THE RETURN OF THE RED BUTCHER

The old truck shook as it rolled down Betford road, carrying the smell of cottonwool, dust, and a long day’s work.

Paulo an old man in his seventies held the steering wheel with both hands, his fingers bent with age. Beside him, his wife, Mara also in her seventies, kept the small money bag close to her chest like it was a child.

“One thousand kilograms of cottonwool,” Mara said, smiling tiredly. “Can you believe we still sold all of it?”

Paulo chuckled. “I believe it. I carried half of it with this bad back.”

“You carried three sacks and complained like you carried the whole farm.”

“Woman, when I married you, you used to praise me.”

“When I married you, you had black hair and could lift me with one hand.”

Paulo laughed, and for a moment, the truck felt younger than them. The road ahead was quiet. Dry grass bent under the evening wind.

“This cottonwool business saved us,” Mara said softly. “School fees, hospital bills, food, everything.”

“Our children are grown now,” Paulo said. “All because you refused to let me sell that first field.”

“You wanted to buy a radio.”

“A very good radio.”

Mara shook her head, but her smile was full of old love. Then Paulo’s smile faded.

Five men stood across the road.

The truck slowed with a hard groan. Two motorcycles blocked the way, and a metal drum had been rolled into the middle of the road. The men were huge, rough-looking, with thick arms, dirty boots, and cold eyes. Mara’s hand tightened around the money bag.

“Paulo,” she whispered. “Those are Varen’s men.”

Paulo swallowed. Everyone in Betford knew the gang. They called themselves the Iron Fangs. People called them worse when doors were closed.

One of the men stepped forward and slapped the truck door.

“Come down, old man.”

Paulo lowered the window a little. “Good evening, sons. Please, we are only passing.”

“Passing?” the leader said. He had a scar near his mouth and a chain wrapped around his wrist. “This road is protected by us. Protection costs money.”

“We already pay market tax,” Mara said, her voice shaking.

The man leaned closer. “Did I ask you about market tax, grandmother?”

Paulo raised one hand. “Please. We sold cottonwool today, but after transport and debts, we do not have much.”

“You owe us two thousand dollars,” the leader said.

Mara gasped. “Two thousand?”

“That is the security f*e.”

Paulo opened the door slowly. “Son, we don’t have that kind of money.”

The leader grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him down from the truck. Paulo’s knees hit the dust. Mara screamed and tried to climb out after him, but another thug yanked the door open and pulled her down.

“Don’t touch my wife!” Paulo shouted.

A fist struck his stomach. He bent forward, coughing.

“Old bones still make noise,” one of the men laughed.

Mara dropped beside Paulo. “Please, take what we have. Take it and let us go.”

The leader snatched the money bag from her. He opened it, counted quickly, and his face twisted.

“This is not two thousand.”

“It is all we have,” Mara said.

“You think we are beggars?”

“No,” Paulo said quickly. “No, please. We respect you.”

“You respect us with small change, what do you think we are?”

One man climbed into the truck and began throwing things around. Another kicked the tire. Mara held Paulo’s arm, trembling so badly her teeth clicked.

Then a beer bottle flew through the air.

It smashed against one thug’s head with a sharp crack. Glass burst. The man’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped flat onto the road.

Silence fell.

The remaining four turned.

A tall man stood near a small roadside fish stall. He had long dark hair, broad shoulders, and a clean white apron tied around his waist. His face was handsome, almost too calm for the scene before him. He smiled like he had only interrupted a foolish argument.

“What is wrong with you guys?” he asked. “Why don’t you pick people your own size to deal with, huh?”

The leader stared at him, then looked at the broken bottle near his fallen man. “You threw that?”

The man wiped his hands on his apron. “No. The wind did. Very angry wind.” He joked.

One thug spat. “You must be mad, fish seller.”

“That depends,” the man said. “Are you leaving the old couple alone?”

The leader stepped forward. “Do you know who we are?”

“I know enough,” the man said. “You are men who call stealing a security f*e.”

The leader’s eyes hardened. “We collect what belongs to us.”

“No,” the man replied. “You drink yourselves stupid, talk too much, and harass people who cannot defend themselves.”

Mara stared at him through tears. “Sir, please don’t get involved. They are dangerous.”

The fish seller glanced at her gently. “Mother, dangerous men do not need to announce it.”

The leader laughed. “Hear him. A fish seller is teaching us about danger.”

The fish seller's name was Simon Gallagher. In the district where his stall was located, children knew him as the smiling man who gave them small fish for free. Traders knew him as the quiet seller who never argued over money. But the apron was only a mask.

Long before Betford, soldiers had whispered another name.

The Red Butcher.

Yes, Simon Gallagher was also known as the Red Butcher.

He had fought in the continental war for the Harrubi Dragon Seal and walked out of battlefields that swallowed armies. Men said he once survived with two bullets and left a thousand armed soldiers broken behind him. Some called him the Heart Ripper. Some called him the Bone Ripper. The stories were ugly, and Simon never repeated them.

Now he stood there smiling, smelling of fish and sea salt.

One thug pointed his knife at him. “You have muscles and you waste them selling fish?”

Another laughed. “Look at him. Big body, small life.”

“You should join a gang,” the leader said. “Or the army. Or open a real business. But no, you stand with children and dead fish.”

Simon’s smile slowly disappeared.

The air changed.

He reached for his sleeves and rolled them up. Scar after scar appeared across his forearms, thick and pale against hard muscle. Even the gang’s laughter weakened.

Simon looked at them one by one.

“Aren’t you bums ashamed of trying to extort an old couple?”

The leader lifted his chain from his wrist. “Kill this fool.”

Knives came out. A chain swung low. One man grabbed a piece of wood from beside the road.

Simon stepped in front of the gang members.

The leader rushed first.

The others followed.

Four hulking men lunged toward Simon at once, weapons raised, and Simon did not move.