Penny for Penny, Eye for Eye

Abraham Danver never amounted to much until his third heist. Born in New Mexico and adopted by a crowd of bandits at the age of seven, he grew to admire the lifestyle of an outlaw. Despite the murder of his parents, the boy didn't seem traumatized; Jordan Hilliger, boss of the bunch, said the boy had "no life in his eyes." The disconnect seemed to help him in the future. After Hilliger's death, twenty-year-old Danver became the newly appointed president of The Red Bully gang.

               Due to the casualties of a shootout -caused nonetheless by a false accusation of cheating in a poker game- Danver plotted his next scheme with only four remaining Bullies.

               "This is gonna be it, kids," he said to his family, though half of them were of ages higher than himself. "The one that's gonna make us richer than the Kid."

               "No one beats the Kid," said Polly Baxter, lisping through a mouthful of missing teeth. For what she lacked in brains was made up for in tough knuckles and harder forehead. Fresh bruises painted her hairline. She nursed the back of her hand as she spoke. "What is this plan you goin' on about?"

               "It's a big one. A bank heist," Danver said. The Bullies groaned. "What? Speak your minds." Despite a lack of education, Danver was well-versed.

               "We've done banks before," Alistair Robert said, gnawing on licorice root, the twig poking between his chapped lips. His eyes were invisible under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. "What makes this one different?"

               "This," Danver said, reaching into his satchel. Out came a crimson stick of dynamite, wrapped tightly with a thick black cord protruding from the top. "I've got more of it. A lot more. We can do so much with this."

               "How much is 'how much'?" Alistair asked.

               "About three pounds worth.”

               "Jesus, Mary," said Polly. "Wouldn't it be easier to just throw a fist or two at he who points a gun?"

               "Ideally, yes," Danver said, tone revealing a twinge of melancholy. "But everyone here knows that we're scraping for funds right now. We need this. Once this is over, we can disappear. It's our shot for a better life." They looked amongst each other as if reading minds.

               "Fine," said Polly. "We'll do it your way."

               "Let's hope this goes well," said Alistair.

               "Trust me," said Danver. "It will."

               The heist did, indeed, go well. They struck in the evening, the sky turning deep purple with streaks of orange sighing along the horizon. Dark cloth shrouding their faces, the Bullies entered the bank. The teller's brow furrowed with confusion and fear.

               "Don't hurt me... please," he said, already taking a knee.

               "Guns trained on everyone," Danver said, walking to the back. Opening the second door, he found himself in a room decorated with oil paintings and leather couches. A lone wood desk sat in the far corner, candle burning atop next to a shining typewriter. In the western wall was the vault- a large, black metal door with a four-pronged handle and fancy script written in gold.

               "Hello, gorgeous," Danver said, smiling under his mask. With a swift gesture, he planted a bundle of dynamite on the metal door, lit the fuse, and returned to the lobby. Veteran Bully Carl Calvin arched his brow.

               "What's takin' so damn long?" he shouted.

               "It's not," Abraham said in reply. The explosion shook the building. Horses whinnied somewhere outside. They could feel the town begin to wake. Returning to the room, the vault door had been plucked from its hinges, smoldering and laid across the now-obliterated wooden desk. All the paintings had fallen from their perches. Inside the vault stood shelves of cash and gold bars, one of the walls lined with safety deposit boxes.

               "Get in 'ere!" Danver shouted. Polly and Carl came into the room, instantly entranced by the glint of the gold bars. "Don't cream yourselves over it. Fill 'em up!" They took the large burlap sacks looped into their belts and stuffed them full of thin bills, leaving the heavy lifting of the gold bars to Polly.

               "Good to go?" Alistair questioned when they returned to the lobby, never breaking the eye line of the teller.

               "Yep, let's get the fuck out!" Danver said. They rushed out of the building and mounted the horses they'd hitched. The night was quickly filled with the music of clattering hooves and clinking gold. Not long after, gunfire joined the chorus. Four deputies, rifles in hand, fired at the Bullies, the odor of phosphorus lingering in the air for a moment, only to disappear during the next.

               "Turn right! Towards Galley Station!" said Danver, kicking his spurs into his horse's sides. A course breeze began to blow, sending shivers through his flesh. Can't back down now, he thought. It's for them.

               "They're gainin' on us!" said Polly from behind. Danver looked back. Sure enough, there were the deputies, advancing quicker with every trot.

               "Fire! Do whatever you can, but do not stop!" Danver shouted, drawing his polished, silver revolver. Engraved in the handle was a falcon, wings spread and talons sharp. The Bullies rang in for a verse with their own guns, firing as well as they could behind them. A horse whinnied, the stallion's right leg buckling as it collapsed to the ground, its rider with it. Another shot from the deputies, the bullet flying straight through Carl's forehead. His lifeless body slunk from his saddle, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust.

               "Carl!" Polly shouted. Danver could hear her weep.

               "There's the station!" shouted Alistair. There it was, wide and beaming with candlelight. Several patrons stood on the platform, awaiting the incoming train.

               "Train's almost here! We can catch it!" Danver said.

               "We'll never make it," Polly shouted. "It's goin' too quick!"

               "Keep going!" Danver said. He could feel his horse's lungs shake between his thighs; she was exhausted. Danver crossed the tracks, the hot white light of the train creeping closer. There they were- his posse, his family, almost free.

