Let me get some things straight: Depictions of Favela Life in media.

Quite a few folks have already visited my blog to see my story "Clarke of the Favela". I gave a lengthy explanation about the favelas in Brazil and how I was cautious to depict it in a way where it could be a place of happiness and of darkness.

I just thought I would share a couple videos to show off the favela that I was trying to create. the first is from the classic film "Black Orpheus" in which the slum can be seen as anything but a place of suffering though the poverty of the characters is clear. This is one of my favorite scenes in all of cinema.

The second clip is from a recent videogame called Max Payne 3. It is a well written pulp-style script it is also displaying a favela in a way that has been popularized by movies like City of God, Fast 5 and other action films as a gritty and violent wasteland with no order or hope.

This video is from Aljazeera television reporting on Favelas that are on the mend and shows us some reality. The reality of these slums is a combination of the previous two videos. It shows the violence that the favelas came to be known for but it also shows the spirit of the poor and how they can overcome their lot in life. This is a lengthy and in-depth report about the problems that the favelas face, but also how they can become safer places when the good people are given their communities back. This UPP program is clearly a blessing to most favela inhabitants but I would be naive if I didn't see this report as a bit propagandist.

Ultimately bringing a fantasy world to life in "Clarke of the Favela" was one thing I wanted to do, but I was also very conscious of the picture I was drawing of Brazil as I wanted the story to be fantastic but also a positive view of a place that many people came to fear. It looks as though Clarke's favela might have some truth to it though and I hope to see what Brazil has to offer in their upcoming performances on the world's stage.

"Clarke of the Favela"

Clarke of the Favela

By Nic Patrie

The favela… Though it is a sight that is hard to ignore in Brazil, people often overlook and misunderstand it. A place that is legendarily notorious but equally celebrated as part of Brazilian culture. It  is a densely populated maze of dusty paths and trails that meander around the steep and treacherous hillside. It is full of crime and derelict shacks but it is filled with good people as well, poor and downtrodden but making the best out of the blessings they have been given. There are people who will never accept the favela as their home, they are angry because they see the prosperity that hustles and bustles about at the base of the hill and know that those people fear to tread among the poor. There are people who seem to love their hillside shanty-town; there is a culture of survival here that is as much a facet of life in Brasil as it is of Rio de Janeiro herself.

Clarke lives here, in this favela. Clarke is ten years old and on his own for most of the week. His mother cleans the ladies restroom at the bus station. She has to charge people one real to use the facilities and she gets to take home some of what she brings in plus a meager wage. Clarke’s mother keeps a clean home in the favela. She only works, prays and makes sure that there is food in the icebox. She also manages to keep electricity in her shack thanks to a long-time friend who smuggles power in. Clarke’s father died before he was born. He was killed in an accident in the city where he was a courier on a motorbike; he used to give rides when he didn’t have a package to deliver and shared a cut with his boss to keep his job, but riding passengers on a little motorbike in Rio’s traffic can be a dangerous proposition and it proved deadly in the case of Clarke’s father.

His father gave Clarke his name, he was named after Supeman’s alter-ego Clark Kent. However, Brazilians have a hard time with words that end in hard consonants, so “Clark” became “Clark-ie” and thus it was on his birth certificate. Clarke knew of his namesake, though relatively obscure in Brazil, he managed to erect a small shrine to Superman with clippings, movie posters and comics from American newspapers like the New York Times. It was pasted and taped to the low ceiling over his bed. He internalized Superman… more importantly, he internalized Clark Kent as part of himself. Clarke saw himself as a good boy, mild mannered and morally upstanding. 

He had only a few friends because he didn’t want to be a beggar in the city. Clarke knew that inside of him was honesty and a desire to do well and thought that it was Superman living in him though his mother always called it “his father’s good spirit.” Clarke thought he could save himself and his mother from the favela. He saw them living on a farm with chickens and cows, just like Clark Kent’s family, leading a good honest humble life away from the crime ridden city of Rio.

