The Four Horsemen

DEATH

"John Marston. Step up please." To his ears, the voice buzzing through the intercom sounded like washed out flies nibbling away at his ear drum. He stepped up from the line of men behind him, holding a small rectangularly cut slab of metal. It was a few centimeters thick, not too heavy, and it had very prominent white bolded letters jutting out from atop the surface of the onyx black board. The man, known as John Marston, was now stopping in front of the purely white backdrop behind him. The backdrop featured very precise, and very thin black writings on it. They were height measurements. John's head peaked just over the five feet, ten inches mark. Technically speaking, he was five feet, ten inches, and two centimeters tall. He was slightly dazed, the intense lighting of the small cold room causing not only his sight, but his other awareness sensory abilities to be flooded with information, to which his brain was lagging behind. The lightning was omnidirectional, and the intensity caused his shadow to be smally printed onto the ground, under his body, in a perfect oval. "Hold up your card." After he was given those instructions, he conformed to them. His hands found themselves up his chest, the lower right and left corners of the sharp metal sheet he was holding were held tightly by the innards of his pinching fingers. The sign read:

78A1976

MARSTON, JOHN R

5'10" 157lbs.

DATE 03/31/1955

Flash. The camera sounded, John's brain scrambled. The light was too much to bear.

"Who's this pretty lil' nigress?" John's deep and low voice rang and echoed inside of his own subconscious mind. The man was remembering what exactly led him in the place he was in currently. Within this resurfacing memory, his appearance was more natural. He was a ruggedly handsome man. He had rough skin, several deep scars branded into his face, thick black eyebrows, unforgivingly merciless dark brown eyes, a dark shortly undomesticated beard, and small, thin lips that were of a palish rose color, a few wrinkles that hinted towards his age, slightly broad chin, small nose, and his teeth were below average in the hygiene department. His jawline was very prominently defined, and he had medium sized ears. Despite these many unflattering features, there was something about him. This undeniable attractiveness to him, that drew people into him, despite his closed off and reclusive personality. He was a tallish man, standing at about five feet ten inches. He wore old Wild Western cowboy attire. A broad black leather hat that sat promptly upon his dusted brown shoulder length hair, which had a small feather stabbed under an even blacker leather buckle that wrapped around the entirety of the hat. He wore a tattered and tan long sleeve Oxford button down shirt under a rather small denim jacket. The jacket had torn off sleeves, that were replaced with the sleeves of his Oxford shirt, which were rolled up to his elbows. He had on solid black leather gloves, and a multitude of straps over his torso. A royal brown shrapnel of bullets diagonally wrapped around his torso. Under it was a thin light brown leather strap that held his shotgun securely to his back. He wore solid black pinstriped trousers, around his hips were two things. His belt that featured a very large Texas style silver belt buckle, and his orangish brown dual pistol holsters. Two small pistols were upside down and planted firmly inside the pockets that the holsters created. Leading down his trousers, his shoes were revealed to be black sneakers.

"A lil' lady like you needn't be roamin' out this night." He was speaking to a young, small, African American woman. He held his hand out to her, and she gave him an innocently sweet smile. She softly had lain her small and fragile hand in his large and meaty hand. "I was tryna' get to the pub over yonder," she said pointing, "but I rather be goin' to your house, Mr. Marston." John was known against his town as a very wealthy and powerful man. He'd been doing stock trades and such for a while now, and made a pretty penny from doing so. He patted the seat next to him, unlocking the door and allowing the fine lady to enter his automobile. In a matter of minutes, he was blazing down the street and headed for his residence.