               With one hulking sweep, the rest of the Bullies were flung into the air by the train. Alistair and Paul, the dumb, old fool that hadn't been worth much anyway, went up and over the locomotive. They disappeared for a second then came down with a bloody thud. A few bystanders screamed, turning away from Alistair's twitching body. Polly had been sucked under the train along with her horse, a splatter of red painting the rails. The train came to a halt and Danver leaped for the door. Sprinting to the front, he eyed the conductor in his chair.

               "Hey, what happened up there?" he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a pink handkerchief. Danver grabbed him by his shirt collar.

               "Don't matter," Danver said, slapping a few bills into the man's hand. "Here's a hundred. Get us the fuck outta here. Now." With a deep gulp and a nod, the conductor threw the train into motion. The cars lurched and the train pulled forward. Danver removed his mask and made his way to the cabins. Outside rode the rest of the deputies, their small figures disappearing into the darkness as the train caught up to speed. Danver sighed as he sat in an unoccupied leather booth.

               "Fuckin' hell," he said to himself, his eyes growing wet. The sack of money now perched on the seat opposite seemed to mock him, making a wrinkled fabric smirk. Danver removed his hat, placed his head in his hands, and cried.

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               That's at least how the story goes. Abraham "Big Shot" Danver robs a big ol' bank and kills his whole gang in the process; an eye for an eye, Big Shot. An eye for an eye. Danver died sometime in the late 1880s, with some unnamed broad around his shoulder and an empty money sack in his hand, but the cash was never found. At least, not until a few years later. The big sack of money had become twenty bonds sent to his bastard children across the southern hemisphere of the United States. Dispersed anonymously, the money was never questioned. People were grateful for that shit, desperate as they were.

               But Danver robbing the bank became the seed of a bigger issue. Cliches aside, that little stunt he pulled put a curse on that money. With every bond cashed and used, the corresponding heir was killed. Two of the kids were murdered for their money, others killed in natural "accidents". But before all the money could be used, the cash was passed on to the next generation. Apparently, the Danver family is very... fertile, to say the least.

               By the 1930s, the money had peaked again, having grown to the millions when placed into the stock market. Come to the Depression- which could have easily been caused by the Danver Curse- the majority of the money disappeared, only a few handfuls of savings tucked into piggy banks. The 1940s to the 1980s are a blur. There’s a rumor that the money could have been filtered into World War 2 and Vietnam, but no one can prove that. Hell, there's even been word that the money helped get us to the Moon.

               Either way, the money resurfaced again in the early 2000s, damn near a century after its disappearance. Again, it was spent and more death was disbursed. Manheim Danver was strangled for the money in his wallet. Ruthie Danver hung herself when her husband walked out with their child and her profits. Blair Danver, Chiron Danver's rottweiler, choked to death on a bone that his owner had bought him an hour previous.

               The most peculiar thing about the money is that it stayed within the family, not a single penny being dispersed to other people. When one spent it, either the traces of that money disappeared entirely or it somehow wound up in another Danver bank account. Most of the money is gone, only bits and pieces remaining. The whereabouts are known; it's only a matter of time before they are spent.

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               "I love it," Danika said, smiling.

               "I don't know," Charles said, taking a long pull from his cigarette. "It sounds too... dramatic, don't ya think?"

               "What do you mean? It's perfect. I think you captured the horror of the 'curse' deftly."

               "I guess. I just want people to believe, or at least try to believe that the curse exists."

               "Well, if they came from a family that heard the same story over and over again, they'd believe it without question."

               "Guess so," Charles said.

               "Now, get dressed. We're heading out in an hour," Danika said, turning into the hallway.

               "Yeah, tell me again. Where are we going?" Charles said, putting out his cigarette, letting the smoke creep through his lips.

               "Redmond," Danika's voice echoed through the hall. "Got a lead that Abraham's money sack found its way to an antique shop there."

               "Groovy," Charles said, jumping from his chair, closing his laptop, and changing into something formal. Danika took less time to get ready than usual, something delightful to see. The air was brisk when they stepped outside, the last breezes of winter clinging desperately to life as spring threatened its approach.

               "Now, you're sure this store has Abraham's bag?" Charles asked, buckling in and turning the heat to high, the car's windshield frosted over with a heavy blanket of ice.

               "Well, not entirely, but where's your faith?" Danika said with a smile.

               "Guess we'll just have to see," Charles said. When the window thawed, they took off, hitting the parkway and leaving Bend for Redmond. Danika lit a cigarette and laid back, staring at the ceiling. Charles hummed along to the radio. Bon Jovi, "Wanted Dead or Alive". The copper penny grew warm as he kneaded it in his palm, the circle laden with the image of a Native American, the date underneath the neck reading 1880. What damage can a penny do? he wondered with a small smile.

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Charles and Danika Danver

               A young couple, now identified as Charles Danver (27) and his wife Danika (24), was found dead on the side of the interstate between Bend and Redmond, Oregon. The newlyweds were, according to sources, making their way home from an antique store in the area and skidded off the road. The antique shop owner, Tyler Dartmouth, says they were "hoping to find a certain item of family heritage; an old money bag of sorts". The burlap sack was indeed found in Tyler's hand when the couple's remains were found.

               Officials say the young Danver was a descendant of Abraham "Big Shot" Danver, a young outlaw who robbed a bank and massacred his troupe. Folks say the money he passed down to his children was cursed, resulting in the untimely demise of future generations.

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