My old Benz screeched to a halt next to a scrappy bar with a broken sign and an army of pick-ups outside. I took my six-shooter out and checked the bullets, making sure it was ready if I had to use it. I placed the thing back into it's holster under my armpit. It hurt like hell carrying it there, but after a couple of decades in the job, you got used to it. The door opened. I looked as my hand pushed the door wide open and the cigarette smoke intertwined with the fresh air that was outside my car. I stood up, tied the trench closed around my waist and closed the car door. I looked around, only to see run-down buildings everywhere. Hookers hovered around the men of the neighborhood like flies hovered around a bull. It was the law of the streets out here, and I had the feeling that a baby seal has when jumping from the shark's path into the mouth of a killer whale.
As I got to the door, a large man stepped in my path, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking down at my fedora. He sure as hell wasn't KKK, and I didn't want to mess up my first impression by calling myself a member either. I looked up and lit up a smoke, my zippo letting the trademark ding as it opened. The stare that we shared was a tight one. I wanted to get inside and he didn't, so I backed down. It started to rain again, the water smashing against my fedora and trench coat, eventually seeping through. I was pissed as it were and now I had to stand around in wet clothes too. Getting behind the wheel was a mistake that I couldn't reverse at that point. The headlights lit the bar's wall and a second later, I found myself smoking in my Benz, next to the barkeeper. You could say I took it too far at that point, but it was a way to move the gorilla. The wall was smashed, the engine was smoking and the lights went dead. People started running off as I opened the door and grabbed the barkeep from the collar before he could run off.
"Whiskey. Put in on my bill" I said as ash dropped off my cigarette. Taking that I had caused quite a ruckus coming in, it was surprising how long the owner still had to keep me waiting. Two drinks and the cigarette later, the fatso appeared with his goons. I played it Bogart and stepped forwards, tilting my hat back and looked at the goons that carried baseball bats. This was going to hurt
Last edited by Black Knight of Keno; 03-29-2007 at 11:14 AM.