Bill stood at the crossroads, idly leaning on his sword.
In every direction, the land kept going and going, and so the roads- dirt pathways stamped flat and hard by centuries of plodding feet- extended out into the distance, seemingly ending when they hit sky. Anybody approaching the crossroads could be seen hours before they actually got there, giving Bill ample time to prepare his welcome.
So when a rumbling throat-clearing came from behind him, he had every right to be rather surprised. Not that he acted it, of course. After the first several centuries, you stop showing emotions unless you intentionally wear your feelings. Bill turned to face the newcomer, finding a small, extremely black man, draped in a colorful yellow... poncho, it seemed.
"Good afternoon, traveler," said Bill, grinning his friendliest grin, "We're out here alone, so I'll just cut to the chase. My name is Bill, and I am a highwayman. That means that you give me your valuables, and in return, I don't kill you. You keep your food, your clothes, and anything I don't really want, and you go on your merry way; poorer, granted, but alive. Now please empty your pockets." The smile never left Bills face.
The traveler's face seemed made of stone. He neither moved to empty his pockets, nor spoke.
Bill kept his smile on. "Now come on, do you really think that a simple refusal is going to get you anywhere? It's not. Now if you don't turn out your pockets, I'll gut you where you stand, take what I want, and bury the remains without a marker." All said with an easy-going, neighborly smile.
The traveler dipped his hand into his pocket, and Bill began to nod. "Good man," he said.
But what the traveler removed from his pocket was not silver, gems, currency, or any form of traded good. From the deep folds of the poncho, the ebony stranger pulled a small cloth doll, obviously meant to resemble Bill with it's black hat, black overcoat, and black boots. 'That,' thought Bill,'is either a voodoo doll for me or Clint Eastwood, and something tells me this guy hasn't heard of Clint Eastwood.'
Bill tipped his hat back, and the smile left his face. "Buddy, I don't know why you've come to kill me, and I don't really care. What I do know are two things. One,
In every direction, the land kept going and going, and so the roads- dirt pathways stamped flat and hard by centuries of plodding feet- extended out into the distance, seemingly ending when they hit sky. Anybody approaching the crossroads could be seen hours before they actually got there, giving Bill ample time to prepare his welcome.
So when a rumbling throat-clearing came from behind him, he had every right to be rather surprised. Not that he acted it, of course. After the first several centuries, you stop showing emotions unless you intentionally wear your feelings. Bill turned to face the newcomer, finding a small, extremely black man, draped in a colorful yellow... poncho, it seemed.
"Good afternoon, traveler," said Bill, grinning his friendliest grin, "We're out here alone, so I'll just cut to the chase. My name is Bill, and I am a highwayman. That means that you give me your valuables, and in return, I don't kill you. You keep your food, your clothes, and anything I don't really want, and you go on your merry way; poorer, granted, but alive. Now please empty your pockets." The smile never left Bills face.
The traveler's face seemed made of stone. He neither moved to empty his pockets, nor spoke.
Bill kept his smile on. "Now come on, do you really think that a simple refusal is going to get you anywhere? It's not. Now if you don't turn out your pockets, I'll gut you where you stand, take what I want, and bury the remains without a marker." All said with an easy-going, neighborly smile.
The traveler dipped his hand into his pocket, and Bill began to nod. "Good man," he said.
But what the traveler removed from his pocket was not silver, gems, currency, or any form of traded good. From the deep folds of the poncho, the ebony stranger pulled a small cloth doll, obviously meant to resemble Bill with it's black hat, black overcoat, and black boots. 'That,' thought Bill,'is either a voodoo doll for me or Clint Eastwood, and something tells me this guy hasn't heard of Clint Eastwood.'
Bill tipped his hat back, and the smile left his face. "Buddy, I don't know why you've come to kill me, and I don't really care. What I do know are two things. One,
