Alena

“The crowd cheered louder. Blood pounded hard in my head, began to drown out everything else. The performers continued to trade fire, and I wondered at how clinical the whole thing felt. A sanitized version of the violence that had plagued the prairie ever since the European settlers decided to press their way West. This was a performance for romantics, who read about such struggles in dime novels and eastern newspapers. They clapped and laughed and traded jabs with one another about how many Indians they’d have killed if just given the chance and a well-oiled long rifle. My stomach boiled and my heart hurt. None of these people had felt someone’s hot blood staining their fine clothes. None of them had smelled death up close. They cheered as the occasional Indian tumbled from his horse, felled by Frank’s imaginary bullets, but there was no question the victims would all get back up again. Limbs still attached. Chest cavities untroubled by flattened chunks of lead. It was a celebration of death, and I hated it.”
― Josh Rountree, The Unkillable Frank Lightning