Jonathan Clate

"We can either do this the easy way or the hard way; it's your choice Clate."  He was standing behind the chair, gun in hand, the barrel pointed just below the rim of the black stetson on the man in front of him. He was tightly bound to a chair, gagged and blind-folded, completely unaware of the gun inches from the back of his head.  He never thought it would come to this.
"When I say easy, I meant easy for me and when I say the hard way I mean the hard way for you...so really, there's no point in me waiting any longer..." He pushed the barrel of the gun into the back of the ranger's head, his finger posed on the trigger.  Satisfaction washed over him as his victim struggled, trying to break the ropes that held him.
"Well, I guess there's no point in wasting time. I have places to be, people to plague, of course, your son being one of them. I expect I won't have to find him after he hears what happened to dear old' Dad, I'll just have to sit back and wait. He'll be dead before he hits the ground." A cold, hard laugh escaped his mouth. A single tear ran down Clate's face as the thought of his infant son ran through his mind. It would be the last thing he thought.



The sun had already begun to set, casting a red glow over the dusty highway. A cloud of dust rumbled along the road. A young man sat astride a large, black motorcycle. Without a helmet, his loose, black hair blew back in the wind. His clothes were covered in dust from the road. His face, although smooth and angelic, was dirty and unshaven. He hadn't slept although, somehow, he felt wide awake. He took a smaller road off the highway and headed through small villages towards Orrville. Once there, he would find his cousin, Jack Wade, and find a cheap and no doubt musty, hotel for the night.
After Jonathan had learned the truth about his father's death at the age of nine, he had made a vow to his widowed mother that he would avenge his father's death, as soon as he turned eighteen. His mother, who was strongly against the idea, had scolded her parent's for telling her young son about the death of his father. They had argued that he had earned the right to learn the savage truth.  When his mother was forty, and Jonathon was almost eighteen, she fell into a deep depression as her son prepared to find the man who had murdered his father. As the days before Jonathon's birthday quickly diminished, his mothers health quickly faded. A week ago, his mother had passed away and he had started out on the journey, to avenge the death of both his parents.                    He felt completely alone in a world that had cruelly stolen both of his parents. He had abolished the thought of being able to gain the trust of another.
Jonathon slowed down as he turned into a small side road, wide enough for two small trucks to pass through. The sun had almost completely disappeared behind the red horizon as Jonathon turned into the first small street of Orrville. Looking at the gas meter on his dusty bike, he drove down the small road looking for a station to fill his fuel tank before beginning the search of his childhood friend.
The streets were beginning to fill with the orange glow street lights and the light from shop windows. At the end of a street filled with bars and delis, Jonathon pulled into a small gas station and filled the tank of his motorcycle with gasoline. He leaned against the side of a pump and stared at his Honda 600. It was black, with a thin, white stripe across the body. The white stripe was now a murky yellow.  He couldn't remember it ever getting this dirty. He had only been on the road a few days. He sighed, looked around the gas station and headed towards the small general store to pay for the fuel. Inside the store, a refrigerator stood opposite the check-out. Jonathon's stomach gave a loud rumble. He had forgotten how hungry he was. He paid the old, bearded man behind the checkout and mounted his bike again. He would polish it down when he reached his Aunt and Uncle's house. He looked down at his watch. Eleven. He looked around him for signs of a motel. A purple neon light stood outside a small building. One of the lights on the sign was broken. It now read 'Mote'.
He mounted his bike, knocking some red dust of as he did, leaving a stripe of jet black. He drove slowly into the parking lot of the small motel and parked his Honda near the entrance. There was a small woman, with thick rimmed glasses, sitting behind the desk reading a magazine. She looked up over the top of her magazine when Jonathon reached the desk. Her glasses magnified her eyes to ten times there usual size, making her look like a large bush baby. Jonathon mused over the thought for a moment.
