Molly Marie Boudoir An Old West Love Storyby D. R. Jenkins for the love of Amber
For some God-forsaken reason I kept my birth name all these years anddecades: Malachi Jones. However, some desperado along the way shortened itto “Bad Eyes,” mostly „cause of the way I look a man in the eyes before I gun‟mdown. I think it‟s an unfair moniker. I simply believe you have to stare throughyour opponent to know you‟re going to live to see tomorrow. Lots of mencame, lots of men tried; but, unfortunately for them, Bad Eyes never failed. I‟ve been traversing the southwest deserts for years; east to west and north tosouth. Sure, I‟ve done my share of crimes and sins; but I never mistreated a lady.It ain‟t my nature. I may be a low down, dirty lyin‟, double-crossin‟, double-dealin‟, no good murderous son-of-a-bitch; but, hey, like they say, “It‟s a matter ofsurvival.” Malachi “Bad Eyes” Jones not only intends to survive, he intends to dieof the most natural cause—old age; the son-of-a-bitch disease. Most would say I‟m a craggy lookin‟, agin‟ old fart; but, it ain‟t my fault.After all, any desperado desert rat like me pays a price for darin‟ the sun to killya. The hard lines drawn upon my face come from years of hidin‟ out in desertvalleys filled with cactus, scorpions, rattlesnakes, and sidewinders; my brothers-in-nature. Some say it makes my opponents nervous when they see my Bad Eyesnested between those hard lines; hard lines that harbor no mercy.
My Mother always said, “Malachi, all that‟s wrong with you is thatyou need a good woman‟s lovin‟ to change your evil ways; she‟ll stopyour lyin‟, thievin‟, murderous no good nature.” I‟d always tell her, “Forget it Ma, I‟m too damn ugly; and I ain‟tsettlin‟ down with no fat squaw or ugly ass señorita.” Besides, I found everything I ever wanted in a woman at myfavorite bordello oases. They dot the landscape of most, if not all,western villages, towns, and large cities. I have my favorites too. Ablonde with a small tight ass here, a redhead with hot tits over there; yessir, I have my little black book of favorite whores. I often thought Ishould sell it to unsuspecting souls to save the idiots the travails of livingwith desert whores. Don‟t get me wrong, I love my whores; hell, I‟veput more than one man in their grave for disrespecting the sisterhood.
I don‟t mean to disrespect Ma neither. She has a valid argument for mesettlin‟ down and taking a different course in life. But, I ain‟t never lookedtwice at a woman to give me cause enough to want to keep her. Besides, I‟mtoo goddamned old to change my evil ways. That‟s how I lived through theyears and decades; the veritable portrait of a self-made man some call anoutlaw. And most important, that‟s how I intend to live the rest of my life. Iain‟t never met a woman to give me pause for changin‟ nothin‟ about nothin‟.I would‟ve shot any son-of-a-bitch who‟d argue the finer details of that point,too. That is, that‟s how I figured it. That‟s how I figured it until I met her. I learned her name by others referring to her. On that occasion, shewas staying in the only hotel-saloon in West Junction, New Mexico. Duringmy first trip through that dusty hell-hole, I overheard the commotion oneevening amidst the bar‟s hollerin‟, spittin‟, cussin‟, and general arguin‟.Someone uttered her name, “Here comes that Molly Marie Boudoir; canyou believe how beautiful she is?” That‟s also the truth; I wouldn‟t lie to ya,Mister, when it comes to Miss Molly.
My eyes followed the pointing of the voices. To be simple aboutit, she was coming down the staircase from the heights of the saloon‟ssecond floor; that‟s where the hotel rooms were situated. She stoppedme dead in my tracks. I couldn‟t look away from her beauty; even ifsome other asshole had the drop on me and his “.44” aimed straight atmy heart. That‟s how she was, though; the very nature of her existence.At that moment, not one desperado in that saloon could resist thetemptation of taking her in; from head to toe and front to back. As for me, I couldn‟t figure out how her face seemed to be lit up asshe sauntered down that staircase. It was as if a spotlight followed herevery step; the very rhythm of her hips traversing. I paid attention. Ifigured every second of Miss Molly Marie Boudoir to be mine to keep. During this entire episode I was leaning against the bar,approximately six inches from my shot of whiskey. It was waiting onmy consumption. It had only seconds to live at the end of thehangman‟s noose; and, it knew it.
