I had been born with the Christian name Prospero. Billy could've done me nothing more wrong than whisper that into my ma's ear. I was orphaned young, maybe three or four, some time where I can't recollect it.

Since I was a young man, roughly seventeen or so, I was known as the fastest pistoleer in California. Hell, the whole West!

I first shot my fellow man after a game of cards. It was with an outfit of Mexicans who had crossed up the border a few days earlier. I don't remember the name of him too well, "Jefe"? Well, he would win every third hand. He was an idiot to think no one would tell that he was cheating so earnestly. So I shot him in the back! He declared me a coward. I implored to him that this was not the case and I turned him around and shot him again!

Now this was the preliminaries! My life would truly start off with his friends around the table. Around the time I finished my second shot they had become fully aware that Jefe was dead (and a terrible cheat) and retaliate. This is where my story begins!

I was deeply focused on them and had assured myself they would aim for my head and I wouldn't have to put up with writhing on the floor like ol' Jefe. They began to stand up, reaching for their revolvers on their hips when I became at peace with my death. I mean, it wasn't a good life, but it was my own. I damn well liked it!

While assuring myself of my noble service to God and country I observed that time had stilled. There was little sound, it as if a rill in the mountains was flowing near my ears. I began blinking rapidly, flinching each time their guns had come into sight until enough time had passed that I deemed this moment remarkable and thought on its conclusion. I shot them dead then. Soon, but not immediately, time had unglued itself from whatever space was holding it back and leaped forward. I gathered the money off the muchachos and ran off.

If I may forward through this now, I had taken notice of this phenomenon on later occasions. I could will myself out of any terrible situation that would befall me. Each time I would have a gun pulled on me, which will happen at a greater rate as I understood this phenomenon more clearly, time would not advance and I would destroy.

I became known as Prospero, the Pistoleer.

I must've dueled or otherwise killed some twenty men in my career. Yes, it was twenty exactly! I was challenged everywhere I would turn up. Towns, villages, campsites. I would often regret murdering those men, but their hubris stuck them down I'd say and move on.

Every moment that time stopped it would appear differently. It began simply like a picture in a camera. Then color began getting fuzzy like in a tired eye. Then it lost any hue and became a shade of black and white and gray. Then it all melded into one great darkness and I had to memorize my antagonist against a darkly screen.

I began to worry and decided to stop any fights and declined any offers. I would only go into town to get some food, medicine, or supplies.

My vision had worsened as well. I was still a young man then, twenty-three. I had befriended a wanderer, who proclaimed himself a preacher, but wore rags and called himself a prophet. He knew of my reputation but kept me anyway, so I kept him too. He was born with the Christian name John.

He was the only one I imparted the knowledge of my youthful gift.

I thought more of life after my vision deteriorated. I had traveled with him wearing rags he had gifted me as I was fearful of ambitious hooligans coming to collect a prize for my head. But this disguise wouldn't be enough and I knew it and John knew it, too.

John and I were inside an old Spanish mission that had been used to shelter the poor and homeless. He was deserted now. He spoke to me and I listened as I would always do. His words were beautiful if not unclear to me at times. He spoke of Heaven but never of Hell. He believed we all were saved. I remember that.

While John spoke of goodness I heard a voice mutter something incoherent and soft. John stopped his preaching and put his hands on top of my shoulders while I looked around uselessly. I heard the wood in the hallway beginning to creak with footsteps. John made no move away from me.

The steps would move closer and stop with a door being opened and, then progressing a few feet more. As these footsteps would come closer I could make out different voices. They would shout my name and continue on. John was still holding me.

They came upon our room. It was a small room, cramped enough for us. John was still alert, facing the door as it swung open. I heard some mild cheering with a Mexican accent. I heard multiple shots and my vision grew even darker and indefinite as it had last I remembered.

I felt John's grip loosen and his body knock on the floor. I knew that they must've pointed the gun at me then as I never heard another shot. I refrained my drawing my pistols.

I cradled John in my arms and lifted him. The darkness was ubiquitous. I walked towards where the door was behind me. I continued on, holding John close. I continued on, never with an obstruction in my way.