Clarke saw the favela as a forsaken place. It was a slum filled with so many faithful people who seemed destined to suffer extreme poverty as well as wicked people who deserved to suffer. From the top of the hill which the favela was built on, Clarke could see “Christ the Redemer” keeping vigil over Rio on the top of Corcovado. His open arms and loving gaze were focused on the beaches and not on his home. He thought that, even with all of his goodness, Jesus had forgotten the good people of his home and got lost in his appreciation of beautiful, coastal vista that is Rio De Janeiro… which would be understandable if you saw the good side of town. Even with all of his resentment for his life in Rio, he never passed up a chance to go down to the beaches a symbolic equalizer as things went there.  Where everybody wore the same thing and occupied the same space, where no judgments about backgrounds could be presumed… especially during Carnival; a festival which Clark could never resent .

  

Clarke had a plan that would free him and his mother from the favela though. This morning he was on his way to the base of the hill to work towards achieving this goal. He could see the colorful gateway that marked the start of his favela, the dust from the dusty dirt roads met the pavement of streets of Rio in a gradient of sepia earth and asphalt grey. It seemed to imply that, though they were separate from Rio’s middle class in the slum, they were also part of Rio as a whole and cannot truly be segregated. He could see the gates and he suddenly froze. A horrid realization left his black skin pallid and felt a cold sweat crest on his brow despite the warm morning sun that was baking the hill…he looked at his two hands. In one hand he held a stick that he used to bang on the various corrugated metallic surfaces along the road like drums in the samba…his other hand was empty. He had forgotten it. Clarke had forgotten it and he can’t be late.

He chided himself out loud. He cursed his existence but quickly pulled himself together. If he ran, he could get home and get it and still make it on time. His mind raced frantically as he looked up the steep hill. Within seconds he started to plan his route. Unintentionally aloud he called on the Superman inside of him to guide his way. He called on Superman because Jesus always seemed so distant and infatuated with the ocean. He looked up the main road and saw that the Policia Federal had been making rounds up the main street of the favela. To Clarke they were not so much police as they were soldiers; they had armor, carried big guns and lots of bullets when most of the people here would be quicker to sell a gun for food than use it in a crime. Moreover, the soldiers would definitely react suspiciously to a little black boy running frantically up the hill with suspicion and they could pose a threat to the timeliness of this unscheduled task.

Clarke decided to calmly walk to the peripheral paths and alleys of the favela and make a run for it under cover of the shanties, away from people. It may take a bit longer but the plan seemed to hold less risk for delay than a chance encounter with the Policia Federal.  Clarke tried to act casual, like he saw in spy movies on the televisions at the bus station when he visited his mother. He went to stick his hands in his pockets when he remembered he had no pockets...so he hooked his thumbs over the elastic waistband of his shorts and tried to look natural about it as he strolled off the road and into the first side path he could. Though sure he didn’t have to put on the ruse, he could never be sure who was watching. Better safe than sorry. Once he was sufficiently concealed he bolted.

He wasn’t very athletic so running this fast uphill was quite a feat. He wasn’t surprised at his swiftness but he was channeling Superman after all. His body didn’t protest this exertion like it normally did, he wasn’t too winded considering his lack of athletic prowess. Soon there was a multitude of little stones that had already found their way from the dirt paths into his slightly over-sized slip-on shoes. The stones bounced around in his shoe with every heavy footfall and reminded him of a little shaker as he focused his running rhythm into a samba in his head. His mind was soon taken from his arduous race up the hill to a rhythm game that made him smile a juvenile gap toothed grin. Superman had taken control.

No sooner than the smile crossed his lips that he whipped around the corner of a shack and almost landed on a pack of stray dogs. He came quickly to a halt and started to back away, one foot behind the other. There were six males that seemed to be interested in mating one female, which seemed to have no interest in anything but finding food in piles of garbage. As one or two dogs took turns in unsuccessfully molesting the female the other four stared Clarke down, he tried to move past them but a little one started to snarl at him which prompted the others to growl. For Clarke, he would have to double back too far to make it home and back to his destination on time…he was blocked but had to make it through the pack of horny mongrels somehow. With his back against a shanty wall, he started to slide by the dogs, maintaining eye contact with a grizzled looking little one who seemed especially uncharacteristically scrappy and tough.

