"Immortal" Riley Hatfield

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The year is 1882. A small town in Kansas known as Hyde Park is in its third year of existence. It’s a small cattle town, notable for its corrupt lawmen, cheap brothels and even cheaper liquor. Down at Sullivan’s saloon, the sound of the piano can barely be heard over the laughs of the drunks, the enticements of the prostitutes, and the accusations from the card players. A young man enters the saloon.

 

He’s not a regular, and no one at the saloon knows who this man is. It’s Riley Hatfield, an 18 year old fresh off the wagon from Stillwater, Missouri. Few at Hyde Park are aware of the massacre that recently happened in Stillwater. None know that Hatfield was there that day, and left on horseback that night, disappearing from the Missouri horizons like a tumbleweed in a tornado. He orders a whiskey. The bartender eyes him up and down.

“What brings you into a place like this?” The bartender asks.

“Passing through on the way to California. What makes a man stay in a place like this?” Hatfield says.

“ ‘The final resting place of the weary,’ That’s what we call this place. Lots of men say they’re going to leave here and make somethin’ of themselves. This town has a habit of… making hardnosed men like yourself disappear.”

“Well, ain’t nothin’ for me here so you won’t be seeing me again.” Hatfield says.

“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that, I’d be out in California myself partner.” the bartender said. “I like your attitude kid, but the moment you stepped foot in here is the moment this place became your home.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see,” the bartender winked, as he gave him another shot of whiskey.

Hatfield looked around the bar, and saw a large woman with a mole near her lip. She was drunk as a skunk and twice as ugly. She smiles and bats her eyes at him. He quickly turns away, thinking nothing of it until a voice bellows out, “YOU LOOKIN’ AT MY WIFE, SONNY?”

He turns and looks. It’s a lawmen, in no great shape himself.

“What the hell did you say, old man?” Hatfield says.

“I saw you lookin’ at my wife, you son of a bitch!”

Hatfield laughs. “A saloon ain’t no place for a proper woman. Besides, I’ve seen cattle behinds with a better face.”

The lawmen squints his eyes. “Ladies,” he says. “I suggest you leave this establishment.”

A line of prostitutes quickly forms as they leave the saloon, along with the wife. The piano player quietly slips through the backdoor.

 

Chaos ensues. Men from everywhere draw their weapons. Hatfield draws his Peacemaker. The Lawmen shoots at Hatfield, as well as several do-gooders. Hatfield fires back. Rustlers, using this as an excuse to kill a lawmen, fire back as well. The bartender is caught in the crossfire and is one of the first to go down. The lawmen is struck in the shoulder, but not before hitting several rustlers. Smoke fills the saloon. Hatfield, the last remaining man with any bullets left in his pistol, fatally hits the lawmen, the last foe remaining. As the smoke clears, Hatfield is left as the only man standing. Hatfield gets on his horse, and as he clears the outskirts of town, he looks back. There is no saloon. No Hyde Park. There is only a tumbleweed clearing the horizon.

 

Decades pass. Hatfield does not age. He remains in his physical prime. The world changes around him. The Wild West falls by the wayside. Horses are replaced by cars, bandits are replaced by gangs. Saloons are replaced by- well, in Los Angeles, free range, organic food trucks. Hatfield remains in Los Angeles, and begins training in mma at Yellow Lotus gym. He continues to search for the thrill of a gunfight, the thrill of a final showdown. The same questions torment him. When will he fulfill his purpose? When will he break the spell of Hyde Park? When will he find a final resting place for his weary soul?

[Rocket]

His soul weathered by the centuries past, and yet physically unchanged by time... immortality comes at a price.

 

Let us hope Riley finds inner peace in the violence of mma. That is if you can find an opponent for an immortal gunslinger with a chip on his shoulder!

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His soul weathered by the centuries past, and yet physically unchanged by time... immortality comes at a price.

 

Let us hope Riley finds inner peace in the violence of mma. That is if you can find an opponent for an immortal gunslinger with a chip on his shoulder!

“Immortality Comes at a Price”

 

An outlaw on the run knows the true spirit of the Wild West- a harsh and unforgiving landscape with death all around you. Like the snowy mountains of the northeast, the west brings disease and chaos with every step. Hatfield had seen his share of death. There was a Cholera outbreak in his hometown as a youngin’, that took the life of his uncle. His father, too, was an outlaw who met his demise after being on the wrong end of a shootout. Hatfield felt cursed to bring death upon him wherever he went.

One case in particular always came to the front of his mind. Riding through the Shadow Valley, a valley near the Oklahoma border, he stumbled across a skeleton. The skin and muscles picked clean by the vultures. His clothes, a torn red bandana and a duster that had long been covered in dust, and a ‘Peacemaker’ in his holster, let Hatfield know that this was an outlaw just like himself. He checked the pockets. No cash- some other bandits probably already picked those up- his pocket only contained a crumpled letter. The letter read:

Dear Ma,

I’m afraid I won’t make it back home. The sun sickness has already set in. My horse dropped dead a couple days ago, and I haven’t seen a soul since. I hope someone will come across me and send this to you. Take care of Sally Mae. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused.

The back of the letter read “send to-” but the name and city were bleached out by the sun, another casualty of the heat. Hatfield looked at the bones, turned grey by the harsh winds. He blinked, and he saw himself lying there. It was his red bandana, his own faded duster, his own- letter. His own letter that would never be delivered. Out of shock Hatfield took a step back, drew his Peacemaker and fired at the skeleton-

 

 

- and when his eyes opened, he was in a ring, staring at his opponent lying unconscious on the ground. The sound of someone yelling brought his eyes up.

