"Beware the Man in Black, for he is the eater."

THE BLACK PISTOLS

a collaboration with @patchs-muse-hub (tw: blood, gore, murder.)

Gather ‘round one and all, for I am about to tell you the scariest story in all the West. One that you probably never heard of.

One arid summer during the Old West, when the American Frontier knew little of law or justice. The Devil himself came outta Hell itself, riding on top of a red horse; flying across the stormy skies, reveling in all the meanness and godlessness.

He hooped and hollered atop the stormy clouds, smoke and flame coming out of his horse's eyes, and in his hands he fired into the air two black pistols. These black pistols were of Satan's own making, forged from the fires of wrath and quenched in the blood of saints, both having hammers of pure celestial brass. The one named Ichor–its name was engraved into the barrel with gold, and the other named Poison, was engraved with silver.

The barrel tips glowed white hot with every shot, the gun shot so loud it boomed like thunder and every bullet fired burned hotter than hellfire, going out the barrel so quick that it can cut through stone and spirit!

When the Devil was done, he rested on top of a mesa. After a time, he noticed his horse looked strangely spooked by something behind them. The Devil turned and there riding towards him, slowly coming out of a thick blanket of cold fog, was a man—or at least what looked like a man.

He looked like he crawled straight out of his own grave, his skin frost bitten blue with black finger tips and long hooked claws. He rode atop a pale white horse—but not just any horse, it was a big hoss and so was its rider. He wore a very long tattered coat draped in elk hide covered in bullet holes, a blood stained sash on his hip with a black feathered stetson on the top of his head.

Following just behind him was a harrowing blizzard and freezing winds that sapped the desert heat like a rag. With eyes glowing an awful blue, he stared at the Devil—never blinking, never wavering, and his cracked lips curled into a crooked snarl, revealing rows of yellowed, fang-like teeth.

Satan felt a chill roll up his spine, for he knew The Undertaker was here. The Undertaker tethered his horse and approached Satan, the ground lightly trembled with each step. And when The Undertaker was close enough, The Devil finally noticed that his feet were massive deer hooves black as night poking from his boots.

“Who dares wake me from my sleep?” The Undertaker growled.

“I suppose I did” The Devil shouted back, arms crossed and his chest puffed.

“I was celebrating with my pistols! Then you came along and seemed to ruin my fun! You froze everything, and now my horse is cold and her fire has gone out.”

The Undertaker growled again.

“You and your racket! Your gunshots carried across the hills and valleys to reach my ears, waking me from sleep! Go back to Hell where you belong ya’ ol’ horny toad!”

“Seems to me that we're cross!” The Devil said with a huff.

“I wanna shoot my guns and have fun. And you wanna sleep. How do we settle this?”

The Undertaker smiled up at The Devil, a wicked glint in his empty eyes.

“How many men have you killed with those pistols?”

The Devil jumped with glee and answered.

“Plenty! How about you, stranger? I don’t see any irons on you!”

“I have killed men, women, varmints and all manner of beastly folk. I've killed just about anything and everything that walks, runs, crawls, flies, or slithers on this earth and beyond—and unlike you, I don’t need guns to catch my prey” The Undertaker chuckled

“You certainly are a bold man, son!” Satan said, flicking his forked tongue at his strange and irritating visitor.

“For I am Lucifer, I have destroyed kingdoms and toppled empires, I set Rome ablaze and danced in its flames while playing a fiddle. I fought with the angels and cast my brethren from the Heavens! I have killed far more than you ever wish you could, creature!”

The Undertaker laughed at the Devil's boast.

“Fine then, how about we find out who's really the better killer? I wager that I can kill ten times more than you.”

“I'll take that bet!! And if I win, I can continue frolicking for as long as I want to!”

“....and if I win,” The Undertaker responds, “I get to take your guns.”

The Devil, though hesitant at first, but with a flood of confidence he shook hands with The Undertaker and both parted ways, agreeing to meet back atop the mesa in seven days.

Satan rode atop his blazing steed all across the country, killing whatever outlaw that was in his sights, one hundred men with one pistol and one hundred with the other—each shooting iron having carved notches on the grips to keep count. Seven days passed, and The Devil returned to the top of the mesa, where The Undertaker and his horse waited for him.

Satan marched to the dead man and his horse, showing him the notches on the black pistols, pride overflowing him.

“So! How many have you killed?”

The Undertaker didn't answer, instead he turned around and walked away back into the snow. The Devil laughed triumphantly, mocking The Undertaker thinking he had beaten him.

And then all of a sudden, coming back out of the cold, was The Undertaker carrying two massive tied blankets soaked in golden blood.

“Look here, Devil, see how many I've killed with my own two hands!”

Satan took the blankets, both were full of something wet and very heavy. He looked inside, and what was in there turned the ol’ Devil himself white as a ghost.

Hearts—piles upon piles of hearts—angel hearts, the size of a human fist, some seemingly still attempt to pump the gilded ichor they were drenched in. It smelled akin to a butcher shop, like death had found itself a hole to crawl into.