Clarke was caught by surprise when his foot kicked over a discarded plastic butter tub where a rat had been hiding. The rat took off up the hill past the dogs which suddenly lost interest in their mating prize. The female lost interest in ignoring them and all of the dogs took off in pursuit of the rat that led them far enough away from Clarke’s path for him to continue on his mission.  He lost contact with Superman when the dogs broke his focus. His chest hurt and he was breathing heavy, there was a pain from the dryness in the back of this throat and his saliva was thick and gritty with dust. He tried to run but found himself jogging and whimpering a bit as Superman seemed to have abandoned him and left the shell of a frightened ten year old black boy scrambling around the favela.  He pressed on and found his focus but the tempting odor of roasting chickens temporarily swayed his consciousness for a brief moment. The recollection that he hadn’t had fresh chicken in days dominated his mind for a second or two but it did not impede on his progress. He was almost home when another smell took hold of his olfactory senses.

He thought that these paths would be devoid of people because the main street up the hill is so busy with shoppers and sometimes tourists that lingering in the back alleys means missing good opportunities to make some money, honestly or dishonestly. Today there was a gang of boys in the back alleys. Clarke recognized them, they were older and he called them “The Bad Boys”. He called them this because they liked to harass, rob and beat the younger kids. There were a couple white boys and one or two dark skinned boys that weren’t from this favela, they likely came from the neighborhood at the base of the hill and liked to hang out and score drugs here. People who lived on Clarke’s hillside rarely made trouble so young people from the city tended to hang out there to do things that could get them in trouble in the city. Some favelas were really rough places, so he heard, but his was only rough when outsiders came in to start trouble…outsiders like the Bad Boys and the Policia Federal who think that poverty reduces people to punching bags. Superman would be furious and solve these problems but Jesus on Corcovado still won’t look their way.

Thankfully the bad boys had not noticed him. They were smoking some grass that they had smuggled into the slum. They brought it in to sell it but they usually smoked it all away before they could make a profit…that is why they robbed people. Today they were up to their usual trouble and were more interested in not getting caught by the policia soldiers than starting anything with Clarke today. Clarke just followed a path that concealed him from them and ran for home.

For all that he had gone through in his run up the hill; Clarke had made pretty good time. Time enough to change his filthy clothes that were caked with dust though actually he just changed his shirt from the filthy and sweaty one he put on this morning to the slightly less dirty shirt he wore the previous day. There was a covered plastic pitcher of water on the table where he dined with his mother every evening. Tonight she would get her weekly pay and she usually brings pizza on payday and although Clarke really wanted pizza, he really craved some of that roasted Chicken that was cooking slowly halfway down the hill. The water was warm but no less refreshing as his dusty run left him parched. He grabbed his objective from the table. A big old book filled with various loose papers spaced in between the pages. The book was secured with a leather belt that was cinched tightly around its binding, holding the contents in.

The leather belt belonged to Clarke’s father; it had a souvenir belt buckle from Uraguay, though Clarke silently doubts his father ever went there. Regardless, it was not very useful as a belt for himself, but it was good at keeping things tightly bound which is good enough reason not to sell it. Considering the size of the book, he wondered how he even forgot it in the first place. This book, that is so vital in his escape from the slum life, is not something he would soon forget again. 

The instant he left his shack the young boy pulled off his slip-on shoes and emptied the sandy contents along with all of the pleasantly percussive pebbles back to their home in the street and stuffed his feet back into the shoes. He had plenty of time to make it down the hill without the need for such a rush. He slung the book over his back and walked briskly down the hill. He was too tired to run anymore today so the easier brisk walk downhill suited him well.

The sun had slunk itself behind one of the thicker cumulus clouds in the sky which granted the baking hillside a brief moment of shade. Clarke made a point to look around when this happened because he liked to see when the people took the moment to stop squinting and look to the sky. People in his favela were constantly bombarded by the sun and hardly looked up, they looked down to the coastal city to take in a view, they looked down toward the ground when they walked… and when they were in church they look down at the floor to pray as if hell was their final destination. When the hill had its moments of shade, Clarke looked around to see the people look up, if even momentarily. It made the people look stronger and lighter than the burdens of poverty. He could see a faint glimmer of potential in the Favela in the brief moment of shade. If he could one day fly like Superman, he would use his super breath to blow clouds in front of the oppressive sun much more often so that the people could look up more.   

