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23 June 2008 20:07![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesThey called him Longhand.
He was a tall sheriff. He was a very pale Swede with fine, blonde hair. The black suit he wore was not required by his office but it made the silver star stand out against his lapel like a metal tooth in the smile of a killer.
He had the long, elegant fingers of a pianist. He never played any instrument except, some might argue, The Gun.
He wrote a lot and didn’t talk much. He was quick with a pistol. He was fair but extremely harsh. The town was as afraid of him as they were grateful for his presence. He was no mere scarecrow to criminals. He was a plague.
Longhand was older than most in the new town. The prospering nature of the village had attracted a lot of young folks with families. It was growing fast. Longhand had hired a few deputies but they mostly minded the office and patrolled the streets at night.
They rarely had to send for the sheriff. It was like he had a sense for trouble. As one turned to shout for help, Sheriff Longhand was already striding through the door, his bootheels marking out seconds in the silent room as he strode towards the problem.
He kept his blonde hair long which was unusual for the day. Or at least, unusual for an employed gentleman living in a civilized setting. His eyes were blue but they lacked the dreamy, mesmerizing quality that most blue eyes possess. They were the cold eyes of a non-feeling thing. They were eyes that brought to mind cliffs and rivers. They had all the emotion of a seagull.
The were twin lights pushed into the mask of his face. He came across as mechanical when he entered a crime scene or an event in progress. A living puppet.
He moved with a slow economy of motion in an affected nonchalance. It was enough, coupled with his reputation, to put most criminals off their plans and most drunken louts back to a sober state.
For those that wanted to press their luck, had never heard of LongHand or were feeling just plain suicidal, the end was quick.
A small flurry of fabric like the flap of a flag in the wind, a gunshot, and silence. Most criminals grunted in surprise at the sudden hole in their forehead, convulsed, and died, leaving the world no poorer.
Some survived the experience but you could count them on one hand. They never committed a crime again. Or ate without help.
Longhand ruled quietly in the West. No glory befell him. It slid off of him like the passing stares of strangers.
Some say that he is where we get the expression “the long arm of the law” but it can’t be verified.
tags
He was a tall sheriff. He was a very pale Swede with fine, blonde hair. The black suit he wore was not required by his office but it made the silver star stand out against his lapel like a metal tooth in the smile of a killer.
He had the long, elegant fingers of a pianist. He never played any instrument except, some might argue, The Gun.
He wrote a lot and didn’t talk much. He was quick with a pistol. He was fair but extremely harsh. The town was as afraid of him as they were grateful for his presence. He was no mere scarecrow to criminals. He was a plague.
Longhand was older than most in the new town. The prospering nature of the village had attracted a lot of young folks with families. It was growing fast. Longhand had hired a few deputies but they mostly minded the office and patrolled the streets at night.
They rarely had to send for the sheriff. It was like he had a sense for trouble. As one turned to shout for help, Sheriff Longhand was already striding through the door, his bootheels marking out seconds in the silent room as he strode towards the problem.
He kept his blonde hair long which was unusual for the day. Or at least, unusual for an employed gentleman living in a civilized setting. His eyes were blue but they lacked the dreamy, mesmerizing quality that most blue eyes possess. They were the cold eyes of a non-feeling thing. They were eyes that brought to mind cliffs and rivers. They had all the emotion of a seagull.
The were twin lights pushed into the mask of his face. He came across as mechanical when he entered a crime scene or an event in progress. A living puppet.
He moved with a slow economy of motion in an affected nonchalance. It was enough, coupled with his reputation, to put most criminals off their plans and most drunken louts back to a sober state.
For those that wanted to press their luck, had never heard of LongHand or were feeling just plain suicidal, the end was quick.
A small flurry of fabric like the flap of a flag in the wind, a gunshot, and silence. Most criminals grunted in surprise at the sudden hole in their forehead, convulsed, and died, leaving the world no poorer.
Some survived the experience but you could count them on one hand. They never committed a crime again. Or ate without help.
Longhand ruled quietly in the West. No glory befell him. It slid off of him like the passing stares of strangers.
Some say that he is where we get the expression “the long arm of the law” but it can’t be verified.
tags