“What are you?!?!” The Devil asked, eyes wide with terror!

The Undertaker’s shadow lengthened over the valley like the antlers of a great elk, as he answered pointing at the blood soaked blankets and its contents.

“THAT….. is what I am! Now git!”

In a flash of lightning, the Devil had fled and laying there at the Dead Man's feet was the black pistols. To this day, he rides still, on top of his white horse, an old black hat atop his head roaming the countryside searching for greedy souls.

And always on his hips are the beautiful, black guns from which claimed four hundred lives, now have taken a thousand fold…

…and still counting

With these mental lures, IT would look for things like memory. Something fresh, something painful. Something to deceive and horrify. IT had done so when those who shine wandered too close, diverting the critical eye elsewhere. 

The problem here lies in the fact that IT wants nothing to do with Randall. 

Not even in the sense to peek behind the curtain of his mind. 

That writhing eel in the man's chest is still an ever-present threat, a reminder of what comes after lest the wrong attention be turned upon this side of the universe. IT chooses not think of that! Instead, IT sets its focus on the ridiculous notion that IT should be fortunate not to gain this man's ire. Fortune? What fortune could there be here? What fortune comes with dealing with any of their kind? 

"---O fortune, fortune! All men call thee fickle--" IT says in a stolen voice, swallowing the pure outrage IT feels at having to hear such presumptuous threats. Anyone unfortunate enough to have a loud-mouthed younger relative would know the feeling. The yawning annoyance, the itching impression of disrespect. Oh, how the list can go on.  "--what dost thou with him that is renowned for faith?" 

The two eyes in the darkness are now illuminated by a row of teeth, a laugh, a common jest as IT pulls itself upward from the rotten keep of wood and ruined signage. Effortlessly, IT perches itself on toes topped with pom-poms, gloved hands coming to rest under ITs chin as the elbows prop up on the thighs. Despite itself, it is intrigued.

You're dead wrong!"

It could feel it, a familiar shifting and pulsating around him as the sewers of Derry started to fade away.

Filth and brackish water blossomed into thick blades of flaxen grass, daylight shone ahead as the sun blazed down on the clown from above as reality shifted before Pennywise.

A savanna, wide and endless as far as It's 's all-seeing eyes can see.

Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere. The voice of Randall spoke loud and clear, yet with a heavily exaggerated Australian accent.

"Lookie here fellas, what we have here is the most dangerous predator in the cosmos!

A vicious, violent, wild animal that has set entire worlds aflame just by it being there!

Or at least IT used to be--until one big bad, mean ol' turtle sent a gaggle of little shits to put the animal down."

The sound of creaking and snapping, the sunlight darkens as behind the clown, a fig tree sprouts to full height--iridescent leaves sprouting in mass.

Perched atop a branch was the man himself, arms resting atop on his knees as he continued, the accent ceased yet he was far from done-

"....And now you're nothing but a biiiig ol' fluffy scared puppy on a leash. You're teeth pulled, claws ripped from your paws. Well, at least--not yet anyway~"

He picks a fig from the branch, tossing it down to the clown. The fruits flesh, once a dark shade of violet now a stark, deep bloody red.

"You've felt it! You've seen it! Haven't you, Nickelsmart?"

Back when those fickle little toy soldiers broke you out of your cell?

Ding DING!

The bell jingled as the library door opened with a start.

The man standing there, clad in denim and vibrant buttons threw his cigarette on the sidewalk and took off his aviators greeting the red-head at the desk with a warm gentle grin.

"There ain't no other place I'd rather be in the whole world, baby cheeks!"

Randall said with a light airy chuckle.

"Besides! I got some time away from work, so I thought I'd jump by--"

A brief pause, as he reaches into his coat to pull out a foot-long sandwich, wrapped up tightly in greasy parchment.

"Ya know! I like to think of kings as insecure little things. Always having dick measuring contests about 'whose castle is bigger than all the others'. I have also heard said, 'better to have an empire than to have one castle made of stone'. Me personally? I just wanna drown them all in water. Like taking the hose to an ant hill, watching all those tiny little bugs be swept away! 'Oooooh Nooo!!! How could this happen to us?! How is this God's plan?!' Don't you think? Empress~"

"'Cause why be a king or an emperor? When you can be something so much more!"

The strange man replied, perched on top of a nearby chair. Weightlessly did he sit there, like a corvid glaring down from his branch above on such small things.

A smirk present on devilishly handsome features, soft sharp eyes of piercing blue that greeted with a warmness yet mocked everything in their gaze.

His hair was as golden and voluminous as the cherubs, yet even in the shadow it blazed like nuclear fire.

The body of Adonis was dressed in freshly pressed denim. Pin-buttons adorn the chest pockets of his battle jacket like medals of honor. More prominently, a yellow smiley face button that once her eye caught its vibrant gaze.

A single black beady eye winks at her. DING!