The Pansy
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John Roy Lennert Jr. has had a lot of nicknames, actually. J.R., for one, and J.R. Jr., too. Shit-for-brains. Bung-face. Dip-shit. Dumb-fuck and numb-fuck, in equal measure. "John-Boy", since that was what his step-daddy called him, before his step-daddy went and got killed, head smashed in with his own tire-iron. Young master Lennert was called "dummy" and "dumbass" and "fuck-face" and "shit-fuck" even "fag-fuck" for a bit. "White-boy", too, although that was mostly from the folks on the rez who didn't like him. Which was all of them, come to think of it.

Point is: went on for years, the names, in a million iterations, some of them more colorful & clever than others. "Tard-sack" was one. Very popular.

But the term "pansy", for whatever reason, is the one appellation that finally got J.R. riled up enough to kill, if the police reports are to be believed and the mixed accounts of unreliable eye-witness testimonies taken somewhat into account. One way or the other, though, there's a few less folks breathing in Battle Mountain these days than there used to be, back before the local white-trash kid went fuck-nuts. According to the self-declared experts amongst crashers, he killed something like two-dozen people that day; according to the official reports, it was actually just seven.

Still, that's kind of a lot. A full-on massacre, by any standards. And if you like your conspiracy theories nice and juicy, the way Knox "Claire's Other Boyfriend" Malone does, it's all a big cover-up by the locals to hide that one pissed-off re-re (Knox's term, not mine) killed more people in one day than most really serious serial killers will ever rack up in a career.

Here's the real kicker, though: with a room-temperature IQ and half a high-school education, afflicted with syphilis which he caught prenatal from his mama the whore along with the probable fetal alcohol syndrome, poor even by the standards of a rotting ex-mining, currently-gambling town with a per-capita income of about $15,000, you wouldn't think that the Pansy would have been able to elude Nevada State Police for all these years.

He did, though. Never been caught in all this time. Because he got his wagon hitched to the Shitheel Christ and the Abraxian Project, and the scariest damn thing about those people is that they keep NOT getting caught, somehow, hallelujah, praise the Devil and pass the whiskey. Now, he's the pack Omega to the Lamb of God. The whipping boy of the Lord. The Pansy, officially and forever more, called by that name from On High by the Holy of Holies, and when it makes J.R. stop smiling that grin, and close those big brown eyes and shake and cry, it makes the rest of the flock laugh, and that makes God's Own Son smile and giggle fit to shit.

There's nobody more eager to move up the ranks than the Pansy, and no one less likely; he's bottom rung for all time, and shit rolls downhill. But with only a nudge and a bit of respite from the abuse, he'll scout any hallway in Hell for Bubba St. Germain. Without hesitation he'll fight a cop in broad daylight, he'll bust his ass to dig a trench, and he's surprisingly adept a getting a car running. In fact, he'll do just about any damn thing the congregation asks him to do. Sleeping in the back of a pick-up with the dogs, hauling bricks and bodies and washing dishes when he's told to … the Pansy would be willing to smuggle fertilizer in his mouth, if Shitheel asked him to. But he's happiest when the King of Kings wants killing done.

Because the Pansy is actually very, very good at killing.

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