When the sun poked out again the rays caught a shiny coin on the ground which snatched up Clarke’s attention. Fifty centavos were just lying in the street a few feet away from him. He quickly snatched up the coin and looked around. He saw baskets of fresh orange-like bergamotas stacked up on a horse cart. The horse looked tired and frail, the cart had seen better days as well. Clarke wondered if the horse could appreciate the delicious oranges it had to haul up the hill, and if it could would it look any happier. Of course, Superman could haul this cart no problem…every day…but the sickly old horse was no superman. He found the owner of the cart and offered him the coin for some fruit. The old man was familiar to Clarke. He came up here once a week to peddle fruit; sometime bananas, sometimes papaya or, like today, bergamotas. He was a kindly man and always nice to Clarke’s mother and today his smile acknowledged a fond recognition of Clarke. He was just about to speak when the gang of dogs from earlier, miraculously still in pursuit of its elusive meal (which now has grown to three rats), barreled out of the alleys.

This moment in time froze for him. He could observe all of the details; the spark of fright in the eyes of the man and the horse alike, the fact that there were only five dogs bearing down on the rats of the original seven…the female was missing as well as the grizzzled little one… a presumably successful suitor.  The moment unfroze. The horse panicked and reared onto its hind legs and wound up falling over along with the cart. This knocked over the kindly old man who was almost instantly weeping as he watched hundreds of bergamotas, his livelihood, rolling quickly down the steep hill. Superman could have prevented this but Clarke stood alone, arm outstretched, with the appearance of offering payment for some fruit though, in reality, he is petrified with fear. As the dust clears and the horse is still trying to writhe free of its harness and the predicament. The incident has drawn the attention of the Policia Federal out of their trance-like patrol. They spotted Clarke and they have assumed Clarke to be at fault for the mess.

Instinct took over as Clarke darted into the alleys. The owner of the cart yelling to the soldiers but they have presumably ignored him and have already given chase. By this point the only thought that consumes Clarke’s mind is stories that he’s heard of children getting beaten within inches of their lives just for minor crimes. These are just stories, of course, because the news doesn’t care about kids getting beaten in the favelas. He is running faster now then when he started up the hill but the affect of gravity has made his stride a bit more clumsy. Some more hitchhiking stones have found their way into his shoes but this time they are not playing a rhythm, instead they are plain and bothersome for Clarke as he runs for his life. He can hear the kindly man yelling on the other sides of the shack: “Run Boy! Don’t Stop!” The kind support of the old man suggests that the horse cart disaster was clearly not his fault. The old man’s encouragement gives some ease to his flight but he was also in the zone, channeling the Superman within himself and easily navigating the maze of pathways and alleys a step ahead of his pursuers. The encouragement helps, but both Clarke and the kindly fruit vendor know that the minds of the soldiers are set just like the pack of dogs and, now that they have been chasing him for a little bit, are definitely going to make him pay with pain and blood.

Clarke felt like he had turned into the caped son of Krypton at this point. He ran at a pace where his feet are barely touching the dirt like he was flying. He was making decisions as if he had x-ray vision and could see around the walls and his super sense of smell kicked in. this triggered an idea for the perfect way to end this pursuit; Give the soldiers bigger fish to fry! Clarke picked up a whiff of the grass that the Bad Boys had been smoking earlier. The smell was sweet and pungent at the same time and so distinctively “illegal” that the Policia could not ignore it. He recognized where he was and ran toward where he saw the boys smoking before. Sure enough, the boys were still there and this time he had their attention.

“You Little Shit!” One of the boys exclaimed in an accusatory tone, he was aware that Clarke was being chased by someone and this could not fare well for his gang. The boys started to approach him and Clarke took two steps back only to find that he had hit a wall. One of the boys who had a smoldering loint hanging off of his lips pulled out a small steak knife from his jeans pocket and brandished it right up against Clarke’s upper lip. Clarke could swear that the two soldiers were right behind him but where were they?…did they give up? If so he was in for a worse fate at the end of this punk’s knife. The boys laughed with each other talking about what they would do with their new found piggy. Clarke lost control of his legs, his knees trembled and eventually gave way until he found himself sitting in the dust with his back against the corrugated steel siding of the chicken roasting booth…he didn’t smell chicken though just the smoke from the joint that the guy with the knife just passed to his brother-in-arms.