My view of her was indirect. I only saw her by reflection in themirrors hanging from the high ceiling cast against the back of thebar. I was glad they were hung high enough to escape all the bottlescontaining fire water. Otherwise, I wouldn‟t have been able tocapture the entirety of her arrival. As she came down those stairs the horde of desperados partedas if they were the goddamned Red Sea. She made her way to thebar and settled within plain view of Bad Eyes Jones‟ most tell-talebad eyes. Her hair was dark like a thunderous sky; her complexion as fairas a moonlit night. Her eyes were rich with beauty and alive with hersoul portraying. The features of her face demanded a slowcountenance. Hell, I was willing to take as long as she had to give toabsorb the entirety of her presence. I wanted to remember thisdame. I wanted to take the vision of her into the next day‟s heatedforay. She would pleasure my thoughts for a long time to come.No, I didn‟t know just how long; I couldn‟t see that far ahead.
Her neck was long and slender; it was as if I could see the bloodrush to fill slightly revealed breasts. Her dress was low cut, born asecret treasure in the saloon‟s dim light. I watched her breathe. Iwatched her lips move as she spoke. I looked at her perfect smile; thepleasant nature she held familiar as she consoled the lusting eyesaround her. She proffered no promise to anyone; particularlydesperadoes like me. That had to be my inescapable conclusion; else Iwould have done anything in the world to make her mine that night.She probably doesn‟t know how many lives were spared „cause Ibelieved she would never give a solitary pause to my presence. Her smile beguiling captured my heart; I could feel her pulse alivein me. Her arms were slender and purposed for comforting somelucky son-of-a-bitch. Her hands, with adorning slender fingers, etchedthe cellist‟s passion as they filled the air about her. Those are the thoughts I took with me as I moved out into thefamiliar comfort of the desert night. I never was a lonesome type; no,she hadn‟t changed that. But she did make me want more of her. I justnever believed it would be my lot that our paths would again collide in adestiny intended.
I succumbed to the night in usual fashion; bedroll separating me fromsand trying to etch a portrait on my back. The only difference was the dreamenveloping. Yep, I could still smell her; like an unyielding fragrance. MissMolly Marie Boudoir. If you would have asked me the next morning I would have sworn (and Idon‟t swear for nobody) I‟d never again see Miss Molly. I had no cause toreturn to West Junction. I had neither relation nor business there. As far as Icould tell, it was a useless place to be. Useless, that is, unless you had causeto visit Miss Molly Marie Boudoir. It seemed like months, if not years had passed, before I decided toemerge from the desert again. I knew if I hung out in the city some slingerwould come out from nowhere and try to make a name for hisself by gunnin‟down Bad Eyes Jones. That‟s why I tend to stick to the star filled skies thedesert‟s nights hold dear to my heart. The comfort of morning coffeebrewing in the mist of the rising sun was my privilege, my true friend in life.But, goddamn it anyway, I hadn‟t had no woman‟s comfort in what seemed tobe ages measured by ages. So, I decided to risk all and head into the townknown as the Valley of the Gun—Persimmons, Nevada.
Some of my favorite bedmates were holed up in a bordello there:Madam Currier‟s Hotel and Saloon. I figured I‟d get me a room, a bath, afine meal, and a woman. I knew just the one I wanted, too, if she was stillthere. A fine specimen of a woman God put on this earth to appease thebeast within Malachi “Bad Eyes” Jones. I had cause to remember the last time I visited Persimmons; it was theyear Madam Currier first brought this young woman to her brothel for thefavor of her customers, including this old outlaw. By the way, not agoddamn person in Persimmons gives a hoot I‟m wanted from Texas toCalifornia for murderin‟, robbin‟, or thievin‟ something or somebody. Yessir, I was headed to Persimmons, Nevada to reacquaint myself with awoman‟s purpose on this God-forsaken planet. Little did I know how fatehad already done all the figurin‟.s When I arrived in Persimmons, the streets were crowded. It was timefor every day folk to get off work and head home. Carriages and horsesfilled the byways; bustling this way and that way. When I arrived at herHotel, Madam Currier welcomed me herself, gave me a corner room anddirected Miss Chin Lee to prepare my bath.
