Mr Bahn

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there! Mr. Charlie Bahn, long time no see."

Inside the chaotic saloon, Mr. Charlie Bahn's face, already a sickly shade of white, turned positively ashen when he saw the gaping muzzle of a cannon protruding ominously through the doorway. His earlier bluster, his roaring arrogance, instantly curdled into a cold, paralyzing terror and despair.

"Shit… Mr. Dutch Van der Linde. You, you, you, you…" Listening to the calm, smooth voice from outside, and seeing the man on horseback framed by the shattered doorway, Mr. Charlie Bahn's terrified voice distorted into a pathetic squeak. He pointed a trembling, useless finger at the entrance, utterly unable to articulate a coherent sentence.

But his silence, his terrified stammering, would not save him.

"Get out!"

"Damn it, hurry up!"

"Do you want to die?!"

Amidst a torrent of angry, barked commands, gunfighters, moving with the disciplined precision of seasoned soldiers, streamed into the saloon, kicking doors open, their rifles slamming against heads, their muzzles pressing against foreheads, herding the stunned, terrified occupants onto the street like cattle. Mr. Charlie Bahn himself was not spared; a rifle butt slammed brutally into his mouth.

"Ah!" A shrill, agonizing scream tore from Charlie's lips as his teeth, sharp and yellowed, were instantly knocked out by the blunt force of the rifle butt, scattering like bloody pearls across the grimy floor.

"Hurry up! Mr. Van der Linde's time is not something you can afford to waste!" The gunman, holding a sleek Marko semi-automatic rifle, its barrel steady as a rock, aimed directly at Charlie's bleeding face, then delivered a contemptuous kick to his backside, shoving him unceremoniously out the door.

"Oh, alright, sir, don't hit me anymore, I'll go out!" The searing pain in his face, the taste of blood in his mouth, left Charlie with no desire whatsoever to resist.

However, his sudden docility did not mean that others in the tavern would follow suit. A man, his face grim, a gun aimed steadily at his head, shifted his eyes slightly, a flicker of desperate defiance. As a true desperado, he had never cowered in his life. Not once. Even now, with death breathing down his neck, he still harbored the desperate, ingrained urge to make one last, futile attempt for his life.

"Damn it…" The man was kicked hard by the gunman directly in front of him, but unlike the others, he didn't obey the command. Instead, with a sudden, desperate lunge, he immediately reached down to grab his hidden gun.

However, in the very next moment.

"Bang!" A single, piercing gunshot echoed through the smoky tavern, loud and final. The man, who had just made his fatal, desperate movement, was instantly shot in the head. Blood and brain matter splattered everywhere, painting the wall with a horrifying, grotesque art. The man's limp, lifeless body collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, causing the three prostitutes cowering in the tavern to shriek loudly, their voices high-pitched with terror.

"Shut up!" a gruff voice barked. "If you don't want to die, hurry up!" Their screams did not elicit any sympathy, not a single flicker of pity. The other gunmen, grim-faced and efficient, continued to escort them, roughly, out of the tavern.

The current population of Van Horn Trading Post was surprisingly paltry, less than a hundred souls. Originally, as a thriving port and a bustling town, its population should have been substantial, at least over a thousand. But ever since the Van Horn Trading Post police station was summarily destroyed – a chaotic, violent event – the population of Van Horn Trading Post had begun to rapidly dwindle. Now, only the desperate, the foolish, and the most hardened gang members from various factions remained, clinging to its lawless reputation. This, tragically, also accounted for the pitifully small number of people in this place now.

One by one, desperadoes with expressions ranging from fierce defiance to cunning resignation were forcibly driven out of their rooms onto the muddy street, guns pressed against their heads, their hands held high. And as soon as they stepped outside, the sense of utter despair on their faces deepened, became a palpable weight.

On the street outside, nearly thirty to forty grim-faced gunmen stood guard in various areas, their rifles held at the ready. And more terrifyingly, two Maxim guns were positioned with chilling precision, their muzzles aimed squarely at both sides of the street, ready to unleash a torrent of death.

