The barn door was open and through it came the rollicking hum of the band. A banjo roll ran over the thump of the upright bass and a strumming guitar provided the foundation for the sound. The barn was glowing in the night and steam was rising from the roof. I dug my hand into my pants and felt for the weapon; I felt strong.

Looking back, I remember the barn as a glowing red cabbage, and I felt like an ant when I was waiting outside. I waited for about an hour before I went in, just listening to the band and thinking. I was sitting on a bench by the door flipping a coin in my hand, and waiting for the right moment. I remember thinking to myself the right moment never comes at the right time, but I guess that night was the closest it’s been.

It came when I peered into a puddle and saw my arms bulging out of my t-shirt in my reflection. I looked strong. Then, I looked at my belt buckle: a pair of silver horns tying me together and rubbing against my flat stomach. I looked at my face, too: my moustache was combed to follow the curve of my mouth and it made me look like something out of a western; my eyes were dark and they invited curiosity. I imagined some little lover dancing in the barn just waiting for me to rip her open.

My own image excited me, and I couldn’t sit still. I stood up, put one hand in my pants, let the other dangle by my side and walked into the barn. I recognized some of the people inside from around town. My sister and her husband were talking to their neighbors by the bar, and I went over to them first. I left my right hand in my pants, slid my left over the bar and winked at the bartender. He drew a bottle from under the table and poured me a shot.

I took back the drink and felt it burn against my throat. My eyes rested squarely on my sister; she was wearing a long dark dress which cut off at her chest and exposed her back. I gripped my weapon tightly and walked over to her. She had a nose like mine, but on her it looked clumsy and Roman.

“Sister, you’re a whore!”

And with that I withdrew the weapon: a long sharp silver blade. I gripped tight to the black leather handle, ran it through her thigh and pulled my face against hers as her mouth sprang open. She must have screamed, but I screamed louder.

“Murder!” and then I put my finger on her bottom lip and ripped it downwards, exposing the skeleton gum beneath her bottom teeth. She looked like one of those Halloween decorations left on the lawn in November as I pushed her onto the ground and stood on her stomach.

Her husband came at me with his puny office hands clenched into a fighting fist. Imagine me there! Like a circus wrestler with my foot on a fallen foe and fighting off some summer night challenger. I just stabbed him in the belly and let him writhe around on the floor as I looked around the room to my audience. Miss Parker, the little lover I was imagining outside, was curling over and screaming by the stage, so I walked over to console her after balancing my whole weight on my sister’s frame.

She was a beautiful little thing. I’d spent a couple of nights with her around town just walking, but she didn’t talk too much and didn’t listen much, either. The whole room was mine then; I’d left two wailing, bleeding wrecks by the bar, and the rest of the barn was in chaos: women were screaming, men were grabbing their women and trying to bolt, and I was just a handsome, casual killer.

Anyway, I walked over to this little lover of mine and ripped at her hair. A big tuft of it came straight out, and I was about to reach for my weapon when I felt a slam on the back of my head. I fell to one knee and took out another blade from my boot. I rubbed the leather of my boot for a while and felt for the spur. It made me feel like Pat Garret. So, I lifted myself up and spun around with the blade extended. I caught the face of my sister’s neighbor and when he went to hit me back, I thrust the knife into his armpit and kicked him with my brown leather boots with the silver spurs. He fell back onto the floor, and I turned to my little lover with a big smile. I wanted to relish running the blade into the girl, so I pushed her onto the stage for the whole barn to see.

When we were both up there I could feel the power of all the eyes watching me, and it moved me to a speech. So, I began:

“Someone hold up a mirror! Take a picture! I’m Artie Williamson, your local son…”

I continued that way with my eyes darting around the room and watching the reaction of the worms on the floor until I caught another glimpse of myself in one of the windows. My head was bleeding, and the knife was dripping in my red right hand. I looked like Macbeth standing on the stage and thought of all the people who would be reading about me in the morning papers and rejecting me on the television. I started to think of the police mug shot and imagined myself as Charles Manson with all that bushy facial hair and wild, stray dog eyes.