It was always assumed by Madam Currier that no desperado wouldtouch any of her girls until such scum first got de-scummed by Miss ChinLee‟s hotter-than-Hades bath. That would be my destiny at 6 p.m. localtime. My date with Miss Chin Lee was like a date with the gallows. Shewas not shy about scouring a man‟s naked body nor was she shy aboutplaying with his ding-a-ling to get him all prepped up to pay MadamCurrier‟s high prices for the evening‟s femme fatale. Miss Chin Lee was a slender Chinese servant. She was well schooled,however, in knowing how to investigate whether a man would beencouraged to visit the brothel‟s best. Moreover, Lee was highly skilledwith a razor; intending to fetch a feller‟s best attributes while keeping himfrom scratching up the soft parts of Madam Currier‟s ladies. When I was all done with Miss Chin Lee, I wouldn‟t have beenrecognized by any son-of-a-bitch tryin‟ his best to hunt down ole Malachi“Bad Eyes” Jones. While I spent my hour with Miss Chin Lee, her one-legged husband fetched my clothes. He washed them, stitched up the tornparts, and pressed them. They waited for me as his wife dried off mybones and other parts of my aging ass.
When I appeared from the bath house, located on the back side ofMadam Currier‟s Hotel and Saloon, Madam Currier herself was waiting tosee me. She said, “Malachi (she never called me Bad Eyes), I‟ve never seenyou looking so desirable. If I were still up to pleasing men myself, youwould be my delectable pleasure tonight.” Don‟t think much about thatbackhanded compliment, though. Madam Currier is all business. She‟s justforged the opening round in negotiating the price for tonight‟s transaction.Then she said, “I suppose you still favor Lacey, is that right Malachi?”That‟s her name. I acknowledged the truth of the matter as if it were a lastconfession. Madam Currier had wanted $10 for an entire night with Lacey;however, we settled on $8. She probably would have taken $6, but I knewbetter. One should always let Madam Currier believe she won the debate;don‟t pound her too hard. Else, suddenly, the girl of your dreams won‟t beavailable. Madam Currier advised her kitchen was then being remodeled but thatshe had made arrangements for me to dine across the street at thePersimmons Hotel. She said my fee for the evening included my meal atthat fine local establishment.
Looking all debonair and well intentioned, I made my way across the street.The Persimmons Hotel‟s lobby was well appointed and crowded with manycustomers awaiting their evening meal just like I was. The Maître dhôtel askedmy name. When it was my turn to speak to this guy, I reported my name in afirm voice, “Malachi Jones.” He peered over his list of expected customers andsaid, “Ah, yes, Mr. Jones. Right this way please.” I was seated at a table for two against the wall next to the busy street; an entirewindow was mine to spy on the outside goings on. I was sitting there simplywatching what seemed to be a sea of humanity pass by. Then, as if to announce apresence anticipated, she appeared right before my window. It was her—MissMolly Marie Boudoir. Though the fading sun rendered all other passers-by unrecognizable, MissMolly defined her own presence for what seemed to be my pleasure. She juststood there right outside my window. The emerging night lights cascaded her faircomplexion to satisfy my hunger for the unfulfilled dreams she left me with somany eons ago. She was bold. Her beauty played relentless on my heart; herradiance played unending on my soul. I was sure she was meant to be there rightbefore my eyes at that point in time. It must have been God‟s plan to get me tochange my evil nature.
As she restarted her walk, I saw she was entering the Persimmons Hotel.Surely she would be another patron for the evening meal; the PersimmonsHotel‟s finest—lamb chops. Since I‟ve eaten just about every part of the animal Icouldn‟t imagine a lady would care to consume the critter. But, that‟s just myopinion. Getting a hold of my senses, I began to search the dining room for theappropriate table where that pompous Maître dhôtel might seat her. It didn‟ttake long for me to figure it out. The table opposite my own, configured along the next window north of mywindow, was adorned with both a white table cloth and a small but vibrantbouquet of flowers. Shortly after spying that obvious location, my suppositionwas confirmed. Surprisingly, as she passed by my table she turned to take me in; and staredat my face for a brief moment with a sense of familiarity. Her hair was arrangeddifferently this time; I could see as much as she had removed the hat that hadkept some of her secrets safe when I first espied her on the boardwalk outside.It was tossed up on one side, the side now turned toward me. I could see thedetail of her ear. I‟ll be goddamned if I know what was so fascinating about herear. All I can tell you is that it was a beautiful ear, full of intricacies and details.Moreover, it was proportioned just right for the size of her head.
