“An Academic Went Down to Georgia”
A short story by Anthony Joseph Buffa
An academic from Chicago went down to Georgia, looking to analyze the rural wasteland he read and wrote so much about for his book. He was in a bind because he was way behind on his research, and he was willing to do anything to get his book done.
The academic figured why not go to the rural wasteland himself? It would make things much easier to help generate ideas to support the thesis of his book, plus he would gain some respect for his firsthand experience visiting the wild desert terrain, so he booked a train ticket to Georgia for the evening, to one of many infamous counties in the mid-south, and rode along his merry way to the Deep South.
As scheduled, the train the academic rode on arrived in Georgia in the late afternoon. He stepped out of the train, dressed in the most “appropriate” attire that he could afford. He figured if he were to spend his time in the rural wasteland with fashion and lifestyles that resembled parts of the Wild West, he’d at least have to look the part to blend in with the rest of the rural folk.
When the train departed, he was all alone in the train station and in the middle of nowhere amongst the desert terrain.
The academic approached a female station master, who looked to be in her 40s or 50s with wrinkles and bags under her eyes, behind the desk looking at the screen of her device.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” the academic asked kindly. “Do you know where I can find the nearest tavern?”
The woman looked up from her device and took a good long look at the academic wearing that ridiculous outfit, dressed in a dark-brown jacket, vest, and pants, a blue bowtie tied around the collar of his white shirt, incredibly odd-looking sunglasses with small round spectacles, and a laughably fake-looking top hat. The man’s whole attire looked about as authentic as a party costume.
She didn’t bother to comment on this man’s fashion sense, clarifying with the academic, “Ya mean like a bar?”
“No, I mean, uh, a place where travelers stay for the night where there is a, uh, bar next door.”
“Ya mean like an inn?”
“Yes! That one.”
“Well, mister, we don’t have one close by, but there should be one just south down the road miles from here. You better call for a taxi.”
“Alright, then. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh.”
The lady shook her head as she returned her gaze back to the screen of her small device. She almost pitied a city man like him, knowing full well that folks like him don’t last long out here in the rural wastelands.
It had been well over an hour when the bullet-proof taxi finally arrived at the place called The Cochran Inn. The taxi dropped the academic off at the side of the road in front of the inn before driving off down the road.
To his left, the academic saw a number of vehicles such as motorcycles, mopeds, jeeps, trucks, and muscle cars parked alongside each other next to the building. The sign on the ceiling of the building read, “The Cochran Inn”. Behind the row of parked vehicles stood a lonely water pump.
The academic walked inside and pushed the door open, finding himself in a room filled with dirty, ugly, mean-looking faces, none of which were the least bit friendly or inviting. The academic stood still by the door, nervously looking at the faces of men and women armed with pistols holstered on their belts, rifles and machine guns either strapped to their backs or holding on to the barrels of them the stock laid on the wood-paneled floor. They were all dressed in plain clothes, wearing t-shirts, tank tops, denim pants, leather jackets, vests, and other plain modern clothing that made the academic stick out like a sore thumb.
The academic built up the courage he had left in him to walk down to the bar and talk to the bartender and, possibly, the owner of the inn, wearing a dirty tank top that showed off his hairy almost ape-like arms.
“Hi there,” said the academic to the bartender. “I-I would like to rent a room please, if that’s alright.”
“We’re all full. Sorry, pal.”
“Oh…Well, when will there be one open for me to take later?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Like I said, we’re all full. If ya want, you can wait a while around here and then ask me if there’s a room available. That good enough for you, pencil neck?”
“Uh, well, uh, yes. I can do that. Thank you, sir.”
“Just don’t bother any of my customers, alright?”
“Oh, uh, I won’t, sir. I promise.”
“What would ya like to drink then?”
“Water would be fine.”
The bartender scoffed, “We don’t sell water ‘round here, pencil neck.”
“But you have a water pump outside the back of the inn, don’t you?”
“We use that for cleanin’ and other necessities, and it wasn’t cheap to install that thing, so either you order a drink or get the hell off my bar stand and sit down.”
The academic wasn’t incredibly fond of the rude bartender. He imagined that the manager of this inn would not act kindly toward the academic either, so it was pretty much pointless to ask for the manager. Besides, the academic didn’t drink alcohol.
