Every villain’s the hero in their own story

Name: Logan Porter

Age: 40

Occupation: Loan Agent

Affiliation: Obsidian Holdings Employee

Gender & Pronouns: Man (he/him)

Faceclaim: Boyd Holbrook

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

Logan was one of those kids that came from trash and never expected to be much more. His family's reputation clung to him like rot and ate away whatever potential he had from the inside out. So, could anyone blame him for not striving for more?

Truancy officers were a common theme throughout his childhood and adolescence. Logan's mother disappeared (he doesn't know if she's dead or if she just ran off) when he was still in diapers. It was always just him and his dad and whatever extended family was laying around the trailer.

Logan knew early-on that his father wasn't the salt of the Earth kind of man. His father was a shark -- blind to good and bad (it's all relative anyways) and focused on whatever would keep food on the table. 

Money came with certain ties, but somehow, some way, they always had enough of it to loan out to everyone else (with interest of course). While everyone around his father fell victim to their vices, his father pursued survival. Sometimes, to stay on top, you have to stab a few backs so there's something to stand on.

So, was it a surprise that Logan followed in his footsteps? Of course not. 

It started small. He would issue reminders to those who were late on their payments. Most of the time, his reminders weren't physically violent -- at least not directly. His messages were heard, though.

It wasn't that Logan thought his dad was invincible. No one burned that many bridges and didn't wind up falling to their death. He just didn't expect his father's death to be at the hands of some kid: a fingers for the Cowboy Mafia. 

It was only by dumb chance that Logan wasn't there when the explosion happened. He went to the grocery store for some ice and returned home to a blaze that rivaled the pits of Hell.

Unlike some of his peers, Logan knew the Cowboy Mafia was more than campfire stories and Wyatt Earp. Similar to the police, the Cowboy Mafia fashioned themselves heroes, but Logan saw his father in enough fights with them to know they were all one and the same: outlaws. 

The only difference between Logan's family and the Cowboy Mafia was their public image. At the end of the day, they were all criminals. 

So, as the years have passed, and Logan's circle has grown smaller and smaller (less people to keep tabs on), he's developed a vendetta of sorts. 

Why does the Cowboy Mafia get to control the drug trade in Paxton, why do they get to be judge and jury, why are they the heroes? Logan will stop at nothing to burn the veil that protects the Cowboy Mafia and those affiliated with them from winding up behind bars. 

After all, if they're going to be criminals, just like him and just like his father, why do they get to avoid the consequences?

𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐂

"No I specifically went out of my way to buy an obnoxious colored garbage bag that could be traced back to me," she rolled her eyes as she crouched down to brush some of the dirt away and find the edge of the plastic that was starting to age and become brittle. "Yes, a black garbage bag."

Chuck used the shovel at the edge of the plastic to start lifting what was left in the bag. This whole process that had landed this body in this whole specifically had been planned out in detail but then hastily executed. Even she was disappointed with how it had gone, for multiple reasons. Still, at least she wasn't alone. She had been sent on one of these trying errands so many times she was starting to forget there were other people involved. "How'd you get roped into this anyway? I normally get stuck doing the dirty work on my own."

"I'm a loan collector in a small town filled with ranchers and farmers. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that," he answered back in riddles. "The Cowboy Mafia and my family go way back. I intend on outlasting them out of spite at this point. How'd you get roped into working for suits?"

"Shit. They do say heart attacks are on a concerning rise for younger adults. RIP, bro." TJ didn't know Logan too well. He was mostly a friend of friends, or to be more accurate, an associate of associates. "Well, I wasn't following you. I was saying hi, and also, I wanted to know if you have a lighter I can borrow. Mine must have fallen out of my pocket or something."

TJ glanced over to the bachelorette party again, meeting eyes with one of them with a smile. "Oh, come on, those rugged handsome looks and you don't want to say hi to some pretty girls? They're definitely looking over here."

He stopped carrying Zippos years ago. Technically, he once watched his father get in a fight with one of them, Lester or Johnny, and they torched the old bastard's hand after tossing their drink on him with none other than a Zippo. It was a core memory for Logan.

The bartender placed two peers on the countertop for Logan, shooting him a nasty glare. Logan blew them a kiss in response and laid two crumbled bills out. He glanced over at the group of girls and then back to TJ. "No, not really. You have more chances to shoot your shot -- enjoy. Unless you're lying and you're not just here to say, 'hi.'"

at la hacienda's private cigar lounge

Rhett wasn't so far removed from Paxton that he didn't remember the Porter family. If memory served him correctly, there was whole heap of them and they infested the trailer park that the community clung to much like their old traditions. It was all terribly storybook, but that was only as long as you liked old westerns — which Rhett found to be terribly boring. While the Cowboy Mafia certainly made this whole thing interesting, Rhett was slowly losing his patience. Not in the same sense as them, though. He wasn't the type to raise a fist. No, he was the type to slowly suck the lifeblood from someone and watch them suffer.