Every single captured soul was certain, with a cold, terrifying certainty, that if they made any sudden, foolish moves, those two Maxim guns would surely shred them completely, reducing them to bloody, unrecognizable pulp. Given the devastating destructive power of a Maxim gun, even if they had somehow managed to hide in a house, the flimsy structure would have been shot through, or even shattered, by the relentless, screaming deluge of machine gun fire.

And after Mr. Charlie Bahn stumbled out, gagging on blood and broken teeth, he immediately saw Dutch Van der Linde, sitting regally on his horse in the middle of the road, a picture of calm, deadly authority. He also saw, with a sinking heart, the groups of gunmen who had already secured every single street intersection and every last house, their positions impregnable.

Damn it, Charlie thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow, is this an army?! Had they, in their reckless abandon, done something so unforgivable, so harmful to society, that they had actually attracted the army? A rifle for every single person? Oh, damn it, what kind of abnormal, terrifying team was this?! Mr. Charlie Bahn, in his terror, simply did not believe that this force belonged to Mr. Van der Linde.

The only logical conclusion his addled, terrified mind could reach was that Dutch Van der Linde had been recruited by the authorities, and was now leading a real, bona fide army to encircle and annihilate their pathetic group of desperadoes.

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, dear sir," Charlie Bahn wheezed, managing to find his voice, though it was still thick with fear and blood. He forced a pathetic, trembling smile. "We… we don't know what we did wrong? To warrant your esteemed presence to trouble us?" Charlie Bahn gnashed his teeth in hatred, a silent, internal scream of fury.

Previously, Van der Linde had purchased a production line for firearms and ammunition from him, a lucrative deal. He had thought their relationship was purely business, a gentleman's agreement. But unexpectedly, this 'gentleman' had turned around and brought an army to attack them! What in the blazes was going on?!

"Sir, we are just passersby! Did you catch the wrong people?!" another desperate gang member shrieked, his hands raised in surrender.

"Exactly! We are not gang members! You can't just disregard human lives like this!" another wailed, trying to sound indignant. Seeing Mr. Charlie Bahn speak, the other captured gang members also began to voice their pleas, a chorus of desperate innocence, each one trying to paint himself as an unwitting victim.

All the personnel of Van Horn Trading Post, every last desperado, prostitute, and drunk, had been gathered in the middle of the street. They were huddled together, a pathetic, trembling mass, completely surrounded by a vast circle of grim-faced gunmen pointing rifles at them.

Two Maxim guns, their muzzles gleaming, stood ready, and a single, chilling cannon loomed, its dark eye fixed on them. This overwhelming, terrifying treatment made these people's very souls flee their bodies, terrifying them beyond measure, making them tremble uncontrollably, trying every possible way, every desperate lie, to find a way out of this nightmare.

However, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, sitting regally on his horse, was utterly noncommittal to their pleas, his face unreadable. Dutch looked at the huddle of gang members and the only three prostitutes, their faces pale with fear, in front of him. He then slowly raised his hand, a deliberate gesture that instantly quieted the frantic commotion. Then, with a slow, captivating smile, he spoke: "Hello, gentlemen. I am Dutch Van der Linde, owner of Hope Ranch, and, I assure you, loyal to the American people. Long time no see, Mr. Charlie Bahn."

Dutch exuded an almost divine elegance from head to toe, a picture of refined power. If it weren't for the several mangled corpses on the nearby street, still emitting a coppery, bloody smell, the terrified people here might have truly believed him to be an elegant, benevolent upper-class gentleman.

"Mr. Van der Linde," Charlie Bahn stammered, sweating profusely, his teeth throbbing, "we… we don't know what we did wrong to cause you to mobilize such a large force?" Despite his fear, a faint flicker of hope ignited in his chest. He thought, perhaps, they would be able to live, after all, Mr. Dutch hadn't killed them immediately.