He walked around the bar while the customers minded their own business, either talking amongst each other or pondering to themselves, lost in their thoughts or daydreams. A few gave glances at the academic as he awkwardly looked around for an empty table until he found a seat close behind a tall and large man wearing only a vest over his muscular torso. The academic noticed the man’s crack peaking out from his pants, and he looked away in disgust before sitting down at the empty table.
As he sat quietly at his table, the academic was soon learning to regret his decision to travel to the Deep South. He knew he would never blend in well in such a horrid environment of wretched criminals and outlaws like those he surrounded himself with. However, he knew he had to do it for the sake of his research and for all of American society that depends on people like him to help give them the answers they seek or at least inspire them to provide solutions to the problems that continued to plague his country. He believed this “New Wild West” that the rural wastelands all over the United States have driven themselves into have brought them back to an era of “savagery” and “feudalism” where the law was far from reach, outlaws were romanticized and idolized, and the people of their small, defenseless towns were left to fend for themselves. If his book could be able to convince the federal government to get more involved in the affairs of the people living in the rural wastelands across America, it would not only bring more benefits and opportunities to future citizens born in these rural areas, but it would also bring about a new and unified era to this country, to what America once was before the Great Dust Bowl.
Suddenly, there came a heavy tap on the academic’s shoulder.
“Hey, you,” said a loud booming voice.
The academic turned to face the large blob of a man who sat behind him. The balding blob with dark hair stood over him, showing off his exposed chest with little to no hair on it, and his huge gut peaking from under his vest and stabbing at the academic’s chair. The blob loomed over the academic like a monster ready to devour him.
“What the hell is with that get-up you’re wearin’?” the balding blob questioned the slim stranger.
“Oh,” muttered the academic. “Well, um…uh…”
“What is that? Speak up, pencil neck! I can’t hear ya!”
“Well, you see, this is a fashion customary to people like you in the rural wastelands, is it not?”
The blob laughed, his gut flopping up and down like a waterbed.
“The hell are you on about?” The blob mocked the inferior-looking man in the Halloween costume. “Ya ain’t from around here, aren’t ya? You from the city or somethin’?”
“W-well, yes, actually! I traveled here from Chicago and-”
“Chicago? Ya kiddin’ me? I hate Chicago, especially the rest of them Northern states. They are about as dumb as a box of nails! All they have are those God-dang gun-control laws with their God-dang baristas and God-dang universities, raising God-dang hippies who ain’t worth shit! So, what brings a pipsqueak like you down here in the wastelands, eh?”
“Well, I’m, uh, I-I’m doing research for this book I’m writing and-”
“Ya hear that?” The blob called out to his companions who sat at his table. “This man here’s a bookworm!”
The rest of the gang of skinheads and balding men laughed along with the blob before the academic continued. “Um, yes. I’m writing a book about the ‘New Wild West’ down here in the wastelands.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Y-yes. Would you care to do an interview for me? I can pay you money if that’s what you require.”
“What’s this book of yers about?”
“Well, it’s about how savage and misogynistic society has become for the people of the-”
“The hell does that word mean, misogynistic?”
“Uh…sexist against women, sir. You know, like the ‘Old Wild West’ centuries ago, where men are superior to women, and women barely have any say or independence in a place such as this?”
“Well, Mary over here hangs with us, and she does whatever she wants in our gang.”
The blob points to one of his companions, a female skinhead wearing also nothing but a vest to cover her torso, exposing her belly and showing her cleavage.
“You saying we don’t like having women in our gangs?”
“Well, uh…I guess I can be sort of wrong on that front, but I’m willing to learn more about you and your gang’s lives in the wastelands of Georgia if you are interested.”
“Say, are you one of them government agents?”
“N-n-no. Of course not, although I do hope that after I publish my book, the federal government would consider helping you poor people and-”
“The federal government?”
The blob violently grabbed the academic by the jacket and pulled him up to his fat face. The blob’s breath wreaked like fish.
“You sayin’ you want the government to come into the wasteland and screw up our businesses and homes here?” the blob questioned the skinny man.
“N-not necessarily,” answered the quivering academic, “b-b-but they can give you tons of job opportunities like what we have in the North. I’m sure people like you would want better opportunities for success than what you already have.”
The blob put the skinny man down and punched him in the sunglasses, shattering one of his spectacles. The academic toppled onto the table he sat at, his back facing the blob.
