I do

The crushing helplessness of West Elizabeth, a state plunged into anarchic chaos, presented only one viable solution: the unyielding force of firepower! It was undeniably clear that West Elizabeth, amidst its most tumultuous period, cried out for the very weapons Mr. Dutch Van der Linde was so diligently developing – the life-changing semi-automatic rifle. However, even for Dutch's burgeoning empire, such salvation would still take precious time.

Meanwhile, Dutch and his formidable entourage, having seamlessly navigated through five heavily fortified bunkers and five vigilant watchtowers, finally arrived at the imposing gates of the Shady Belle factory.

"Open the gates, quickly! Mr. Van der Linde is here!"

Over the past period of relentless construction, Shady Belle had undergone a dramatic transformation. It was now entirely enclosed by a towering wooden wall, a formidable palisade against the outside world. The sharp-eyed gunman on duty at the main watchtower, spotting the unmistakable figure of Mr. Dutch Van der Linde approaching, bellowed the order to those below.

"Hello, gentlemen!" Dutch greeted, a broad, confident smile on his face as he and his party rode their horses through the now-open gates and into the heart of the factory complex.

As the gang's second-largest manufacturing hub, Shady Belle was now a fully established, bustling operation. Five sprawling factory buildings dominated a vast, flat expanse, stretching hundreds of meters to the west, nestled along the edge of the swamp. The grand Shady Belle mansion, once the sprawling centerpiece, had been relegated to a quiet corner, now serving as tranquil, exceptionally peaceful accommodation for the workers.

On the manicured factory grounds, several cows grazed with leisurely contentment, their plump forms testament to their vital role as nutritional providers for the children residing within Shady Belle – a stark contrast to the grim work happening elsewhere. The pervasive hum of sewing machines was remarkably faint, ensuring a merciful absence of industrial noise pollution.

Through the main factory gate, one could glimpse the focused, busy figures of female workers toiling within the sheds, their nimble fingers shaping raw materials. But it was in the vast, open space to the far west that a more unsettling scene unfolded: a dense, sprawling crowd of men, their legs shackled, toiled relentlessly, reclaiming the untamed land of Shady Belle. Surrounding them were numerous gunmen, rifles clutched in their hands, their gazes fierce and unwavering, fixed on the working masses.

And in the very thick of it, a figure stood, whip in one hand, a red-hot branding iron sizzling faintly in the other. It was Mac, his eyes narrowed, overseeing the grueling labor.

"Fuck! Faster!"

"Crack!"

Mac's curse echoed, followed by the sickening snap of his whip across the bare back of a man weeding directly in front of him.

"Ahahaha, I was wrong, I was wrong!"

The whip's impact was considerable, leaving a stark, crimson bloodstain blossoming on the man's skin. He shrieked, a raw cry of agony, his body convulsing from the pain. Yet, he dared not even twitch a hand to touch the wound. Instead, he continued his convulsive, frantic digging at the weeds beneath him, his movements more desperate than before.

This brutal, chilling tableau galvanized the surrounding laborers. Each man redoubled his efforts, meticulously tilling the patch of land before him, a palpable fear of the next lash falling upon his own body driving their movements. Looking at their bare backs, almost every man bore several such bloodstains, grim proof that each had been subjected to the whip's cruel kiss multiple times.

"Fuck! This is glorious labor! You are atoning for your sins, you damned scoundrels! Our Van der Linde Gang not only spared your worthless lives, but we provide food, lodging, and even a damn ten-dollar bonus every month! Is this how you repay Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's unparalleled kindness?! Damn it, put your strength into it! Atone for your sins quickly, and you'll become a normal person sooner! To live your own miserable little life! Quick, quick, quick! Everyone move!"

Mac appeared to be thoroughly enjoying his role, his voice a relentless torrent of curses and exhortations, punctuated by the rhythmic crack of his whip. Under the ever-present, watchful eyes of the surrounding gunmen, not a single soul dared to harbor even a fleeting thought of resistance.