"Er...How much is it to rent a room?" He said, reaching into the pocket of his trousers for his wallet.  The Bush-Baby woman stared at him for a moment, and then pointed to a sign to the left of her. Jonathon pulled out his wallet and handed her a handful of paper notes. In return, she gave him a small silver key with a number twelve written in black ink on the key chain.  She pointed out of the window to a door at the end of the building to the left of the entrance. Jonathon gave a small nod in thanks and headed out the entrance. He headed out across the car park, which was empty except for a red pick-up truck and his motorbike.  Looking up, he could see clearly the inky black sky dotted with pin pricks of light. A hunter's moon hung in the sky, helping to illuminate the streets. He couldn't remember seeing stars in the city. There were too many lights illuminating the sky.
He walked over to the door of his motel room, carrying the bag he had bought with him. The white paint was peeling of.  When he put the key in the rusty lock, he had to push the door hard to open it. It was a small room with a double bed against one wall, a small television on a chest of drawers, and a small table next to the bed with a small lamp and a telephone. He slammed the door behind him to make sure that he closed properly. Dust fell from the ceiling as he slammed the door against its old frame.
After inspecting the bathroom, he sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands. He wasn't even sure Jack still lived in this town. He ran his fingers through his dusty hair. He would wait until morning to find his cousin. All he wanted now was a shower. He turned on the shower and hot, steaming water poured out of the shower head.  There was a bottle of shower gel and a small bottle of shampoo on the shelf above the sink. He took off his dirty clothes and hung them over the towel rail.  He stepped into the shower and felt the hot water wash all over him.  Thoughts about what had happened in the last few years washed over him. The death of his mother, his cousin Jack and what had really happened to his father. He let the water the wash away the dirt from the road. 
He stood under the shower for twenty minutes.  He turned off the shower and stepped out, pulling a towel tightly around his waist. He shook his hair so drops of water splattered on the bathroom mirror and walls. He walked through into the bedroom, leaving behind him a trail of wet foot prints on the wood floor. He drew the red curtains that hung by the dirty windows, to hide the night that was quickly becoming morning. He made sure he had locked the door to his room, he didn't think anyone would be able to come in without him hearing them first anyway, and then he changed into some lose clothes he dug out from his bag.
He climbed underneath the sheets of the squeaky bed. They had an odd musty but clean smell. He lay staring at the ceiling for a few minutes with the blankets lying loosely over him, before a dreamless sleep took over his tired mind.
He awoke next morning to the sound of shouting outside his door. Light was filling the once dull room through the gap in the curtains. He scanned the room for a clock but ceased to find what he was looking for.  He pulled back the sheets and put his bare feet on the cold, wood floor and walked to the chair where he had draped his clothes from the night before, over the arm. He dug an old watch from inside his trouser pocket. Eight o' clock. Oh well, he thought, I'm up now.
He picked up is bag from the floor and headed into the bathroom to wash away the sleep from his tired face. He striped from his night clothes and withdrew fresh clothes from his back pack and pulled them on. Without folding them, he hastily put his night clothes back into his bag. He pulled a comb out of an inside pocket and attempted to tame his bed hair. Putting it back in his bag, he headed into the bedroom and pulled on his jacket.
Not bothering to make the bed he had slept in, he battled with the door to let him leave it that way. He handed in the room key to a younger man who had replaced the old woman and reluctantly left his motorbike in the parking lot and set out on foot to find his cousin Jack.
The small town was different to what he remembered from the night before. There were less people walking along the path and more cars being driven along the road. Apart from the occasional beep of a car horn, the streets were much quieter. There wasn't any loud music coming from bars and clubs. No drunken laughter. He stopped at a small store on the corner of a street and bought a bottle of water. He laughed to himself as he watched someone helping an elderly woman with her shopping. So different, he thought and carried on walking in the direction in which memory told him, his cousin lived.


He returned to the motel and battled with the archaic door. He had discovered the house in which his remaining family resided only to be greeted with the news that his Father's widowed brother, had been arrested on suspicion of murder. Jack was now his only remaining relative.
They had spent most of the morning deciding on what would happen next. Jack had agreed to travel alongside him on this old father's motorbike. It was old and well-ridden, but it would carry him the distance it would take to avenge their family's integrity.