Superman abandoned Clarke yet again; he was a scared shell of a boy again. He started to pray to the Christ statue that refuses to look into his slums in hope that he will be spared and not left victim to the horrible injustices of this dusty maze.  Suddenly, he heard commotion in the alley…It was the soldiers!  They had finally caught up with him. Calling out taunts along the lines of what they were going to do with him when they found him. Many things sounded familiar to what the bad boys were saying and they weren’t particularly appropriate for ten-year-old ears, but poverty did not deserve professional restraint. He found that his dire predicament could gain a positive little boost in confidence knowing that his plan was so close to fruition. He found his legs again and he used them to kick against the sheet metal wall that he was cornered against. The noise was enough to attract the attention of the soldiers and when they finally caught up their attention was instantly swayed by the boys smoking grass and brandishing a knife. Just like the pack of dogs, they just as instantly gave up chasing Clarke as they made the decision to chase him in the first place.

Clarke got up and took to flight again without looking back. He could hear the metallic clank of the soldiers clubs making dull contact on bones through skin. The painful cries of the boys receiving the injuries until he got far enough away that the sounds were residual in his ear. Sounds that were vaguely reminiscent to of his idea of justice. A new slightly renewed faith in a certain iconic watcher of Rio de Janeiro came from a plan that was crazy enough to work. Mildly pleased with himself and thoroughly exhausted by his ordeal Clarke continued on his way.

 He made it out to the main dirt road right near the colorful gates, many of the bergamotas had found their way to the base of the hill, a reminder of the chaos that almost cost Clarke his life. He stood at the gate and looked in one hand…he had clung tightly to the shiny coin. He looked at his other hand, it was empty. He dropped the book in the commotion, now it could be totally lost. He looked down at the ground and observed the dusty bergamotas and meditated on his suffering. He understood why the people of the favela tended to look at the ground; it felt natural at the moment. Some of the bergamotas were squished and he found a cluster of some good ones that were whole and just a little dirty. He felt a large, coarse hand land on his shoulder that stopped him cold, he turned and looked to see the kindly old fruit vendor looking down and smiling at him. One of the old man’s hands held his book cinched in his father’s belt, dusty but unharmed. The man placed it into Clarke’s empty hand. Clarke, without delay and involuntarily revealed his big gap-toothed grin, and felt compelled to give the old man the coin as he picked up three of the undamaged fruits from the dirt. The old man chuckled in spite of himself.

 “ You are a good boy Clarke… Go on, now… don’t be late for school” he said.

The End

 

Something Old: Hey...A Story!

October 18, 2012

   I don't have a lot of new content for my new blog but I write up a storm so until something new pops out I wanted to give you all an introduction to my writing by pulling out some older stuff. 

    Last year I decided to dip my toes into the realm of fan fiction. I see so much of it online in various places but I get most of my fixes at www.screwattack.com ... well, I felt the itch to try it myself. At the time I was particularly inspired by the video game "LA Noir" Rockstar Games creates such rich characters and I wanted to play with the main character Det. Cole Phelps of the LAPD. I delighted in taking the opportunity to cross another game character from another Rockstar game into Cole Phelps' 1947 Los Angeles. 

    My Fanfic, "Worlds Collide" was well recieved when I initially posted it on ScrewAttack and I was asked if it could go up on his LA Noir fan site... He edited out the cursing and complained that it was too long to read and changed the ending... I thought he liked my story!? Anyway, he didn't steal the credit at least. I cannot find that site anymore so I'll reintroduce it to the web here. Enjoy!

Worlds Collide: A “L.A. Noir” Fanfiction

*Contains “Red Dead Redemption” Spoilers*

By Nic Patrie (nic920)

               

          Phelps suddenly drifted back into consciousness. He had a tendency to dream during the day, he re-lived the sticky, blood-stained, memories of the War. The action in Los Angeles was heavy enough to keep him busy though, the department was knee-deep in the high-yield harvest of wicked and desperate men. Today was a beeter day in L.A. the action was much slower to come…Cole had too much time to let his mind wander and remind him, the scars of the past are occasionally reopened by the lingering memories of Okinawa. He was drawn out of his state by his desk phone that shattered the office silence with its harsh, monotone chattering. Phelps sat up, inhaled deeply, fixed his gaze and pressed his lips together…his poker face…even though he was merely answering his phone, he always played his role.

               

        “Detective Cole Phelps, Vice.” Cole spoke into the phone clearly so as not to be misunderstood.