“It’s ignorant shit stains like you that made this country go to shit in the first place! The last thing we want is for the government to ruin all the good things we have goin’ on here since the last time they screwed us over! You wanna what it’s like to live in the wastelands, pipsqueak? Oh, me and my boys here will show ya! We’ll make ya squeal like a pig while yer crawlin’ back to whatever hole ya came from!”
“Hey!”
The blob turned his attention to the voice that shouted out at him. He looked down and saw a man wearing a desert camo cloak with goggles and a bandana wrapped around his neck.
The man stood there, silently looking at the blob menacingly before he spoke. “Could you keep the noise down? I was trying to drink in peace until you started shoutin’ at this little guy over there.”
“Stay outta this, Hazard!” the blob told the bounty hunter. “This ain’t none of your business, ya hear?”
“You’re making it my business, Captain Neckbeard, with all that shoutin’. I don’t care what you and your fuckboys have in mind for this skinny fella as long as you stop screaming about it and giving me a headache.”
“I’m warnin’ ya, Hazard! You better not piss me off today, or I swear to God, I’ll-”
The blob felt a sharp pain enter his gut. The bounty hunter punched him in the stomach and shocked him with an electric glove he was wearing. The blob stumbled backward before gaining his footing.
The academic stared in amazement at the man wearing a desert camo cloak. That glove he wore was specially made for USGP riot officers only. How this bounty hunter got a hold of one was a mystery to the academic. This man whom the blob called Hazard sure as hell didn’t look like a policeman.
The blob stared and grimaced at the desert camo-cloaking-wearing bounty hunter.
“You mother-”
The blob charged at the bounty hunter, ready to tear his head off, but the cloak-wearing man took another jab at the big man, giving him a more charged shock than any normal human less than the blob’s size can handle. The big man shook and trembled until the bounty hunter named Hazard took his gloved hand away from the blob’s belly. The blob fell to his knees, sweating like a pig. Hazard pressed a button on his gloved fist before clenching and punching the blob right in the face, giving him a powerfully electric-charged shock that sent him flying across the room and crashing against the wall of the inn.
The blob lay still with his head hung low, motionless. This prompted the rest of the blob’s gang of skinheads and balding men to stand off from their table and unholster their weapons.
“You just signed your own death warrant, asshole!” shouted the skinhead woman.
“Come on, fellas!” cried the bartender. “Take this outside, will ya? I’m trying to run a business here!”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the bounty hunter named Hazard told the skinhead woman, ignoring the bartender behind the counter.
“Why shouldn’t we blow you and your shithead friend here away right now?”
Hazard slowly unbuttoned his cloak and opened it up, revealing a huge quantity of explosives and glass bottles of whatever dangerous chemicals are stored within, covering the bounty hunter’s entire torso. The gang, the bartender, even the academic stared in awe and horror.
“One shot from any of ya,” warned the bounty hunter, “and this place blows up sky high.”
“Well, we’ll just shoot ya in the head then!” screamed the skinhead woman.
“Not a good idea either. See, you shoot me, I fall.”
Hazard proceeded to grab one of the glass bottles from underneath his cloak and opened its dropper cap. He held the dropper to the side at arm's length away from his body.
“If I fall,” continued Hazard, “they will have to alter the map of the United States.”
Hazard allowed a tiny drop of the chemical to fall to the floor, causing a small explosion and enveloping the entire bar with smoke. The bounty hunter quickly grabbed hold of the academic and rushed outside the inn.
The two approached a moped in the middle of the line of vehicles. The bounty hunter took the driver’s seat, pulled his goggles and bandana up to his face, and started the vehicle. He waited a bit before the moped started floating.
“Hop in!” Hazard told the academic.
The city professor didn’t hesitate for one second, taking a seat behind Hazard.
“Hold on tight, pal!”
The moped roared off at top speed toward the desert terrain off the road as the academic screamed in terror. They were already a mile away from the inn in a matter of seconds. The academic held on tight with his arms wrapped around the bounty hunter driving the moped.
“How did you get your hands on this vehicle?” the academic shouted amongst the roaring engine of the moped. “It’s amazing!”
“What?”
“Does this thing run on electricity?”
The academic looked behind the moped and tried to find the exhaust muffler.
“Careful, mister!” Hazard warned the academic. “You wouldn’t want to fall off or get yourself killed!”
“What was that?”
“What?”
The loud noise from the engine was drowning out their words, making it hard for them to speak to each other.
The academic turned and looked behind him, and spotted tiny specs, lined up in a group, miles away and tailing the academic and the bounty hunter.
