THE BLACK JOKER ON BEHALF OF AMBROSE BIERCE

STATUS: TERMINATED

VICTOR: THE HANGING MAN

POINTS AWARDED: NONE

DUE TO THE HANGING MAN'S ACTIONS IN NOT FOLLOWING THROUGH WITH THE KILL, THE POINTS NORMALLY AWARDED FOR A DEATH ARE REMOVED.

"The Plan"

First, I must apologize for the deception. I pride myself on always telling the honest truth, but I am afraid this lie was necessary. There was no argument with Clara - in fact, we got along pretty well. This was manufactured simply for the purpose of making the Hanging Man believe she would be alone and vulnerable.

The waiting was the hardest part. Each night, as she stopped to rest, we would wait on the next ridge, watching, simultaneously hoping that this would be the night the Hanging Man would attack and that we would have more time to prepare. I had the Mauser ready and Clara had even shown Blair how to attack a man's weak points with his knife.

And so we were fully prepared when the Hanging Man swung his noose and caught Windmill instead of Clara. I knew he would have a grip on that rope, I knew he wouldn't be able to let go immediately, that he would be dragged by that horse. I was hoping it would be enough to kill him, though I expected it probably wasn't.

"Fire's out," Clara said. And Windmill stopped, with the Hanging Man in tow.

And we emerged from our hiding place, me with my Mauser and Blair with his knife. No chances.

He certainly looked dead. He had been dragged through dirt and rocks, bruises covered his body. I held the Mauser up.

"I think he's-" Blair said, but he didn't finish the sentence as the Hanging Man sprang up with hideous speed and tackled him.

I rushed over to defend Blair and saw that the Hanging Man had already gotten his knife away from him. The Hanging Man held it like a man on the edge. He looked at me with those wild eyes and leapt at me, knife first.

I shot him square in the head.

His body collapsed at my feet. I went to check on Blair and found him fine except for a few bruises. Clara also came over and we silently nodded to each other. The plan had worked. We had done it.

Then I heard a clapping sound. "Well done," a voice said. We all turned and saw her: the woman Clara called the Red Joker. She looked exactly as Clara described, her clothes bordering on obscene. "Well done, Mr. Bierce. Congratulations."

"On what?" I asked. "Surviving?"

"No," she said. "You just killed your personal nemesis."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be," she smiled. "There a certain aspects of this game that are not explained to the players until much later. Each player in the game has a personal nemesis, an enemy that is faster, stronger, more powerful than they are. And if a player defeats their personal nemesis, they get a reward."

"More points?" I asked.

"No," she said. "They get to go home."

I looked at Clara and Blair, then turned back to the Red Joker. "Blair," I said. "Send Blair home, not me."

"I'm afraid it's not something that can be traded," she said. "Or refused." She waved her hand and I felt something tugging at me. There was a sharp pain in my side and I looked behind me and there was a hole, a hole in the air, and it was pulling me in.

"No," I said. Clara and Blair rushed forward, but they were too late. I was pulled in, surrounded by inky blackness. I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them, I was back in Mexico. The sun shone down brightly and the sky was a heavenly shade of blue. And yet I yearned to be back there, back in Hell, back where I could help Blair and Clara. I sat down with a heavy heart and a pain in my side.

One of the soldiers asked, "Are you okay, old man?"

"No," I said. "I'm afraid I have to go."

I packed up and left that night. I did not know where I was going, I just went. I took whatever transport I could get. I traveled back through Texas and Louisiana, crossing my own footsteps, trying to think of some way to get back. To find a way back to them.

I thought of going to San Francisco and telling Blanche Partington my story, but she was retired and besides would not believe it. And even if she did, what good would it do? Just telling the story would not change the ending.

And then, one morning, as I walked along a dusty path, I saw a hole appear in the air, a hole just like the one that had taken me away. And from that hole emerged Blair and Clara. They looked at me and smiled and laughed.

"Ambrose!" Blair exclaimed. "I didn't think we would ever find you, but we did!"