               

        “Phelps, Its Galloway…” his former Homicide partner. “Are you busy?” His strong voice sounded like dogs barking through the phone receiver. Galloway was a old-timer and had the tendency to shout into the telephone. “Koalski took a bullet at a robbery call and I need a man to help on this situation at the nursing home on Broadway and Fifteenth Street. It sounds like a quick and easy job but I still need a second guy”

                

        Cole scrunched his nose in an uncharacteristic moment of private confusion. “Why would a nursing home need two homicde detectives?” Galloway interrupted Cole’s impending long-winded logical deduction “You’ll believe it when you see it.”  Cole had some down time while his partner, Roy, was on another of his escapes in Santa Barbara. He cleared the assignment with the equally bored desk captain and hit the streets.

                

         When Cole arrived at Paradise Valley Nursing home he saw that the staff had wheeled the fifty or so occupants out onto the sidewalk. The attendants looked disturbed; many of the patients looked thankful to be outside but seemed oblivious to the concerns of the frazzled nurses and orderlies.  “Cole Phelps, LAPD…where can I find detective Galloway” he said to a nurse with a clipboard (she looked like she had the most responsibility and seemed most qualified to help). “Inside…the second floor…he said you’d be coming…” she could only speak in fragments of sentences, she was clearly overcome by whatever tragedy has befallen the home, and she was middle-aged and must have been dealing with death on a daily basis for some time. Cole felt apprehension… uneasiness. Cole put on his poker face and marched up the stairs with a little extra gusto as the situation seemed to warrant it.

        

        As Phelps entered he could hear unintelligible but distinctive shouting from upstairs, It was Galloway. The Coroner, Malcom Carruthers, met Cole in the reception area. He seemed irritated as he brought Cole up to speed. As it turns out, first responders had been standing off against a single gunman standing over his victim up on the second floor until Galloway joined them and took charge. Carruthers, smugly, requested that the crime scene not be compromised by LAPD officer blood as Cole rushed to the second floor.

        

        “Alright you cowboy piece of shit, drop the piece and move away from the stiff” Galloway was sounding hoarse, like he had been yelling for some time. Cole saw him and the two patrolmen in cover behind the doorway to a patient’s room. The hallway smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and a hint of gunpowder, there were shots fired recently, Cole took cover behind the patrolman nearest to him in the hallway, so as not to cross the doorway. He switched places with the first-responder to get closer to Galloway. “Shit, Cole… What took you so long? We got a stiff in the bed, he checked out a little early by way of a gunshot courtesy of our scruffy friend in there. The sonofabitch is armed with a revolver but he hasn’t move in a while.” Cole was confused again...“this isn’t like you Galloway, I’m shocked you haven’t shot him down yet.” Galloway smirked and quickly snapped back “he hasn’t tried to do anything yet…but he ain’t talking either…he’s just standing there with his gun.”

        

        Cole peeked into the room; the first thing he saw was the corpse of an old man in a hospital bed, dead. Cole was careful to note that there was one clear gunshot to the heart, marked by red spatter on the white sheets. Blood was dripping from the victim’s mouth and had seeped into the pillow behind his bald head. Cole noted five bullet holes spread wide across the wall, the plaster damage suggested that the rounds were big…45s maybe. He was able to crane his head around the doorway enough to catch a glimpse of a dingy revolver pointed at his head…he could see that the six-shooter had not been reloaded but he was still terrified for the moment…however he didn’t move. Cole stepped into the doorway and watched the dark silhouette’s finger pull the trigger to a loud and pointed sounding click. “It’s over” said a whiskey-shredded voice from behind the gun.

        

        The man lowered the gun and then dropped it on the floor resulting in a thud dampened by the linoleum surface. The man was not very tall, though his figure seemed to be much taller in the old stained duster and hat that he wore like a cowboy from the movies… but much dirtier. Cole could see that behind the leather duster, the man wore a smart suit that was better suited to the present. The man was old, his face grizzled with time…he could have been a vet from the first War, but he seemed much more like his violent past was played out in the wilderness. His dark, leathery and scarred face revealed that much. His eyes were dark and sharp, and they seemed to stare right through Cole. Upon closer inspection, the duster was full of holes and very old. His even older-looking leather hat seemed to belong to some kind of Indian rather than a rancher or actor. There was something that seemed to be very genuine about this man. The man was a killer, but he had a lucid look and a manner that did not suggest rage or madness as his motivation so much as closure.

