hear from him. It is the last sound you shall ever hear in you’re life.
That is why they call him, Red Davy.
He died in the desert. In 1877 I saw him riding in the sunset, no guns. He left without looking back. And I swear to God, and in my mother’s name that Red Davy was no ordinary man. If anything God send him as his reaper. To pluck away souls on his command. Samael himself. Angel of death.