I could barely speak, but managed to utter, "How?"

"We won!" Blair said. "We won the game!"

I shook my head in bewilderment and turned to Clara. "It wasn't easy," she said. "I mean, most of the players were already dead by the time we got to the final round, but that old Game Master made us fight some nasty things. Things worse than even the Hanging Man. And than at the end, he tried to make us fight each other, but we refused."

"So how-"

"Well," Clara said, "when Blair said we won, it was more like the Game Master lost. Some old enemy of his had snuck in and killed him while we were refusing to fight. We were left on the board, but luckily those servants of his decided to bring us anywhere we want, since we lived through the whole game. And, well, we wanted to find you again."

"Thank you," I said. Blair rushed forward and hugged me and I gasped.

"I'm sorry," Blair said.

"Not your fault," I said, "just a pain in my side. No big..." I stopped. I felt my right side. There was a sharp pain, like something was stuck there.

"Ambrose?" Clara said.

"What?"

"Ambrose," Clara said, her voice suddenly sad and tired. "Ambrose, you need to wake up."

My side hurt like Hell and I looked down at it again and there was blood staining my shirt.

"Please, Ambrose," Clara said. "Please wake up."

I opened my eyes. The sky was still orange and the ground was still black and white. Clara and Blair sat beside me, their faces wet with tears. "I'm awake," I said, my voice soft and cracked. "I knew I wasn't that fast. What happened to the Hanging Man?"

"He stabbed you and ran off," Clara said. "I'm sorry." Blair was silent.

"Not your fault," I said. "None of it was any of your faults. Can you do something for me please?"

"What?" Clara said.

"Get me that lap-top thing. I need to write," I said.

"Are you sure?" Clara asked.

"Quite sure," I said. "I'm dying. And like all good writers, I want to leave something behind before I go. Not just something written, though that comes first. Something good."

She brought me the lap-top and I wrote this out. I wrote it so that they would know: I would never leave them. They have become like my family here. And even if I was taken away, I would still come looking for them. And if the Devil himself escorts me to the deepest pit of Hell, I would still try to find a way.

My name is Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce. I have been called Bitter Bierce and Old Gringo and other names not to be mentioned in polite company. I have been a soldier and a writer and a father and a husband and some of those I have been good at and some of those I have been very, very bad at.

This is my life and I make no excuses for it. I gave what help I could and I tried not to give in to despair. And that is what is important, I think. That is what makes life, even a miserable life, bearable: to not give up hope, to not succumb to despair.

The wound hurts more and I think if I stop typing, I shall not start again. I am fine with this. I accept my end. Though it is my fervent wish that Blair and Clara stay alive and survive this sadistic game. But I know I shall not live to see that.

My name is Ambrose Bierce and I am ready.

"Loss"

He still misses her. I can tell.

But there isn't anything we can do. She's long gone by now. One of the perks of having a horse: the ability to traverse distances quickly. Even if I wanted to find her again and apologize, we wouldn't be able to find her on foot.

Now, the only thing we can do is survive.

"An Argument"

Please permit me to plagiarize my own work. Specifically, The Devil's Dictionary:

Advice, n. The smallest current coin.

This is, in a nutshell, the reason why Clara is no longer traveling with us. She gave her advice and was quite hostile when I told her it was not needed.

This is how it began: I was instructing Blair in how to aim and fire the Mauser. I was telling him about the kick, about how to reload the rifle quickly. We couldn't do any actual practice, since our bullets were limited, but I was still showing him how to do it all.

"The way you described this Hanging Man," Clara intruded, "it doesn't seem like shooting him will do much good. You said he was too fast."

"We can still try," I said.

She shrugged and then took a knife from her pack. "I think this might a better weapon for Blair to learn," she said.

I must admit, that made me a little angry. Of all the weapons, she disparages the Mauser and instead picks an ordinary knife.

I'm afraid I said some words that I now regret. I do not wish to record them here, but needless to say they were not kind. In fairness, Clara did respond to these words with words of her own (some of which I did not understand).