Which was how he ended up sat across from Logan. Some times the most interesting battles involved somewhat interesting ways to complete mission. Logan was... somewhat interesting. Not in his person, but in his motives. "Porter," Rhett said with a somewhat muted smile. The backroom of the La Hacienda was filled only with friendly company. It involved a private invitation and appointment. "How's the western front?" He asked, and moved to take a sip from his scotch.

"The western front is particularly Clint Eastwood-esque," Logan replied. He was never one to waste time or words. Time was money as the saying went. "It's as cliche as ever."

He reached for his own glass of scotch. The warm amber made him feel content for a moment. Slowly, his gaze drifted back to Rhett. A floating tray drifted by like they weren't even there. Anonymity tended to blanket him. "I'm sure Obsidian is happy with that article; lets the good people of Paxton know the truth; not that they want it if you ask me."

At the mention of Andie's name, Corey stiffened. Their relationship hadn't necessarily been a secret, even if Andie had been on the paranoid side. Still, it wasn't very often people came up to Corey to ask about her. Actually, this was the first time. Something about it didn't feel right. "You a friend of hers or something?" Corey asked, sipping their beer. "She's my ex-girlfriend. If you wanna interpret the songs that way, I'm not gonna say you're wrong." Corey had added a lot to their catalogue over the weeks since Andie had left. Emotions were on the heavy side. It helped them to get it out. "Why you asking?"

"Yeah, something like that," Logan answered after a moment. He turned on his stool to face Corey more directly. If there was one thing he appreciated about Corey Jensen in that moment was that they didn't waste time, their questions were direct. So, Logan's answers were direct. "We were friendly enough for her to get a loan for about 20k or so from me; a loan she hasn't paid back, so she skipped town again?"

Logan heaved a sigh at that. He was getting tired of everyone thinking loans were gifts. He was also tired of Andie Sorenson's bullshit -- sick kid sister or not. "That's why she's an ex?"

"You wouldn't happen to want some company on your walk to your cousin's apartment, would you?" It was around the time he usually did his rounds anyway, might as well have some company for a little bit of it. "You caught me during my turn to do rounds, so..."

He said this with a grin. The site wasn't going anywhere, but his alibi was. "I know there's all that shit going on with the renovation, but you'd think they'd spare a couple of dollars to fix the cameras. How many people come by every day bitching at all of you for that one?"

"Wait, Johnny is dead? The fuck happened in Phoenix?" Life happened fast, and apparently, it ended fast too. Damn. TJ was going to have to do a better job staying in touch with people if they were gonna vanish this often. "D'you think any of those girls are single?" TJ pondered, looking over to the party, lighting their own cigarette. "We could be a couple of gentleman and try to teach them to play. Before one of them puts the cue through the felt."

He hopped down from the truck bed, stalking towards the bar's doors for another beer. As TJ asked about Johnny, he glanced over, brows arching. For someone who was so reformed, TJ seemed to rub elbows with the "riff-raff" of Paxton. "Nothing except a heart attack -- sometimes, people just drop dead," Logan pointed out not too gently.

"Pays better tending bar," Corey scoffed, gesturing to the girl behind to get her attention, ordering a beer. "Least they get tips." Especially the hot ones. Drunk guys who thought they could buy their way into someone's pants. Corey took on a bar tending shift from time to time when the overtime pay was good enough, but God, they hated it.

"You a musician?" Corey asked. "I wouldn't recommend it. But I guess if you're an artist, you don't usually get a choice in the matter. Art either explodes outta you or it doesn't." They'd added a few annoyingly painful love songs and break-up songs to their catalogue recently. "So, no, the answer is it doesn't pay well. Not at all. But it keeps me playing music and writing music, so suppose there're worse things."

A genuine smile crossed his face at Corey's question. "No. Y'know that plastic recorder they tried to get all of us to play in school before they'd let us into band? Failed it. Couldn't even play twinkle twinkle little star on it."

He also broke the damn thing and let his dad's dogs that year play fetch with the pieces. Logan had a feeling if he ever got under the trailer he'd find bits of the plastic buried in the dirt. Sometimes, Logan missed those dogs. They felt more like his than Tom and Jerry who were the leftovers after his dad's death.

"I think he pays you just fine." And for discretion more than anything else which they were both aware of. You needed to command fierce loyalty, which Hector attempted to do but mostly failed, or have deep pockets, which Hector did. Chuck stood to grab the shovel and sauntered over to the edge of the large hole, dropping herself in with a soft thud. It wasn't the first grave that she had dug and she knew it wasn't going to be the last. Even if she was starting to question the need. At least this one she wasn't digging alone. "Besides, it could be worse. You could be out here with nothing but the coyotes and ghosts to keep you company. At least you have me to entertain you."

“Coyotes and the ghosts might be more helpful,” he quipped. He came to the edge, still glancing up at the horizon every couple of minutes for headlights, and shook his head. Somewhere just underneath the surface they’d find the garbage bag.