"That guy's DEATHPROOF!"
Some dumb thug hollered. Two seconds later the "Woodland Casino", a backwater shack running Prohib liquor, cards, dice, and guns, with a little kidnapping on the side, exploded. Flaming hunks of wood and steel hurricaned out some hundred feet, sticking a number of the dumb thugs with foot long splinters. Two got shards in the eyes, one lost a hand to a flying window, and another had their guts removed by a two foot pipe. Those thugs who were either not so dumb or just plain lucky, stood up from the cover they had found. Each one turned to see the smoking hulk of their former employer's business venture. Each one also saw the man that had been dragged in earlier, unconscious, now standing amidst the burning walls and blackened bodies. The man, still masked and wearing the flight jacket emblazoned with a skull and crossed lightning bolts, stepped out of the flaming wreckage that was the dream of every hillbilly in a hundred mile radius.
"Your bosses are dead. You're all dead to, but if you stick around it'll by my hand."
The not so dumb thugs turned tail and ran through the underbrush as fast as they could manage. The four remaining thugs, all armed with rifles and shotguns, didn't think they were so dumb and weighing their options decided to take their guns and unload them at the unarmed stranger who was clearly responsible for the deaths of their friends and family inside the still burning remains of the Woodland Casino. They fired for a full two minutes at the masked vigilante. None of the DIMWITTED DULLARDS could see the results of their carnage, what with the fog of their gunfire mingling with that of the wreckage. An unseasonal wind blew away the swath of smoke where the masked fighter had been standing. The four hillbilly lieutenants scratched heads, elbows, and asses trying to figure out where their target had disappeared to.
"We musta blowed him to pieces." One of the BACKWATER BUCKTOOTHS chuckled. His cornfed crew chuckled with him. None of them heard the four shots that killed them. But they all saw the other's heads leaking what little brains they could lay claim to. The Masked Marksman stepped out from behind one the remaining brick walls, holstering two Browning .45s. He made his way intently north into the murky woodland of the Lower Appalachians and away from the former den of vice and vermin that he had sent back to the sulphuric pits of Hell.