This argument led to Clara packing her bags and leaving. As Blair said, perhaps we were not meant for three. He is sleeping at the moment, so I am left alone to contemplate what our future may hold. And, if I'm permitted to plagiarize once more:

Alone, adj. In bad company.

"Words"

"Are you asleep yet, Blair?"

"Yep."

"Alright then. Just checking."

"The Pyre"

We're still following the Hanging Man's trail. If we are to be foolish, then let us be foolish in service of something good. Let us stop this madmen before he kills more.

Unfortunately, we were too late. We came across a tree, its bark black and white, and on it there were bodies hung. I recognized the handiwork. Our friend the Hanging Man had been here and left us these abominable gifts.

We were not the first ones to find them, however. An older woman, probably around fifty, had climbed the tree and was cutting down the bodies when we spotted it. We saw her horse and we waited behind the nearby brush. We watched, our eyes suspicious, our minds tainted with recent events, as she cut all the bodies down and started gathering up firewood.

And I realized: she was making a pyre. A pyre for the dead.

Blair realized this too and they asked me to cover for them, then they walked out and started talking with the woman. I held my Mauser up and prayed that the woman was what she seemed, prayed that it wouldn't turn out like before.

Eventually, I realized they were praying over the bodies. So I stood up and walked over to them and waited. When they were finished, we all took a step back and the woman lit a match and set the pyre aflame. The smell of wood and burning flesh filled our nostrils, but none of us looked away.

We set up camp not far from the woman, whose name was Clara. I'm not going to lie, there is a comfort in being close to someone near my own age (though I am older than her by at least a decade).

I caught Blair feeding Clara's horse a few moments ago. He was supposed to be sleeping, but I couldn't chide him. It is a very nice horse and I've seen a quite a few.

Finally, after Blair went to sleep, I saw Clara walk over to our campsite.

"I don't mean to be a bother," she said. "Just doesn't make much sense, having two campsites so close."

"No bother," I said. "We've just had...bad experiences."

Clara looked at me and said, "So have I. It tends to make you see everybody in a certain light."

"Yes," I said. "Everyone becomes an enemy. Every noise is a person sneaking up on you, every time you go to sleep another chance for someone to kill you."

We sat there in silence for a bit, listening to Blair sleep and the horse gently graze. "Not everyone is an enemy," she said. "I wish I could say you could trust me, but the truth is I barely trust you. But if you're chasing the one that strung up those bodies, then I will gladly trust you."

"Oh, we're chasing him," I said. "And when we find him, I will put a bullet between his eyes. But can you promise me something?"

"What?"

"If I miss, you have to kill him. Don't make Blair do it alone."

"I promise."

"Supplies"

We went into another Pawn Shop today. We had the points from Georgia's death and we had to spend them. We needed food and water. And bullets.

I laid my Mauser on the counter and asked one of the club-faced men. "I need seven millimeter cartridges," I said.

"A single seven millimeter full metal jacket bullet for a Spanish Model 1893 is ten points," the club-faced man said.

"So ten bullets is a hundred points?" I asked. "That seems kind of steep."

"It is an antique gun," he said.

I looked around. There weren't that many people in the store. Blair was checking the prices on various loaves of bread. I walked over to them. "Stay in here until I return," I said. "I won't be gone more than a hour at most."

They shrugged and then, almost as an afterthought, asked, "Where are you going?"

"To get more points," I said. I walked back to the counter and the club-faced man. "I need two bullets." He handed me two bullets and I looked at them. Twenty points could mean food for the next few days. But here I had spent it on two pieces of metal whose only purpose was to make it easier to kill.

I loaded them into my Mauser and stepped outside.

It took twenty minutes to find two men fighting. I was lucky, neither one had a firearm. One was holding a long sword and the other was swinging what looked like a mace. The first man swung the mace and nearly hit the other. They were so busy, neither noticed me. Or my antique gun.

I walked back into the store ten minutes later. "Give me ten bullets," I said.