“Sir!” the academic shouted close to Hazard’s ear while tapping hard on his shoulder. “Those scary-looking people are right behind us!”
Hazard pushed the academic out of the way and spotted the gangsters gaining up on them. The bounty hunter quickly unholstered his small firearm, a modified semi-automatic revolver, from his belt and aimed his piece on the horizon.
“What are you doing?” shouted the academic. “Don’t shoot them! Just lose them or something! No one needs to die!”
Hazard fired a round from his firearm. The shot reached and put a bullet in the female skinhead’s forehead. Her corpse shifted, causing her body and the floating motorcycle to tumble and crash along the sandy terrain. Hazard continued to shoot more rounds at the gangsters. A few of them made their marks, killing another gangster by putting a bullet in his heart, and another by piercing the engine of one of the gangsters’ floating motorcycles and causing it to explode.
The three remaining gangsters turned and retreated from the murderous bounty hunter and the academic.
The academic stared off into the distance until the gangsters disappeared from his sight. He sat there on the moped in silence as he and the bounty hunter continued to drive along the desert terrain.
The academic stood and sat by the campfire while the bounty hunter named Hazard laid out his only sleeping bag.
Hazard took himself and the academic up to this small lone mountain in the desert and parked his vehicle somewhere in the cave on the side of the mountain, keeping it safe from traveling raiders. The bounty hunter brought some supplies stored underneath the seat of his moped before he and the academic began to climb the mountain.
It took a while for the academic to make it to the top since he feared that if he made one wrong move, he could fall off and meet his demise at the bottom of the sandy ground. Luckily, he survived his climb, and he and the bounty hunter made it to the top.
The academic was unsure why Hazard took him to the top of a lone mountain to make camp on top of it instead of inside the cave. The bounty hunter told him that it would make it easier for them to not be spotted and robbed by raiders. Plus, they got themselves a very nice view of the night sky. The academic didn’t complain further, although he wished the bounty hunter could’ve picked a better mountaintop to camp seeing that the one that Hazard choose was a bit more open legroom to walk around the camp.
The academic wasn’t sure why Hazard saved him seeing that he acted indifferent toward the city professor, but he knew that if the bounty hunter hadn’t saved him, he would’ve been at the mercy of the blob and his skinhead goons.
After Hazard started a campfire, he had himself a can full of beans for dinner. He offered the academic a can of beans for him, but luckily, the academic already brought food with him, although it was the artificial kind manufactured in the city and not naturally grown from one of the farms that also distributed and sold their food to rural towns and other places throughout the wasteland.
Hazard got underneath the sleeping bag, laid back on his pillow, and pulled his large-brimmed hat down on his face. Of course, the bounty hunter had no spare sleeping bag for the academic, so he had to either sleep while sitting or lying on the sandy mountaintop.
The academic continued to eat, still sitting by the campfire as he pondered on the events that occurred just hours ago when his companion shot and murdered those gangsters without hesitation. He knew life in the wastelands was bad, but he figured it wouldn’t be this bad, and the way he was treated by the local folk, especially that big, fat fella was awful and just plain rude. He should be glad that Hazard had come along and saved the academic’s life when he did, but the professor couldn’t help but feel the sense of the importance of his research on the rural wastelands of America. He really needed to get his work done and get it published or else there would be no hope and future for the people of this desert and savage terrain.
“Mr. Hazard,” said the academic. “I can call you Mr. Hazard, can’t I?”
“You can call me whatever you want. I don’t care.”
“Do you have a real name?”
“My real name’s none of your concern.”
“O-Oh… alright. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, i-it’s for my book on the ‘New Wild West’ in America. It’s important for my research. I need evidence to prove my thesis on the ‘New Wild West’, to show the public how poor and unfortunate children and people like you are to live in an environment like this, and convince the government to do something about it.”
“Uh-huh, I’m sure that sounds great.”
“Tell me, uh, what was your first kill like?”
Hazard scoffed, “Is this supposed to be about the ‘New Wild West’ or are you lookin’ to write about my life story?”
“B-both? I think you truly are a fascinating man, Mr. Hazard. Truly fascinating. Maybe your life story could help me with my thesis, get the public to support the idea of getting the federal government to bring law and order to the rural wasteland once again, maybe get things back to the way things were in these areas before global warming started the Great Dust Bowl and-”
“Say, mister. You mind if I ask ya something?”
“Oh, uh… sure! W-what is it?”