        

        “Sir, you are under arrest for the murder of…” It occurred to Phelps that he did not know the name of the victim. “Warren Holland of the U.S. Secret Service…and a murderous asshole.” the man murmured. Cole felt that that response was satisfactory though the colorful commentary made his blood boil. Disrespect for the dead was one of the many things that Cole could not stand for though he learned to curb his emotional response during the time he spent in homicide. The man offered an unsolicited response to the question that hung in the air but that nobody had thought to ask: “I am John Marston Jr. and I shot Holland dead.”

        

        “And there you go.” Galloway contributed with a smirk “Let’s rustle this dirtbag up and take him to Central fast cause I’m a little dry.”

        

        Marston sat quietly in the interview room in his grey suit vest, and a clean shirt and tie. He still wore the old hat and though his clothes were clean.  His salt-and-pepper stubble along with weathered wrinkles made his face look dark with filth. His folded hands on the table seemed forever cracked and stained with calluses and caked on grime…like your typical day laborer. Marston had not said a word since he was taken into custody. He was as quiet the victim of his admitted crime except for the occasional wheezing fit and tobacco related cough. 

        

        Cole walked briskly into the interview room. He closed the door and took a seat in what seemed to be one fluid movement. Cole was young for a detective but he carried himself like a seasoned veteran of police work. He liked to move like the cops did in the movies, they were confident and sharp witted and he liked that approach. Galway waited outside as if he were standing guard, he advised Cole that he needed to get Marston to repeat his confession and to find out more about the man.

        

         “Mr. Marston, you have already confessed to shooting retired Secret Service Agent Warren Holland, aged 78.” He paused to wait for any response Marston might offer, Marston stayed still, his eyes glittered through the opaque shadow of his hat brim that concealed half of his face. “I have looked through files on a John Marston and all I can come up with is the record of a very bad man who was gunned down by the army at Beecher’s Hope Ranch near the Mexican border…” Cole paused to see if anything was affecting the hardened shell of a man across from him  “…in 1911.”

        

        Marston remained unresponsive and Cole decided cut to the chase. “According to the U.S. Government records I can be led to one of two conclusions about you:” Cole raised his voice suddenly “You are either a liar or a ghost! What aren’t you telling me?” Marston snarled and jerked up a little to the secret delight of Cole Phelps.

        

        Marston lifted his hands to light one of the complimentary cigarettes that Galloway left on the table. He took a drag and entered into a coughing fit. Marston spit into a handkerchief which he stuffed into his pants pocket. “I used to think that I would die in a hail of gunfire.” Marston looked up and removed his hat, the interview room light somehow revealing a softer, more vulnerable character “It appears that sickness will get to me first…It’s the cancer, detective.”  Cole held his words as a wave of sympathy dug a foxhole in his chest. He kept his poker face as he waited silently and visibly impatiently for more pertinent information.

                “That record you have is my father’s” Marston said looking straight into Cole’s eyes “I am John Marston Junior, for the short time I spent with him…he called me Jack. When the government attacked our family Ranch, my mother and I were able to escape to Mexico.” Marston replaced his hat and the darkness again shrouded his face

        

         “When my mother died from grief a few years later, I took it upon myself to take revenge for her death… and my father’s… on the government agents who stabbed him in the back…” Marston paused to reflect on his long journey. “For near 35 years I have been trackin’ and killin’ the men that were present on that day…Holland was the last.”

        

        Phelps cut in: “You mean to tell me that the government doesn’t know you exist?”

        

        “I went to great pains to keep it that way son.” Marston replied.

        

        “Why did you allow yourself to be caught at the nursing home?” Cole was trying to find some reason to this point “Why didn’t you just disappear?”

        

        “I am not an outlaw” Marston said in a darker offended tone of voice “I am the arm of retribution for the murderers of John Marston. I vowed that they would be killed by my father’s gun and blade and a few years ago I resolved to join them when I finished…my parents I mean.” Marston sat back in his chair which seemed to creak as if it were under the weight of a much bigger man…he continued to smoke and reflect on his statement.

