Graphic Twist

     Tom Brand looked around the dark alley as he took a long draw on the cigarillo. He pulled down the brim of the leather Stetson until his squinting eyes were just red gleams of reflected light from the burning stogie. 
     Anger twisted Brand's cruelly scarred face; sweat and blood on his short beard glittered in the full moon above the roofs of San Fiera.
      He pulled the little cigar from his lips, blew the ash from the glowing end, and tossed the twist of burning tobacco into the storeroom of El Perro Grande Saloon. 
     "Adios. . ." he grated through clenched teeth as he turned and strode away, spurs chiming. 
     The glowing cigarillo spun through the back door, trail of sparks sketchily illuminating bags and barrels stacked high.  It struck the potbellied stove, careened off a small barrel marked 'Gunpowder,' and arced toward the floor as a bestial figure lunged across the saloon's storeroom to the back door.  Spotting Tom Brand, his hated foe, Lobo the bandit king loosed a howl and crouched for a killing leap. 
     The cigarillo ember hit the gunpowder-covered floor.
     Detonation flashes lit up the town.  Half the saloon was blasted into kindling and the rest into a heap of flaming wreckage, burying Lobo's gang in a fiery tomb.  Brand didn't flinch as deadly chunks of debri whistled past.
     ". . .ya stinkin' werewolves," he finished and lit another stogie.
     Silver spurs clinking with every step, Brand stalked across the muddy alley to where the smoking body of his enemy had been flung by the explosion.  The werewolf's unnatural vitality was already healing burns and knitting flesh.  Brand threw the front of his poncho over his left shoulder, exposing the infamous .50 caliber revolver, Silver Reaper. 
     "You're done hurtin' these folk, Lobo.  Your gang is dead." he said calmly.  "Easy way is you lay there and let them throw you in jail.  Or there's the hard way."  Brand dropped his right hand to the gleaming butt of Silver Reaper.
     A handful of townspeople had come out of hiding and were watching the confrontation.  Mayor Keller limped closer, graying fur silvered by the moonlight.
     "I have deputies on the way," he rumbled.  "Thank you, Tom."
     Without warning Lobo flung himself off the ground, fangs bared, claws reaching for Keller.  As fast the the bandit werewolf could move, he was no match for Tom Brand's fast draw.  The Reaper spoke once and Lobo sprawled dead at the Mayor's feet.
     "Hard way it is."


     Henri blinked when his bedroom light suddenly came on.  His Mom was standing in the door, disapproval in her blue eyes.  His face burned from being caught reading after bedtime again.  With a deep breath she smoothed back the fur on her snout and face with both hands.
     "Dear, we talked about this," she said as she sat on the bed beside the boy.  "Your Father and I don't want you up reading so late."  She gently removed the comic book from his hands and glanced at the garish, bloody cover, which read, 'Tom Brand vs. The Bandits of San Fiera.'  "Especially these things."
     "Mom, all the guys will be talking about the new Brand tomorrow at school.  I gotta read it or they'll think I'm stupid or something."  Ears laid back in supplication, Henri gave his Mom his best puppy-dog eyes.
     "Why this, dear?  You know there's no such thing as humans."
     "That's why they call him an anti-hero, Mom."  His youthful scorn at her supposed ignorance almost made her laugh.  She bared her teeth in a stern face as she stood to leave.
     "Well, whatever he is, no more reading after bedtime, period.  Do you understand, young man?"  She waited a moment to let it sink in, then dropped the comic book back on the bed.  "Now, finish up and get to bed for real."
     "Thanks, Mom.  You're the best."  They touched noses and Henri curled up with his comic again.