Firearms

While Arthur and John were still languidly loitering in the opulent, marijuana-scented haze of Saint Denis, probably arguing about who was dumber, and preparing for the arduous task of taking a train back to Valentine, Dutch, back at Hope Ranch, was already immersed in the glorious symphony of battle preparations. The air crackled with his boundless ambition.

"Marko! Marko, my good, mad brother!" Dutch boomed, a theatrical flourish of his cigar preceding him as he strode, chest puffed out, into the newly erected, somewhat suspiciously reinforced shed at Hope Ranch. His voice was a booming affirmation of progress.

This, you see, was Mr. Marko's latest, and undoubtedly most explosive, research site. For this very shed, Dutch, with a stubborn, visionary gleam in his eye, had defiantly poured thirty thousand dollars into the ground, acquiring almost a complete set of gleaming, state-of-the-art processing machine tools and enough material to sculpt molds for an entire arsenal. Mr. Marko and his perpetually frazzled assistant, Mr. Randy, had been working tirelessly during this period, researching machinery and new firearms like two possessed alchemists. And, thankfully, for Dutch's sanity and his burgeoning empire, they'd hit paydirt.

"Dutch!" Mr. Marko shrieked, his face streaked with grease and grime, looking up from a complex contraption with wide, ecstatic eyes. He waved a wildly gesticulating hand, almost knocking over a pile of schematics. His entire being radiated the manic energy of a man on the verge of either a brilliant discovery or a spectacular explosion.

"Oh, my old friend, you've worked yourself to the bone these past few days!" Dutch declared, his gaze sweeping over the dangerously volatile piles of gunpowder and strange metallic parts littering the research room.

His eyes narrowed, and with a swift, almost practiced motion, he flung his half-smoked cigar to the ground, stomping it out with a decisive crunch before striding into the shed. Safety first, when dealing with explosive genius.

"It's no hardship, Dutch! No hardship at all!" Marko cried, practically vibrating with uncontainable zeal. He thumped his chest with a grimy fist. "The very thought of conquering America with the weapons I've created keeps me awake with sheer, unadulterated joy, sir! It's better than any stimulant!"

He practically bounced on the balls of his feet. "Mr. Randy, would you please, please bring out the model gun we just finished? I'm absolutely certain Dutch will love it! He'll simply adore it!"

Marko, as Dutch well knew, had been incredibly, almost terrifyingly, busy lately.

As an almost terrifyingly omnicompetent genius (and truly, truly omnicompetent; otherwise, he couldn't possibly have cobbled together all those bizarre robot parts back in his old life), Dutch's seemingly impossible orders thrilled him beyond measure.

Previously, Marko had harbored a rather quaint, utterly futile dream of conquering the world with clunky, steam-powered robots. This, he now admitted with a sheepish shrug, had been his most helpless, desperate choice, born from a profound lack of money and any semblance of support.

Making guns back then was useless, so he'd defaulted to robots. But now? Now Mr. Van der Linde had people! He had resources! He had vision! So Mr. Marko's prodigious spirit, naturally, pivoted, focusing all its boundless energy on crafting the very guns Mr. Van der Linde so ardently desired.

For an all-rounder like him, researching new firearms was ridiculously simple; the only real challenge was ensuring the gun possessed advantages that would utterly obliterate any other firearm on the market. For example, it had to fire continuously, be durable enough to withstand a small apocalypse, and possess enough lethality to make a grizzly bear faint.

To truly perfect the gun's inner workings, Mr. Marko had even spent a week in a feverish, self-imposed study session, devouring every scrap of information he could find on various mechanics and mechanical engineering. And thus, in a flash of divine inspiration and countless consumed coffee beans, he had birthed a brand new, terrifyingly efficient firearm.

As Mr. Marko's excited shouts died down, Mr. Randy, his own face flushed with pride, responded with a booming affirmation. He then emerged from a back room, cradling an unfamiliar-looking firearm, its lines sleek and deadly.

"Mr. Van der Linde," Randy announced, holding the weapon aloft with a reverence usually reserved for sacred relics, "this is the brand new firearm Mr. Marko has created! This gun utilizes a cunning system of springs to achieve a semi-automatic firing mode! At the same time, Mr. Marko, in a stroke of sheer genius, has completely modified the magazine system, overhauled the primer striker, and significantly improved the internal structure to ensure the bullets don't jam mid-fire, all while maintaining excellent accuracy!"

Randy paused, almost breathless. "We've tested it once in the past two days, and this semi-automatic rifle can achieve an absolutely blistering rate of fire of forty rounds per minute! It's equipped with the new '7 rifle rounds,' a brand new type of bullet we've recently researched, replacing the previous, rather crude, round bullet with a sleek, conical design to ensure absolutely sufficient penetration!" Randy's eyes gleamed with technical pride.

"However, according to our current shooting experiments, this bullet not only boasts excellent penetration but also has a much better range compared to previous bullets, even reaching an effective range of four hundred meters! But currently, only the bullet mold has been designed and can begin production, while the gun mold itself has not yet officially started."

('7 rifle rounds' generally began production much later, around 1906. But hey, Marko's a genius, an all-rounder, so we're chalking it up to his sheer brilliance! Please, if any part of this seems utterly unreasonable, just point it out, and I'll never adjust it – no hard feelings! Suckers!)

Listening to Mr. Randy's breathless explanation, Dutch reached out, his hands trembling slightly, and reverently took the firearm offered to him. His face was a mask of unadulterated joy, his eyes welling up with tears of almost delirious excitement.