The other side of her hair cascaded down in a sweeping flow. Yes sir, it allcame together in a panoramic display of the Lord‟s Majesty in making a woman.And there I was absorbing it all with both bad eyes. Her lips were as rich and full as the first time I came to witness their luster;God only knows how I remembered as much through the dust and storms of thedays intervening. Her face was the now familiar sense of artistic impression,certainly forever captured on a canvas somewhere. And of all things, she turned to me, smiled and said, “Good evening, Sir. MayI know your name? That is, since we will be dining across from one another Ibelieve it only appropriate we introduce ourselves.” She stunned me. I‟m sureminutes, if not hours must have passed. In my drunken stupor I clamored to my feet and politely said, “Malachi Jones,Ma‟am. May I know your name as well?” I already knew it, of course, but Ifigured it was best to be somewhat subtle about the dreams she bestowed upon meso many nights ago.
“I am Molly Marie Boudoir, from Kansas City, Kansas; not KansasCity, Missouri.” “I hope you enjoy your supper, Ma‟am,” I responded in a final sense of creativewant. “I hope you are likewise satisfied, Sir,” with words that would dance in my headfor the next bounty of eons. As she turned to greet other patrons seated near her table I couldn‟t help butnotice the entire room had their collective eyes fixed upon Miss Molly Marie Boudoir.Moreover, as she turned from me I had the opportunity to take in other parts of herstatuesque poise. Being a feller yet able to satisfy a woman, or so I believe, I couldn‟t help butnotice the softness of her breasts; a natural slow curve that interrupted the straightframe of her body. Her hips were rich and full and seemed to beckon more hungerfrom my already desiring eyes. From what I could see beneath her evening attire, herlegs stretched for miles; slender and very ladylike. Her feet slipped into her heeledsandals. I imagine the heat determined a lot of how a woman dressed in these parts.And, am I glad for that on this particular occasion. What else could I conclude whenI realized I was taking an exhaustive inventory of Miss Molly Marie Boudoir? “Damnit, Malachi,” I breathed to myself, “Ma was right. I might just find a woman whoselovin‟ will make me forget all things hostile on this planet.”
The point is straightforward. Having taken complete stock of the entirety ofMiss Molly I concluded I‟d be a lucky son-of-a-bitch to ever speak another word toher, let alone to hold her in my arms. I didn‟t believe God put desperados on thisplanet to hold such beauty and love. The Maître dhôtel pulled out her chair and the beautifully adorned MissBoudoir was seated directly opposite my view. In other words, we would take in theevening meal at the Persimmons Hotel juxtapositioned to look toward one anotherfor the next hour or so. “Longer,” I secretly hoped. As the evening meal affair passed, too damn quickly if you care to know myopinion, I tried not to allow my eyes to become glued on her. After all, I wanted herto know I had a gentlemanly side to me, even if I couldn‟t spell it or define what thehell I meant. Every now and then, though, I found her eyes searching my frame, looking forour eyes to meet. It was as if she were asking whether I found what I saw in her to beinspiring. No, she didn‟t say as much or give any other hint. In noticing her, I justcame to that conclusion. Maybe it was my lost optimism for life resurfacing. But thefact of the matter is that I was claiming her gaze as mine to forever keep. Whatever,it didn‟t matter. I knew I would take her with me again into those desert nightswhere the summer breeze carried the day‟s aroma and the stars helped dance acowboy‟s dreams to conclusion.
There was a moment when she asked me what I did to make a living in theworld. “Are you into cattle, Mr. Jones?” is the way she propounded the matter. With a slight white lie stuck between my “pearlies” I uttered, “Well, Ma‟am,I‟ve done my share of cowboyin‟ in my time, a little prospecting, and a few otherthings here and there. Mostly, I just go where the promise of the west takes me.”I turned the table on the questioning, “How about you, Miss Boudoir, what bringsyou to Persimmons, Nevada? I wouldn‟t think this place is the kind of place awoman as beautiful as you would seek to visit.” Her response unfolded in a confident, massaging voice: “I‟m on my way toSan Francisco. I have family there. They‟re in the newspaper business. Theywant me to come to write about things affecting women‟s lives.” I could understand that much. Anyone who found the loveliness of MissMolly Marie Boudoir would understand the woman could speak miles of fashion,glamour, and style. She certainly seemed to define such propositions.