        

        “So you are looking forward to your execution…” Cole said quietly

        

        “You can shoot me now, hang me..or gas me…whatever it is you do these days” Marston smirked defiantly “ I would prefer to be tried so that I can say my piece and then promptly executed before the cancer takes me…justice will be served”

        

        Cole smiled out of one side of his mouth “I’m sure that can be arranged… but I would like to ask you one more question before we end here” Cole produced the old dingy revolver from beneath the table and a ten-inch blade that was in much better shape. “You are saying that you committed all of the murders with these two weapons?”

        

        Marston nodded subtly. Cole now understood understood Marston’s anachronistic style. There were many folks in the decaying remnants of the frontier that still hold onto Marston’s values. To Cole’s understanding they didn’t generally venture out in this direction-or if they did, they got..in a word…civilized. Cole pondered internally on what it was like to hold a grudge like this for so long. The memories of Okinawa were fresh in his mind, and this old man in front of him hasn’t been able to shake the trauma of his parent’s deaths in a setting that is regarded now, in this very town, simply for its novelty and entertainment value.  Cole wondered how permanent the mental scars of the war would be and how this would affect his future. He decided to prod at Marston I hopes of finding a hint as to how long the damage lasted.

        

        “Something is bothering me, John Marston.” Cole picked up the revolver and gave it a slow glancing over “In Warren Holland’s room, you fired five shots into the wall over Holland’s bed and shot Holland with only one clean kill shot at close range.”Cole paused to find the words “You are clearly a good shot, why would you shoot the wall?”

        

        “That Holland was a bastard” Marston started to show a upwelling of emotion “The others were easy to find and kill, but Holland was slippery…” he started to try to regain his composure “I missed him once in Virginia, after dubya-dubya one, he knew I was out to kill ‘im.  I chased this one man for a long time….” John started to sob pitifully “he left me notes that taunted me…he was always a step ahead. When I finally caught up with him he was old and in that home…an invalid.” Marston cleared his eyes “he said…”

        

        Cole was seeing the signs, he now knew what he may have to face. Suddenly Marston exploded as he got up and frustratingly chucked his chair against the interview room mirror breaking it .The broken window revealed a dumfounded Galloway holding a coffee mug in his hand and a cigarette hanging off his lips. Marston roared “When I found him, he said he wasn’t scared of death!” Marston calmed down a little to speak but the rage burned through. “He was and Old man, ready to die when I found him. I wanted him to fear me…to be scared of me and show remorse for what he done…That defiant bastard!” Marston slammed down a scarred hand on the table and wrapped it around the grip of the revolver.

        

        “Gun!” Galloway shouted as he drew his .38 and trained it on Marston “Put it down dipshit! You ain’t goin’ nowhere but down” Cole reached through the broken window to lower Galloway’s gun for him.

        

        “Easy Rusty, it isn’t loaded” Cole said stearnly. Even after some time away from Galloway, he was reminded of how he disliked the veteran detective’s callous nature.

        

        Marston aimed the revolver at the empty blue wall of the interview room; he pulled the hammer back and then pulled the trigger on the empty chamber. “I shot the wall to remind him of what a gun sounded like…the way it shatters peace on the prairie. Everybody in the home was scared but him. I shot again closer to him that is when I saw his inner-peace break” Marston smiled and chuckled a little bit at himself “by the fifth shot he was grabbing his rosary…shaking so bad he couldn’t finger the beads to pray. I told him that I was going to take his life before God did and I put the sixth bullet in his chest, I heard it hit the bedpost behind his head…I loved that sound, but not so much as I loved to hear him whimper as he tried to breath his last breath.“  Marston looked at his feet; he took off his hat and ran his hand through his long graying hair “shit…” he murmured “… I forgot to leave a bullet for me.”

        

        Cole Phelps was shocked and completely entranced. This is a man who had lost his mind and somehow managed to get it back and keep it in a jar for when he needed it. Cole found himself staring into the abyss of emotional trauma. He was terrified and couldn’t figure out why he brought this side of Marston out in the first place. “John Marston. You are hereby charged with murder in the first degree of Warren Holland. You will be transferred to Los Angeles county jail to await your hearing.” Cole put him in cuffs and moved in close to whisper into Marston’s ear: “May God have mercy on your soul… Goodbye”

        

        Galloway took Marston roughly by the arm to lead him out giving a wink to Cole as he led John Marston away. That night, Cole went home and kissed his wife and daughter and life in Los Angeles went on.