"Excellent! Marko! Randy! Well done, gentlemen! Simply magnificent!" Dutch roared, pulling them both into a rough, triumphant embrace. "You are the true, unsung heroes of our Van der Linde Gang! Your actions have laid the very foundation for us to establish ourselves as the undisputed power in America! Oh, shit!" He held the rifle aloft, gazing at it as if it were a divine scepter. "We can finally advance on Guarma, gentlemen! We can finally take on Guarma!"

Dutch was so utterly, blissfully excited that tears, genuine tears of unbridled triumph, welled up in his eyes, blurring the sight of the rifle in his hand. He had never, in his previous life, seen a gun quite like it. It was probably a brand new semi-automatic rifle, something Mr. Marko, in his boundless cleverness, had single-handedly researched and brought into being, vaguely similar to the legendary Garand rifle.

Damn it, Dutch thought, a maniacal grin spreading across his face, with such a rifle, his Van der Linde Gang would be able to suppress the armies of all nations! Of course, the above were merely the arrogant, slightly delusional ravings of a man with too much power and not enough opposition.

In reality, the Maxim gun at this stage was still an insurmountable, terrifying mountain. But it didn't matter. Whether it was for selling these terrifyingly efficient guns to eager buyers, advancing on the mythical shores of Guarma, or simply clearing out the annoying, small-time gangs cluttering New Hanover, these new firearms were the most useful, most glorious things he could possibly possess!

"Excellent! Mr. Marko, Mr. Randy, you are truly amazing! Strauss! Mr. Strauss!" Dutch suddenly bellowed, turning to find the perpetually sweating, nervous loan shark. "Mr. Marko and Mr. Randy have rendered great, invaluable service this time! Their monthly shares will be increased to two thousand dollars each from now on! And this magnificent gun shall forever be named after Mr. Marko! The 'Marko Rifle'!"

Dutch laughed heartily, his booming voice filling the shed, looking at Marko and Mr. Randy, who were now also beaming with uncontained joy, their faces shining like polished brass.

"Oh, gentlemen," he promised, his voice dripping with benevolence, "we need money to acquire resources during this period, to prepare for the glorious advance on Guarma, so your immediate rewards are slightly less than what you truly deserve. But rest assured, once our arms business truly begins, I will personally give you a dollar commission for every single rifle sold! Marko! Randy! I am immensely proud of you, gentlemen! The entire Van der Linde Gang is proud of you! Hope Ranch is proud of you! Your names will surely spread throughout the entire world as we grow, as we conquer! Everyone will know your names!"

Dutch's stirring, incredibly generous encouragement was so profoundly moving that even Marko, who was already wholeheartedly devoted to Dutch, was utterly shocked, his jaw literally hanging open, by Dutch's words.

Damn it, he thought, his mind racing, a dollar per gun! As long as the Van der Linde Gang started selling arms in the future, they would have an endless, unending stream of wealth! Mr. Van der Linde, what a truly, incredibly, insanely generous man!!! If they were toiling under those cutthroat factories or serving other bosses, they wouldn't even get a single commission, and at most, their paltry bonus would only be a mere twenty dollars!

One only needed to look at how many patents and inventions that infamous scoundrel Edison acquired through sheer theft, brutal robbery, and every other improper means imaginable. Those who were robbed, let alone receiving money, were lucky not to be beaten senseless and thrown into a rat-infested prison.

Compared to that, one could easily imagine how utterly sincere and breathtakingly generous Mr. Van der Linde truly was! Moreover, Mr. Marko himself had previously had his own precious patent cheated away, a betrayal that had shattered his dreams and sent him spiraling down a radical, dangerous path. But now, with this stark, undeniable comparison, both of them were utterly, profoundly moved, tears streaming freely down their grimy faces.

"Oh, Dutch, you know, Dutch, my best friend," Marko sobbed, his voice thick with emotion, his hands clasped over his heart. "Everything I do is not for money, but for you, sir. You are my best friend, my inspiration! It is my sacred duty to research these things for you, and I am never short of money with you!

You always take such good care of me, don't you? So I will gladly, joyfully donate this one-dollar commission to the Van der Linde Gang! After all, I am also a part of the gang, part of this family!" Marko cried, his body shaking with the force of his gratitude. His dream had come true. Dutch Van der Linde had promised him fame, and it was now agonizingly close to being realized. He harbored no other desires; having a confidant like Mr. Van der Linde in this life was a lifetime's blessing, a true miracle.

Otherwise, he might have died a lonely death, consumed by depression, instead of being respected and cherished at Hope Ranch, surrounded by a group of reliable gang members who constantly cared for and looked after him. It could truly be said that he, Marko, had no other needs, no other desires beyond serving Dutch.

And Mr. Randy, witnessing this profound display, was even more terrified, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and genuine panic. "No, no, no!" Randy stammered, shaking his head frantically, tears streaming down his own face. "Mr. Van der Linde, your kindness to me is as heavy as a mountain! I absolutely, absolutely cannot accept this one-dollar commission! If it weren't for you, I would probably still be earning a pathetic twenty dollars a month, mindlessly filling gunpowder for those despicable Lemoyne Raiders!

And now, the two thousand dollars I receive each month is already more than I can possibly spend! Moreover, this gun is mainly Mr. Marko's credit, his genius, so I cannot accept this commission! If I took this commission, I would have no right to stay in the gang, no right to look anyone in the eye!"

Mr. Randy wept profusely, his chest heaving, profoundly moved by Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's sincerity, his boundless generosity, and his utterly captivating attitude. Mr. Dutch Van der Linde had once again deeply, irrevocably touched their hearts, making their already utterly submissive hearts long to be literally torn out and presented to Mr. Van der Linde, to reveal the warmth, the devotion, that burned within them.