Just then, gunfire erupted in the street--right outside our windows. I cautionedher, “Get down, Miss Boudoir!” I continued to look out my window to understand the calamity. I saw twodesperados, two guns, and blood. The one on the ground, the one who nowlooked to be dead, had a tin star pinned to his chest. The one yet standingseemed familiar to me. As if by magic, he turned to my window and our eyes met.Yep, I knew the son-of-a-bitch. He was one of the most feared outlaws who everrode the west. It was that murderin‟ son-of-a-bitch, Frank Garson. I knew him because Ishot the bastard once in Pecos, Texas. It was another gunfight like the one thatjust happened in Persimmons, Nevada. I thought I‟d killed Frank; but, goddamnit, he was standing right outside the window staring me down as I sat in the comfortof the Persimmons Hotel‟s fine dining room where lamb chops were justbeginning to settle my belly. He pointed at me with his open hand and crookedhis finger to motion me to the street. I looked at the now trembling Miss Boudoir and advised, “Ma‟am, I‟ll be rightback. Stay in here and get away from that window.” Her eyes now portrayed amixture of fear and love. Don‟t ask me the formula for such a look; I‟m just tellingyou what I saw.
Gunfire makes most folks fear the source. Not me. I‟ve lived my share ofsuch battles. It‟s like I said in the beginning of this story, you have to look throughdeath; fear becomes a confidence transcending. Whatever I told Miss Boudoir Idid in the world now became a transparent lie. She had to know I was a liar;indeed, she had to know I was a no good, double-crossin‟ murderous son-of-a-bitch. I don‟t consider myself a gunslinger „cause I don‟t go lookin‟ for trouble; Ijust always happen to find it. But, when it arrives, I don‟t run from it. I slid my chair back and rose from the table while never taking my eyes offFrank Garson. I knew the asshole would shoot me down in cold blood if he hadthe chance. I grabbed my hat from the rack at the dining room‟s door and cinchedmy gunbelt tight. I made sure my holster was tied snugly against my leg. I alsodrew my Colt six-shooter from its holster and spun the cylinder to make sure deathwas counted six times. I could hear the bullets speaking to me with an excitementthey knew was theirs to enjoy. I walked out the front door of the PersimmonsHotel, a fine establishment situated in what is now the Valley of the Gun.
I searched for that no good son-of-a-bitch, Frank Garson. My eyes transcendedthe moment. I‟m sure anyone who knew the legend I walked would conclude that‟swhen the Bad Eyes become set in my craggy face. I found Frank‟s eyes, too. Hisweren‟t filled with the intention of survival; they were filled with the lust for blood.That was his first mistake. Gunfighters who survive the smoke of battle will tell you asmuch. When a man has the lust for blood in his eyes he is masking his lack ofconfidence. I immediately understood Frank‟s lack of confidence. The last time we met inPecos I left him for dead on the street; his large carcass filled with six pieces of lead.How the bastard survived is beyond my comprehension. I concluded I‟d want thatdoctor patchin‟ me up if the day ever came. In seven steps from the hotel door, I was in the middle of the street lookin‟ downabout twenty yards at Frank Garson, his six-shooter now reholstered according to theGunslinger‟s Unspoken Code of Battle. The dead Persimmons Sherriff yet lay on theground between us. The sidewalks were now cleared; the non-professionals in theValley of the Gun sought refuge from Hell‟s fury now arriving.
Out of the corner of my left eye, I caught a glimpse of Miss Boudoir‟s beautypoised about six feet back from the hotel dining room‟s window where we hadexchanged pleasantries just a few moments ago. Her hair remained pulled up andaway from her right ear; the same one that gave me quite a pause for thought.“Goddamn it, woman,” I muttered to myself, “get back from that window.” I‟d killevery asshole in this town if they allowed anything to happen to her. I knew I had tofocus on Frank now, though. You can always tell the incompetent shooters from the good ones. The bastardsthat think they know how to win a gun fight give themselves away when they watchyour gun hand harboring the holstered weapon. Nope, the best gunfighters look atthe other man‟s eyes while all the time watching his chest. First of all, you want toknow if he is looking through death or lusting for blood. If I detect the formercondition, I figure there‟s an even chance I might be meeting my Maker. Second,you want to shoot the bastard in the chest; so you best be looking at your target.Third, and most important, the movement of his gun hand reaching for his weapon isalways revealed a split second ahead in the flexing of his chest muscles. That‟s howyou know he‟s decided he‟s goin‟ for it. You best beat him and not miss your target;else, you will go meet your Maker.
