Chapter Text
The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills.
-Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
Part One:
“The Only Way to Overcome the Fear, Is to Become the Fear”
"I've done some horrible things. Awful. Damn near unforgivable," The man rasps, looking like a child as he huddles beneath the filthy blankets in his cell.
"Lost track of the men I killed. Some quick, some slow when I had a grudge. I knew how to draw out their agony, elicit sounds like a wild animal before they died."
He pauses. His eyes turn distant and hollow.
"I even....I forced a 13 year old girl. And the thing is, she was the sweetest thing I ever had. I still remember her scent."
He looks up at the slight, well dressed young man who furiously types his every word on a massive typewriter.
Sensing the older man's eyes on him, he looks up to meet his gaze, determined not to let the revulsion he feels show on his face.
Stay professional.
"So, Mr. Silver," He gets a raised eyebrow from the older man. "Er, Bale. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me for an interview. But you deserve more than a little article. Would you be willing to tell me your entire story, as far back as you can remember, for publication? Many folks are clamoring to hear your tale; you're quite famous, you know."
Bale chuckles hoarsely.
"Infamous, you mean."
The young man smiles, showing white teeth and a hint of pink tongue, then brushes his long sable hair out of his eyes. He looks at least part Native, with smooth golden skin.
Bale feels a stirring in his loins. He prefers women, but a pretty boy like this will do in a pinch, after four weeks in jail with no visitors.
But no, not here. Some other place, maybe, if he ever got the chance. Silver firmly pushes the urge back down.
"Alright, young blood. I'll regale you with my exploits; I ain't got nothing better to do in here anyhow. Besides," He sighs deeply, "I only have a few weeks left before they hang my ass. I'm not uneducated, you know. Even though they say I'm a stupid brute, an unthinking monster, operating on the basest impulses. But I'm not stupid, although a monster I may well be."
The young man records every word on his typewriter, his thin, spider-like fingers a blur. He is impressed by Bale's command of the English language.
What other lies have the newspapers spread about this man? A desperate criminal he certainly is, and yet there is something profoundly vulnerable in him as well.
"My mama saw to it that I got the finest schooling, although that's all she saw to." Bale continues.
"I was born here, in California. Santa Barbara to be exact, when the only thing standing was the Mission. So close to the beach I could hear the waves hit the shore at night. My parents were well-to-do; my mother had an inheritance from her family- a thriving vineyard, and my father was a salesman. I never knew want for my first decade or so. Then my dad got busted for scamming his customers, was taken to court, and sued for everything we had. I was about thirteen then, with an older brother aged sixteen. We lost the house, the vineyard, everything. We all moved into a cramped shack in the outskirts of San Francisco, where no one knew my Father's shame. That's when I started to notice a change inside me. My dad, who I worshiped, turned out to be a Goddamned thief, scamming gullible old ladies out of their money. Lord, I hated him."
Even now- 20 years later, Bale's bitterness and disappointment are palpable.
"Slowly, I became callous. I didn't give a good Goddamn about anything or anyone, including myself. Although, I suppose all I really wanted was someone to restore my faith in love."
The young man, surprised at Silver's candor, considers this, and surmises that perhaps this is still true of Bale, who emits a strangely youthful, eager quality, although the young man finds it very hard to perceive from where it comes; perhaps in his constant fidgeting or raucous, uninhibited laugh.
The young man finds it a bit odd, seeing hints of innocence in a man who once disemboweled an enemy and then hung the poor bastard from a tree by his own intestines, still kicking in his hopeless death throes.
"The feral streak that I felt growing inside of me was given free reign. My mother became distant, morose that she no longer lived in the lap of luxury, and my dad took to hitting me in an attempt to keep me in line. Boy, did that backfire!"
The outlaw throws back his head and laughs uproariously, if a little madly.
Taking his fingers off the typewriter, the young man takes the pause to study the legendary Bale Silver.
Just under six feet two, broad shoulders and chest, with long, hairy arms, similar to an ape. A wide, pale face framed in mutton chops and a handlebar mustache coupled with shaggy blond hair shaved on the sides in the style of the Mohican Indian.
Small, bright eyes deep set in his skull.
Outfitted in his signature black leather vest and pants- even in jail, wounded and defeated, Bale cut an impressive figure.
They say he is insane, that he derives pleasure in the pain he inflicts, the chaos he incites. Zero conscience, they say.
Then what was that hollow look in his eyes when he talked about the girl? Surely it was remorse, Florian thought inwardly.
The young man ends his ruminations abruptly.
"Please continue," politely.
Bale shifts his weight, wincing as he moves his leg, where a bullet has recently been dug out of his upper thigh, and begins.