“You know how to shoot?”
“N-no. I never held a gun in my life. Guns are outlawed in the North and in cities, you know.”
“Right. Do you know how to drive?”
“I… don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Well, if you wanna stay alive and get back home in one piece, you stick with me. Now, do me a favor. Just sit down, shut up, and eat your damn artificial food. I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Had a long day since I saved your skinny ass and I’m tired as all hell.”
“Wait, what? You’re sleeping? C-can’t you keep a lookout? Won’t there be raiders and-”
“No one’s gonna find us up here. Don’t worry about it.”
“B-but-!”
It was pointless for the academic to try and convince the bounty hunter otherwise. It was hard for him to rest if both of them were unconscious while raiders came up the mountain and killed them in their sleep.
The academic continued to stare at the fire, frightened and shivering while the bounty hunter slept soundly in his sleeping bag.
When the academic had finally awoken from his slumber, he was greeted with a small firearm pointing right at his face. He stared wide-eyed at a white man with dreadlocks and a red bandana around his neck. The man’s band of raiders huddled around the campfire while one of them searched the academic’s handbag.
“Don’t move, asshole,” the white man with dreadlocks warned the academic, cocking the hammer of his revolver.
The academic shifted his eyes to his left to find the sleeping bag, where his bounty hunter friend slept, empty.
“You ain’t from around here, ain’t ya?” the raider with dreadlocks asked.
The academic turned his attention back to the raider before speaking, “Uh…Well, um-”
“Uh, uh, uh! Are you retarded or somethin’?”
“N-no…”
“I’m gonna ask ya again. Are you from ‘round here?”
“No, sir.”
“Nah, you look like a city man to me, especially with that God-damn ridiculous outfit of yers!”
He and his band of raiders laughed at the academic.
“Say, what the hell is this?” One of the raiders who was searching the academic’s handbag pulled out his laptop.
“Throw that out,” the raider with dreadlocks ordered. “We have no use for that thing.”
“Wait, don’t-!”
“Uh-uh! What did I just say?”
The academic watched as the raider threw his laptop off the mountain. Months of research that the academic wrote had gone down the drain.
“What else he got in there?” the raider with dreadlocks asked one of his members still rummaging through his handbag.
“There’s some food here, but it’s all artificial.”
“Well, that’s too bad for you, pal,” the raider with dreadlocks told the academic. “If you ain’t got nothin’ useful for us, we’re gonna have to kill ya then.”
The raider aimed his revolver right at the academic’s forehead, ready to end his miserable existence, when suddenly, a plow of bullets ripped and tore the skulls of each of the raiders huddling around the campfire. The raider with dreadlocks and his last surviving member turned their attention to a lone bounty hunter gripping a modified semi-automatic revolver.
The raider with dreadlocks aimed his revolver at Hazard and started shooting him, but the bounty hunter dodged out of the way and ducked for cover behind a rock.
“Kill the sumbitch!” the raider with dreadlocks ordered his last remaining member.
The raider dropped the handbag and unholstered his revolver, rushing toward the bounty hunter hiding behind the rock.
Suddenly, in a fury of rage, the academic rushed forward and tackled the raider with dreadlocks to the ground, pummeling him with his fists. Gunshots rang out as the academic continued to punch the raider with dreadlocks on both sides of his face.
“I spent months of research writing on that laptop!” cried the academic in anger. “Hours of work ruined because of shitheads like you pushing me around!”
The raider with dreadlocks hit the academic on the right side of his head with the barrel of his revolver, knocking him off the raider. As he fell right next to one of the dead raiders by the campfire, the academic quickly turned around and found the raider with dreadlocks already standing on his feet and aiming his revolver, staring at him with leering eyes.
“You’re dead, mother-”
The side of the raider’s head was blown to bits before he could finish his sentence and pull the trigger on the academic.
The academic looked back at the bounty hunter, smoke escaping the barrel of his amazing small firearm. He holstered it as he went around the campfire and helped the academic up to his feet.
“Sorry to leave you like that,” said Hazard. “I was up taking a piss when I heard those raiders climbing up the mountain. I had to climb down the side so I can get around them and surprise them. You feeling okay?”
The academic suddenly approached the corpse of the raider with dreadlocks, frantically pulled the gun away from the corpse’s hand, and started firing wildly at it.
“You like that, huh?” screamed the academic. “You like that, you son of a bitch! That will teach you to pick on people like me, you stupid fuck!”
