The Outlaw: A Brash and Boozed-up Bandit

“It’s been a long journey,” says The Outlaw after a long pull from his flask, undoubtedly containing something with a kick. “Hell, I don’t even remember half of it.”

Our friend is referring, interestingly enough, to his life. Though this would seem to be somewhat of an obstacle to a biographer, I’ve managed to obtain other viable sources on our subject, and have been able to piece together a portrait of the man known as The Outlaw. Today, I take you, dear reader, past the myth, beyond the legend, and to the bullet-ridden, whiskey-soaked heart of the man himself.

He was born as Christopher Michael Smith, probably in a dingy bar or brothel or other establishment of ill repute, some twenty one years ago in a tiny, since-deserted town in Texas. Abandoned to the elements, he was found and cared for by a local madman, who raised him as his own son, so to speak.

The alleged birthplace of The Outlaw, population...well...ten? Maybe...

“He’s a ROBOT SPY that them ALIENS from outer space have BIOLOGICALIZED so they kin READ OUR MINDS and DESTROY THE WORLD!!!” yells the madman in question, who would only identify himself to me as “the number eight”. “So, bein’ the clever fella that I am, I told that robot bastard all sortsa lies so as them aliens’ll be right confused! I done saved us all! Obama’ll pin a medal on me soon enough, you just wait’n see!”

Young Chris, like any boy his age, yearned to escape the monotony of small town life (and, yes, the barrage of lies and suspicious glares to which his “guardian” subjected him), so he set out on his fourteenth birthday to seek his own fortune. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, a flask at his hip, and a bigass six-shooter in each hand, but that would prove to be more than enough. Except for the flask...he’d end up with six more.

The Outlaw rocks guns about seven times the size of these. That's just how he rolls.

Adventure soon found our intrepid hero. He joined up with a roving band of zombie hunters, where he quickly climbed the ranks to become their leader, having far outpaced his comrades in zombie scalping. Soon, though, Chris grew restless and sought out new thrills, which he found through the ensuing years in various endeavors, such as killing vampires, slaying dragons, decimating robot armies, halting alien invasions, and, of course, beating hipsters to a pulp. Oh, and drinking. Lots and lots of drinking.

Hipster before The Outlaw...

Hipster after The Outlaw.

“He’s got like twenty vampire skulls on his trophy wall,” says Maria, his attractive Mexican housekeeper. “And twenty weird looking alien skulls, too. And twenty human skulls. Did you know robots have skulls? Well they do, and he has twenty of those too.”

Still, even these countless bloody and roguish endeavors were not enough to satiate Chris’s thirst for adventure, so he turned to mercenary work. As a hired gun, he drew the highest pay of any merc in the galaxy, and actively sought out the most dangerous and destructive of assignments. It was in this line of work that Chris became the fabled Outlaw.

“We were contracted by a guy who had an itching to take over the world,” says a sharply dressed and highly anonymous man, the only other survivor of the mission. “I’m not at liberty to discuss his identity. Protocol. You understand. Anyway, we had to take out a couple dozen world leaders, you know, to undermine stability and all that. Things were going well till the city blew up. Hell of a cover story for that one: meteor. Luckily, nobody was alive who could’ve seen otherwise.”

Identity security has really increased since the days of Valerie Plame.

The city’s destruction was not caused by a meteor, however, but by Chris, who went on a rampage in which he wantonly slaughtered thousands of the city’s inhabitants with his bare hands. In its desperation, the Army dropped nukes on the entire area to be assured of Chris’s destruction. He survived on his rage alone.

“This guy there called me yellow-belly! I think....Anyway, nobody calls me that and gets away with it!!!” says The Outlaw, hazily recalling his past. “After that mission, a general order was issued worldwide declaring me an outlaw. The Outlaw, even. Guess the name just kinda stuck after that, especially once I had it legally changed.”

It’s been a veritable odyssey for our brave, beloved, and fairly intoxicated friend. But as he eyes the life he has yet to live, The Outlaw seems to believe the sky is the limit.

“I’m almost done wi’this bottle,” he says, slurring his speech heavily. “N’then I’ve got ‘bout ten more t’go for t’night. I figure anyone can do it, it’s me.”

That’s a mighty high sky, Outlaw. We wish you luck.