In front of this working horde, four grim wooden stakes stood erect, and tied to each, clad only in their underwear, were four unfortunate men. Iron chains, passed brutally through their shoulder blades, tore through flesh and muscle, suspending them agonizingly from the stakes. This method of hanging was a masterclass in prolonged torture. Under the relentless pull of gravity, the shoulder blades, pierced by the chains, would gradually dislocate, then slowly, excruciatingly detach, tearing the arm muscles along with them. Eventually, the suspended victim's arms would brutally, sickeningly, fall off completely.

Mac, with a horrifying meticulousness, had even assigned specific gunmen to ensure these men were regularly fed and given water, meticulously preventing their death. They were merely to hang there, day after agonizing day, slowly watching their two arms detach as time dragged on, enduring this endless, unimaginable pain, until they finally dropped off the stakes entirely. The entire process guaranteed a man would be crippled, utterly broken, having suffered immense, indescribable torment, yet unable to find the sweet release of death—a truly torturous despair.

And these four men found themselves in this unspeakable predicament because, during this period, they had not only defiantly refused to obey orders to work for atonement but had also foolishly attempted to attack factory workers and steal firearms in a desperate bid for escape. This, then, was their ultimate, horrifying fate. The one who had been hanging the longest presented a grotesque sight: a large, gaping tear in his shoulder blade muscle, causing his arm to appear grotesquely elongated, skin and flesh peeling away from the stretched muscle, revealing scarlet, raw tissue, swarming with blowflies and maggots. He could only emit faint, guttural moans, a testament to the unimaginable agony he endured.

Witnessing the abject, lingering misery of these four, the entire working group of damned desperadoes dared not harbor any thoughts of resistance. These very gang members and hardened desperadoes, who had once killed without a flicker of an eyelid, who were legendary for their viciousness and had committed every conceivable evil, had, under this almost pathological crackdown, lost every shred of their arrogant demeanor. Now, they did exactly as they were told, every fiber of their being trembling with primal fear.

In the grand "Suppressing Bandits" operation, over two thousand individuals had fled, vanishing into the wilds. The total number of bandits successfully "suppressed" was roughly one thousand. Among these, over six hundred had been summarily executed, while more than four hundred had been captured alive. These four hundred-plus individuals were now dispersed to various locations for specialized training, their new purpose: to become official, highly disciplined mining workers. Shady Belle, for its part, had received fifty of them.

Watching Mac's enthusiastic supervision of the gruesome tilling, Dutch let out a hearty laugh, a sound devoid of mirth, chilling in its satisfaction. "Hahaha, very good, son. These damned, evil desperadoes… they deserve this treatment. Only then will they truly comprehend the consequences of their mistakes! Only then can the oppressed people they terrorized, and the innocent lives they so casually extinguished, finally rest in peace!"

Dutch was immensely satisfied with Mac's uncompromising approach. He firmly believed in confronting violence with a greater, more absolute violence. Only by tormenting these damned bastards until every ounce of their defiance was purged, until their very souls shriveled with terror, would they truly consider whether their depraved crimes were worth the cost before committing them. This, Dutch knew, was far more effective than the bleeding-heart approach of merely locking them up for a brief period, only to eventually forgive them and set them loose upon the world once more.

"Shit! This is… unbearable!" While Dutch reveled in Mac's actions, Arthur and the others found it a bit… excessive. Arthur shook his head slowly, then halted his horse just outside the factory shed, refusing to venture any further into the macabre scene. He and several others dismounted, standing together, smoking in silence.

Yet, despite their visible discomfort, there was not the slightest reproach in their demeanor for Dutch and Mac's methods. Even if these particular desperadoes weren't quite as grotesquely depraved as the Skinners Brothers Gang, they were still not good people, not individuals deserving of clemency or forgiveness. Robbery, rape, torture, murder—these men were skilled practitioners of every vile act, and they had committed plenty.

Thus, in their eyes, they fully deserved this excruciating treatment. And the gunmen and female workers of Shady Belle? They were more than pleased, for they were, after all, the true victims of these human scourges.