Frank didn‟t waste much time explainin‟ to me why he called me out. “Youdirty rotten son-of-a-bitch; you almost killed me down in Pecos. I don‟t knowhow you outdrew me, you bastard, you must have cheated. Now I‟m going to killyou just like I kilt that Sheriff lying dead right there.” I keep it simple. I merely said, “Frank, do what you gotta do and stop wastin‟words and my time.” That pissed him off. Don‟t worry about makin‟ youropponent mad; that‟s what you want to do. If they were lookin‟ through deathready to kill you, makin‟ „em mad gives you the edge „cause they stop lookin‟through death and start thinkin‟ about bein‟ mad. Frank proved to be noexception. Frank‟s chest belied his move. Accounting for the split second from hismuscle flex to his hand reachin‟ to remove his holstered six-shooter, my instinctstook over. In a lightnin‟ move, my hand eased my six-shooter from itssequestered position and lead came flyin‟ out at a blindin‟ speed and in a lethaldirection. Smoke and the smell of gun powder filled the air; ear-splitting bangscascaded the street, echoing death arriving. Immediately, I took stock todetermine whether the son-of-a-bitch got lucky. I couldn‟t find any blood or painanywhere. I started my walk toward Frank‟s position all the while reloading mygun by merely replacing the spent cylinder with a fresh one.
As I drew near Frank, I saw his bulk lyin‟ on the ground. Blood was oozingfrom his chest and seeping from his mouth. I came upon him and looked down athis nearly dead ass. His eyes, now filled with despair, looked up to my own; mineyet locked in the death „stare-through.‟ “You son-of-a-bitch, Bad Eyes” he uttered ashe breathed what would surely be his last breath. The next thing I knew commotion filled the streets; transforming the town fromthe Valley of the Gun to Persimmons, Nevada once again. I also heard a lot ofcommotion from the Persimmons Hotel, as if a ground swell was headed mydirection. If the ground was as beautiful as she is, I concluded, I‟d lay on it more oftenthan I already do. She bolted from the entry of the hotel, and ran to my positionwith her sandaled feet and her hoisted dress. “Malachi,” she shouted, suddenlyappearing by my side. “Goddamn it” is all I could say to myself, “this woman is incredibly beautiful.” She said my name one more time, “Malachi!”
That‟s when the most incredible thing happened. Without equivocationher right arm reached up around my neck and her lips cried her first kiss ofmy lips. Surprise is not an adequate explanation. “Oh, Malachi” sheuttered, “I‟m so glad you‟re alive!” We stood there in a momentary intimateembrace, lost in what only two people can share, can understand, and canremember for some time into the future. For that moment, there was no death lyin‟ on the streets of Persimmons,Nevada, there was not the commotion of onlookers and gawkers. There wasonly the beauty of her held ever so slightly in my arms. Somehow Ma‟sprediction proved correct. I was then holding love in my arms; the kind oflove that soothes the savage beast in a man as he walks in a world filled withrage and anger.
We stood there for a few more seconds, all the while holding one anothertight against the night now arriving. The intimacy was more intoxicating than theslight aroma of her perfume wafting my senses. It was an embrace that wrote itsown existence. However, something inside me said it was time to part. Unfoldingour embrace I said, “Miss Boudoir,” while I tipped my hat in my best gentlemanlymanner. I then turned to my steed, mounted him and looked down upon herbeauty as I rode out of town. Her eyes held mine for those parting moments. I was headed into that familiar desert night once again. Things were differentnow, though. My best friend was no longer the six-shooter still hot with the furyof the battle just past. No, I was filled with the lovin‟ beauty of Miss Molly MarieBoudoir. I didn‟t know whether the day would come when I‟d see her again, Ijust knew the love of her filled my heart and was firmly entrenched in my soul. Ithappened quicker than my six-shooter sending the death of lead to an unluckyson-of-a-bitch who just realized my full name: Malachi “Bad Eyes” Jones.