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
"Our posturings, our imagined self-importance,
the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe,
are challenged by this point of pale light.
Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark.
In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves."
- Carl Sagan
Last edited by Black Knight of Keno; 03-29-2007 at 11:14 AM.