The Ballad of Carlo Porter- Pt. 1- "Temper the steel"

'Bill Waterloo is about the best fighter around here yup. Think everybody'd agree on that one.' The Gray fellow behind the bar settled. The barflys and card shuffling drunks had long since gone quiet with their fascination. The room was dominated immediately, upon entry, by one Carlo Porter. Six feet and three inches tall, stood straighter than ever, and marched like a cattle baron, as rich and powerful. All with a hole in his right shoe, his boxing unitard, and over that his thick wool pants. Summers were rough, but he didn't have the money or the care for a suitcase, or a second pair of slacks. All Carlo cared about was winning the fight. He was born a gladiator,and knew no other cause. Nothing could bring him shame less a defeat at the end of another's hook. He had been spat on, cursed, kicked from hotels, bars, the homes of women he loved, and still no shame. His family denounced him and thought him a fool, and mental loss, and 'Severely lacking in compassion'. He lived his life more or less alone. There were small bouts with women, or a gang. Gold was old news in California by now ,there was nothing left to be settled, you had to buy in, and investments never payed off quick enough. Carlo could haul stones, and sacks of brick, so he went to work with road building gangs. Tearing up and down the coast, hopping gangs just to pick fights in the next, Carlo Porter had established a decent reputation.

But there were other fighters as brave,( if not braver they would boast) and as cunning, as drawn to the fight as Carlo. This is the very thing that kept the fighter's heart beating. Blood had no reason to reach the limbs if there was nothing to prove. Of course though they had some things in common, the brawlers of the new American horizon were the most varied the world had ever seen. Everyone had a different background attached to their bloodlust. Carlo was born in the dirt, at his family's claim in the north of California. It had ceased to yield a flake of gold for a year by the time he was old enough to do anything about it. His greedy brothers had constantly feuded up until then, about who would take the smaller cut, Carlo - would it be even. It didn't end up mattering and they took to moonshining. This brought with it, a serious amount of trouble. The neighbors wanted some. The Porters and the MacLeons traded blows for  years. If it wasn't one thing, it was another, the battle never ended. First it was freeing the livestock. Both families had a few sheep and more than a few chickens. A horse each. The MacLeons would send their youngest to free the Porter's animals. Two little girls, 8 years and 9 years, and a little queer boy, who danced when he ran and was very strange. He was maybe 8. The Porters then unleashed Carlo and his two Older brothers, in their early twenties. The boys, one night, invaded the MacLeon property and murdered one of their sheep. Upon settling the shaking corpse, they managed their way into the residence with the it. They were raised to be clever, but there wasn't any knowing in which ways it would manifest. Stealth. They sawed the animal open and strung its organs around the the main room of the house, all with the most painfull attention to how much sound they were making, not a noise. Without a second to know, a young Carlo took his first real punch from somewhere within a shadow. This sent him to the ground with ease. Not clever enough.

 Carlo woke up leaning on his fence, shirt covered in blood, and one eye open watching his family's home burn. He could hear the fire and nothing else. Everyone charged about the front of the house cursing the MacLeons, and cursing the boys, Rifles out. Everything was lost but Carlo could only hear fire, and see mouths flapping. Eyes wet and swollen. Crushed people. Lost people and angry people. He looked to his sides- his brothers. Same state as himself, as far as wounds were concerned. They both had a look in their eyes, 1/2 part guilt 1/2 part motivation. They had murder in their eyes. Revenge.

Terry, the oldest leaned over to Carlo and grabbed his forearm  ' You didn't even get one in'  He said smirking. Carlo looked down shamed as ever  ' Don't worry little Carlo, you must temper the steel to make it  strong enough for the likes of a MacLeon brute. Fuckers are double sized.'  Terry looked back up at the burning chaos. ' Well make a Bruiser of you yet '.

The boys left their family and went to the city. Carlo learned just how to swing his fists.

Bill Waterloo had a different story. He was red, and carried and axe.

Carlo had to know who he was up against.