“Jesus Riley, you can’t just fucking knock out training partners!” a voice said. Hatfield looked back to the ground, his training partner mumbling and groaning on the ground.

“I- I didn’t mean to,” Riley said to the trainer.

“Yeah, well, that’s it for now cowboy. Go home, and don’t come back for awhile, y’here?”

Hatfield packed his gear, and soberly left the gym. He knew he’d have to earn his place back into Yellow Lotus. More importantly, he knew he’d have to find Hyde Park.

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"Blessed Are the Peacemakers"

 

    Hatfield pulled on the reigns of his horse. The bronco he had snagged on the way out of Hyde Park remained his trusted steed through his infinite travel. And yet while Hatfield remained the same, the steed had not. The horse, once a camel tan with a blonde mane, its coat had become a darkened pitch black and its eyes had become a bloody crimson color. 

   The endless desert overwhelmed his mind. The dust would temporarily blind him, and when the vision returned he would find that he had made no progress of advancing deeper into the desert abyss. Had he seen that cactus before? He was sure he had. Hatfield began leaving markers wherever he went- a piece of his bandana wrapped around a cactus arm, an "X" carved into a cow skull. 

   Hatfield would seldom come across anything living. Occasionally a wolf or a rabbit that he'd hunt down, or some snakes that he'd leave be; no meat on them. And yet on this day, Hatfield  came across a cemetery marked with wooden crosses and withered flowers. And yet, in the middle stood a man in a suit with a rather large hat and a fresh bouquet of roses. 

   Hatfield pulled on the reigns and came to a stop. 

"Howdy, mister" Hatfield said. The man did not answer. 

Slowly, the man turned to look at him.

 "Hatfield- oh, Hatfield. Looking for the future yet living in the past." he said. 

"How the hell you know my name?" Hatfield said. 

"See for yourself," the man said, motioning towards a wooden cross in the ground. Hatfield carefully approached, and read the cross:

 

RILEY HATFIELD

1864-1882

"Blessed Are The Peacemakers"

 

 

"Son of a-" Hatfield turned and drew his gun, only to find that the man had disappeared. In his place, all that stood was the bouquet of roses. He stood in front of the cross, the wind nearly blowing it over. Hatfield had seen himself in death for the second time. He looked at his gun. He raised it to shoot at the cross, but instead lowered it and picked up the roses. As he layed them at his own grave, he closed his eyes.

- and when he opened them, he found himself once again in the octagon. His opponent was unconscious across from him, the referee covering him from more blows. This time, instead of the upset coach from his last blackout, he saw his coach jubilantly clapping. 

 

As his hand was raised, Hatfield knew his career was off to a good start- and yet, he would be unable to ever break the infinite cycle without confronting the strange man.

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“Let No Man Put Asunder”

 

 

Hatfield couldn’t recall a feeling of rest. He looked down at his steed, and reached down to pet the animal near its neck. It felt thin as a canvas, concealing some jagged abomination. His horse, black and weary, now had an oozing lash where it’s reins had continually whipped him. Hatfield felt sorry for the horse, but he felt more sorry for himself. 

He knew how time had not been revolving. He could measure the sunrise and sunset by etching a cut into his wide brimmed hat when the sun began to set- yet, when the sun would rise the chipped felt hat had seemed to fix itself, like it had never known the end of a blade at all. 

The paths carved in the desert by the weary who have traveled before were carved with a plague of misfortune, as is every path that begins a civilization. For every family that made it to Oregon, or Eureka in the pursuit of gold, there were several more that never knew the life they were promised, just spirits that marked the way. 

‘But what about the road less taken?’ Hatfield said to himself. The paths were created by someone, some time ago. New paths would be made. Why must he continue the journey that so many could not complete?

It was then that he saw a tumbleweed, an occurrence that he had become bored of- yet, this stood out in his brain, like a bluebird against the desert sky- and so, Hatfield decided to veer off the beaten path. 

Off the beaten path, Hatfield began to see his horse change. Dust seemed to fall off it’s skin. His bloodshot eyes returned to a blue as deep as the oceans. His color turned from the pitch black, to a tan that matched the sand beneath him. Hatfield looked in the distance, and began to see the outlying of a town. Then, underneath his horse appeared a new road. Next to him, on a wooden post driven into the cracking ground, stood a sign that simply said; “Hyde Park.” Before Hatfield could order it, His horse reared its head, and sent Hatfield into a dash. It galloped with a fever that could only be matched by the blazing distant sun. The horse neighed, avoiding the cacti and long dead plants with every step. The horse neighed, and the ground beneath its hooves turned into a fine sand. Unable to grip, Hatfield felt his horse slipping, seeming to move faster than the ground below it. Ahead was a cloud of dust, blacked against the buildings that lay inside it. Hatfield lost control of its reins, and the horse did not stop. Galloping towards the dust, Hatfield braced his eyes against the sky, and his body against an impact. His eyes closed, and the horse charged, and charged…

 

And when his eyes opened, he discovered himself once more in a ring. Once more, a man lay on his side, stirring but not awake. He heard the sounds of his cornermen cheering him on, a jubilation that filled Hatfield’s arms. He threw his hands up and smiled. Another Knockout victim. Another paycheck. And, soon- another return to the saloon that he though he escaped from.