"Oh ho ho, what you said is truly amusing, Mr. Bahn," Dutch chuckled, a dark, dangerous mirth in his voice. He leaned forward slightly in his saddle, his eyes suddenly sharp as razors. "You did everything wrong, for the American people, for civilization itself." Dutch's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, righteous fury.

"Civilization has arrived, Mr. Bahn! This West, this magnificent, burgeoning land, is no longer the era of you damned gang members and desperadoes! We work hard to develop the economy, we strive to cultivate the livelihood of the people, to build schools, to create prosperity! Not for you to rob, to plunder, to destroy! You damned old-era trash can only be swept into the trash can like garbage, Mr. Bahn, not remain on the table to disgust people! You guys advocate barbarism, revel in your savagery, and you will ultimately die in a barbaric way! A fitting end!"

Dutch paused, his gaze sweeping over the trembling crowd. His voice then softened, becoming almost benevolent, a chilling theatricality in his tone. "And now, I give you one last chance. All of you will become miners for our Hope Ranch. I will pay you, and you will honestly work and live like proper human beings! Instead of being a cancer to New Hanover like you are now, festering in the shadows!"

Dutch had actually intended to simply wipe out this group of people at first, a clean, efficient purge. But then, a thought of Mr. Milton, that misguided idealist, flickered through his mind. In the game, Milton had given the Van der Linde Gang several chances, because he knew that most of these desperadoes were simply people with no other options, forced into a life of crime by a brutal world.

Yet, in the end, Milton had met a fatal, tragic end. And now, the people in Van Horn Trading Post were also these relatively normal desperadoes, not like the utterly deranged Murfree Brood or the psychotic Skinners, who were not even mentally sound. So he felt he should also learn from Mr. Milton's benevolence.

However, while Mr. Milton was a good man, his methods were clearly not good enough. If these people weren't given honest work, they would still, inevitably, have to resort to robbery, to violence, to simply make a living. Such a 'release,' apart from merely increasing the number of future victims, served no other purpose.

It was far better, Dutch mused, to arrange stable jobs for them, to pay them wages. This way, they would have legitimate income and naturally wouldn't think about robbing anymore. And these people themselves, being sinful and dishonest by nature, could atone for their sins by toiling in the mines. Each person would be paid a respectable ten dollars a month, and once they saved up one thousand dollars, they would even be sold a small house, allowing them to return to a normal, 'respectable' life and live honorably as proper human beings!

This could be considered an eight-year transformation, after which they could return to a normal life, even with a house included, allowing them to start a family right after leaving the mine.He pat himself on the back, for he, Dutch Van der Linde, was indeed a truly, truly good man!

"Mac! Charles! Bring our wagons over!" Dutch systematically, calmly, issued his commands, his voice a chilling counterpoint to the screams of the recently shot. "Tie everyone up and transport them all to Shady Belle first. Take thirty people to transport them, and the rest of you, come with me to encircle and annihilate the damned The Murfree Brood! As for here," he gestured vaguely at the desolate remains of Van Horn, "let it be empty for now, see if we can still catch any other… laborers!"

Upon hearing that there was a way to live, a path out of their immediate, terrifying predicament, these desperadoes no longer resisted. For now, they all appeared to have settled down, a veneer of docility. But Dutch knew, with a cynical certainty, that their current obedience was merely a temporary disguise, a survival tactic. These damned bastards, only through continuous, relentless erosion over time could their inner madness, their inherent brutality, be completely worn away! Thinking of this, he quickly, as an afterthought, instructed Mac:

"Mac! If anyone disobeys, if anyone shows even a hint of resistance, whip them hard with a horsewhip! These damned bastards only learn through severe beatings that leave them covered in deep, painful scars, which will serve as a lasting, unforgettable lesson!"

It was a pity, Dutch mused, a faint disappointment touching his lips, that there were no electric chairs in this era.

(safe for use ones xd)

Otherwise, if these guys were put on an electric chair and shocked for a month, they would all become perfectly obedient!

Why were the rebellious teenagers who went to Viet Nam no longer rebellious? This profound question, Dutch knew, could only be answered with a single, brutal truth: trauma!