Bait - fishing for compliancy

-1-

There are a lot of things that can give a man a fresh perspective on life.

A large vein of gold in one's garden, probably found while planting carrots.

A miraculous cure from a very painful and embarrassing affliction.

The sudden and glorious enlightenment through a higher being of one's choice.

All these things can lead to a very new perspective, and some to the side effect of sandals and unkempt hair.

Conventional wisdom lists being faced with one's own death as such a transforming experience. The more astonishing is it that Eli hadn't changed a bit.

To show you the extend of Elis predicament we need to take a look around.

Our scenery could have been picturesque. But it isn't.

If we would slowly turn around till we made a full circle we would see some hills in the east, not real mountains, just enough to make traveling uncomfortable. In the south there would be nothing, for miles. Far far off, where the line of the horizon smudged into a vague blue, and if we squint our eyes, then perhaps we could see even more prairie.

In the west, now that's another story, there is a forest. Dark and gloomy filled with elks, wolfs, chipmunks and similar licentious creatures.

In the north we are back to nothing.

So what do we have?

A whole lot of space. Wind would prowl over this widths - so it could blow appropriately through the hair of an inculpable narrative attendant – and it would always be piercing and gelid.

The grassland we stand on could be of a vibrant green color. It could spew the very essence of life itself on us. But it doesn't.

It's bleak and barren. Brownish and desolate.

It's a wasteland in the truest meaning of the word.

And in the middle of this dreary excuse of a territory there is a tree.

This tree has been dead for longer than the most of you readers have been alive.

It's branches are charred and crooked, but it stands tall - as it is suiting for a hanging tree.

You may have guessed it by now – our dear, dear Eli is hanging from said tree.

But this is, as you might have noticed by now, a story that should give some of you the possibility to identify with the woes and the delights of our protagonists.

Some of you may be able to identify with a foul, corrupt, depraved and hanged human being – and I salute these for a life lived to the fullest – but, and this is essential for the progression of this story, not all people can be debauched. There would be no friction for our tale to thrive on.

So, to my outmost regret, here he is. Our hero.

He is tall, and handsome, dark of course, with a clear jawline and of good built.

He is leading his mule through the prairie, simply because I straightforward refuse to give him a stallion – regardless of which color.

His name is Mack. And he would be pleased to be called Macky, for that would mean he would have friends that gave him such a nickname.

For the time being we are his only friends. And so he will be Mack for a couple of lines longer.

Mack, and his mule, have already seen the tree from afar. And they have seen Eli, and his peculiar predicament beneath said tree.

Now every good villain - even every clever character - would think about all the work that had to be done to bring a man in such a situation. One must make a sufficiently large group of people sufficiently angry to make them search for a long enough rope. And make them angry long enough to knot a noose, or find somebody who can tie a noose, and then bring one out to the middle of nowhere to hang one on the most visible place for miles.

All clever characters would come to the conclusion that with so much anger involved a walk-by greeting would be adequate. And would make their way, more or less happy, but very much alive, into an unknown future.

Alas, Mack is neither a good villain, nor a clever character. He is the darn hero.

Steady as river our hero, and his mule, make their way over to the hanging tree.

It takes a while. They don't hurry.

There is no need to rush.

While they stumble upon the treacherous underground they take a good look at Eli, what in turn gives me the opportunity to describe what you guys can't see jet.

There is undoubtedly a scoundrel swinging. One can detect that very clearly on the clothes alone. Mack wears a rather dusty pair of nearly white dungarees. They are dirty of course, not one honestly working man can have clean dungarees, and they are also, very visibly made out of old flour sacks – Mack looks dashing nonetheless.

Eli sports some dark jeans. They are not clean as well, but their dirt is more the dishonest kind. A speck of blood here, some dried whisky, that kind of stuff. He has a belt too. But no gun belt. Who would hang a person with a gun belt anyway? You can sell that kind of thing.

Mack wears a flannel shirt, in a light color as well, and is wrapped in a grey wool coat.

Eli wears a black shirt, a little torn over his left shoulder, and is rather cold without any kind of cloak.

In contrast to Mack displays Eli a complete lack of hats. Mack's head is covered by a, surprise, beige hat that suits his face perfectly – and gives him the possibility to rakishly peak out from under the brim.

Oh and Mack has one of this huge neckties, also made out of an old flour sack. By now every regular reader should know that Mack's mother has the fastest needle from here to Mexico.

The only thing we can see of Eli, that we can't see of Mack, is his hair. Eli has beautiful, full and lavishing black curls. That's kind of a job requirement.

There you have it. The good, the bad and the mule. All standing in the middle of nowhere.

Anybody ready for Act one?