“Whoa, whoa, hey!” shouted the bounty hunter, prying the gun away from the academic’s hands. “Chill! Chill! The bastard’s already dead. No need to waste these bullets on him. Come on. Help me search these bodies and we’ll find a different spot to camp at.”
The academic stared at the bleeding corpse filled with bulletholes. He felt both terrified and excited when he fired that gun in his hands at the raider who ruined his work. His hands were trembling, still pondering on how angry he was at the raider when he attacked him.
“Hey, you sure you’re alright?” Hazard asked his academic friend, noticing his hands shaking.
“Y-yeah,” he responded. “Just need a minute.”
“Alright.”
The bounty hunter shrugged it off and continued looting the bodies of the raiders as the academic continued staring at the corpse of their leader.
It was the next morning when Hazard and the academic finally arrived at the train station where the man from Chicago first arrived in Georgia.
The train arrived moments later, drawing itself to a full stop along the railroad tracks. Of course, like last time, the academic was the only passenger to board the train.
“Well, I guess this is the part where we part ways,” said the bounty hunter.
“Yeah.”
“It’s a damn shame what happened to your laptop there. Must be really awful.”
“It’s alright. I’ve already gotten over it. It’s just a machine.”
“Yeah, but… your research, all that hard work you did.What’s gonna happen once you get back to the university and you turn up with nothing for your book?”
“It’s not the end of the world. I still have a job at the university that pays well. I don’t know what I’ll do once I get back to Chicago.”
“Ah. Well, I better get goin’ then. Have a good trip back, mister.”
“Wait, Mr. Hazard? I need to tell you something before I go.”
“Yeah?”
“I… can’t express enough how much I’m thankful for you helping me. You saved my life more than enough times. If there’s anything you need-” The academic pulled his business card out from his wallet and handed it to the bounty hunter. “-feel free to call me up anytime.”
“I don’t have a phone, mister.”
“O-oh. Sorry.”
“Ha! I’m just pulling your leg! Don’t worry. I’ll call ya up if I need ya.”
“Wonderful! Well, um… I guess this is goodbye then.”
“Hold up. Uh…I just wanna say that I’m sorry again about your research going up in flames.”
“It’s alright. It probably wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. I’ve certainly learned a lot after coming out here. This is no place for a man like me, that’s for damn sure, especially one raised behind the city walls.”
“Well, I know this ain’t important to ya, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt giving you that answer you wanted last night.”
“What answer is that?”
“15. I was 15 years old when I made my first kill. This bastard my brother knew was about to kill him before I pulled the trigger and put a hole in his skull.”
“15? Wow. It… must’ve been awfully traumatizing for you, taking another man’s life.”
“When you live the life that I did, nothing phases ya anymore.”
Hazard saluted the academic before turning and walking away from the train.
“So long, mister,” said the bounty hunter. “Best of luck to ya.”
The academic couldn’t forget what Hazard told him back at the train station out of his head. I wondered what he did at the age of 15 compared to what Hazard had gone through. If the academic didn’t have a sheltered childhood, if he lived the same life as his bounty hunter friend, would he have ended up like Hazard, or would his experience differ from his? Wouldn’t he have grown up to be a bartender, a raider, a bounty hunter? Would he have grown up to be a better man than he was right now? Was life outside of the city better than what he previously perceived? Certainly not, but he was glad to know that there were some honest people like Hazard living out there in the rural wastelands of America, where the government’s hold was out of reach, and their education system wasn’t out there in the wastelands turning people into zombified weaklings and blind sheep. Was the academic raised in a better environment than his friend Hazard? Sure. He never experienced crime and murder in the place he grew up in, but he certainly read news sites about crimes that happened in areas next door to his neighborhood. He never grew up having a harsh life as his bounty hunter friend did, yet the academic never experienced hardships and perseverance as he did, especially when it came to defending yourself against killers, raiders, and the like.
Although the answers he sought were complicated, at least he knew one thing was clear: in a world full of murderers, liars, thieves, corrupt politicians, cheaters, and just plain terrible people who want to hurt others, there were still people like Hazard are out there also, helping the weak and bringing justice to those who fight on the side of evil.
The academic stared out through the window of the train, looking at the sunrise on the horizon of the Georgia desert terrain. He imagined his bounty hunter friend riding off to the sunset, just like all the cowboys in those Western movies do, living life to the fullest as an honest and noble man.
The End