Wondrous West

[sun.]

America, the savage. Wake now. America, the free. Keep slumbering...

In Redstone, some 50 miles off the Mexican-American border, an old man ordered a drink, sinking into a creaky stool. He watched his own wrinkly face in the dull reflection of the counter's greasy surface. He rounded a faint sign of gratitude towards the barkeeper as soon as his drink arrives, and the barkeeper swiftly returned to polishing shot glasses. The saloon threatened to burst at the seams with hushed murmurs and feeble anonymity. Urgency was laced into any word one could decipher in the bulk of speech billowing between the walls. And then, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat; not the discreet type of ahem either, the one that serves only personal comfort. It was the type of Ahem! that demanded attention, and most likely unwarranted attention, too.

A small man with a top hat drawn deep into into features stood at the entrance, the dust-riddled rays of light from outside turning him into a silhouette. "If I could have a moment of your attention, ladies and gentlemen," he began, all eyes but a select few glued to the pitch black intruder. "I am well aware of this establishment's busy patronage, so I will be brief." Shifting, he produced a scroll from his coat's breast pocket, the ribbon plain and black; somehow expensively so. "Good Mister Cornelius Clanton wishes to assemble the state's premiere hunters for security purposes. The assignment is expected to last roughly six to ten weeks. Compensation is ten grand a head flat. Bonuses available Applications should be dire-"

Bang.

A third eye gaping in shock at the sudden outburst of violence revealed itself in the short man's forehead, the smoothness of his solid black facade torn open in most lurid fashion by the bullet hole. The saloon erupted - weasels frightened enough to scurry into the foxes burrows.

"Yah, yah, yah, calm down," a coarse voice sounded with heartless indifference. The wide brim of his hat was almost comical, dangling and bending downwards toward the outer edge. His coat was of solid red leather, and black voids hid under his sleepless eyes. The smell of death and gunpowder mixed into the particular smell of an August noon, when already-dry stone is dried out even further by the sun scorching the plates, cracking it into fine dust.

The corpse at the Sheriff's feet is twisting and mangling itself into perverse contortions, eventually taking the shape of a green blob. Across its surface, a plethora of eyes blink in defiance and hatred. "Disgusting little fuck," the Sheriff hissed, as more of his people entered the Oldest Crone, the saloon established by Redstone's founder himself. Most of them equipped with rifles sheathed on their back. Two cronies - one a stunning but cold-eyed woman with black hair and a lipstick shade to match, the other a vertigo-inducing black man of at least seven feet, with a brittle, stick-like physique - stop forward. The two finger's jumped into various positions, until an intricate symbol appeared out of thin air, wrapping itself around the eldritch blob. The Sheriff sniffed.

"Everyone's under arrest," he announced in an ill-fitting casual tone.

The chaos spilled over immediately, everyone trampling each other. More gun-wielding cronies began to fill the saloon's entry area, and the protective presence of the elusive bar shattered entirely. Something had changed, somewhere behind the scene. The old man is long gone, his glass empty. Screams began to return inside, from the unlucky souls who have been caught on the outside, wherever the claustrophobic escape routes had lead them. A full-blown raid, is what this is, the barkeeper thought, and he was right.

America, the free, but not for those who traverse the Oldest Crone... Not for those who are backed into the filthy corners of the saloon, the law approaching with guns drawn. Fight or flight?

 

[RJS]

Otaktay

In the corner of the room, a tall thin individual with a notably chiselled jaw and a neat pinstriped suit sat at a table, glass of whisky in hand. Another job completed. Fred 'Thunderbolt' Dunstall's head rested with the relevant authorities, and his body nourished Otaktay as it continued to break down within him. So, as was his habit, Otaktay had come to the nearest bar, both to enjoy the acrid burn of alcohol and to keep one ear to the ground in hope of picking up the next job to...well, put food on the table.

And so he had listened with interest to the incoming offer. 10 grand plus potential bonuses was a lot of booze, after all. And so he was somewhat perturbed when the sheriff and posse had rolled in and shut down that opportunity with a single bullet. As the bar began to descend into chaos, he merely sipped his whiskey pensively. A mass arrest? This was unusual to be sure. Escape was a possibility, but seemingly unlikely given the screams emanating from around the building. There were too many of them in the building too - if there was just one or two his springbow might serve him in good stead, but it was unlikely he would be able to beat this many.

Otaktay raised his drink again, this time with his left hand, and drained the glass. As he lowered it, his right hand tugged at the cuff of his shit and jacket in a seemingly fastidious manner. Of course, the purpose of this movement was to ensure a clear line of sight for the springbow should things come to the worst. Resting his left arm on the chair so that the forearm extended horizontally, he slowly and steadily raised his right hand - trying to avoid making any gesture or sudden movement that the posse might regard as threatening. He faced the nearest member of the posse.

"Excuse my asking, but since we're all apparently under arrest, would you be able to inform me as to the reason for this? I consider myself a man of integrity, after all, so this does come as rather a shock."

 

[Aero Blue]

Felipe Verdedaro Colina

---

A slender man had sat at the bar, form so slight that from the right angles he disappeared entirely, obscured by the patrons that had been sitting either side of him. His brows were furrowed, sharp, stony features that seemed to droop ever so slightly, as befitting a man who had been rather deep in contemplation over over a glass of whiskey. Felipe Verdedaro Colina had thought in turns about the objectionable man with the short stature, the less-than-objectionable job offer, the way his face looked with a hole about the forehead, and that disagreeable slime he shifted and morphed into. He then thought, quite adamantly, that he ought to consider a new saloon to frequent.

The notion of the slapdash school of law-enforcement occurred to Felipe as well, and he felt some twinge of distaste over being lumped in with the rest of the herd, being not entirely certain over what offense he had committed. His slaughtering of Jonah Fleck all those years ago was, perhaps, jailable, but it had been some time. No, he thought, this was just some unsavory business that he had been caught up in by sheer force of poor fortune.

All these thoughts came secondary to the drive of instinct.

The Man of Impeccable Hair's form moved so quickly it flashed, erupting from the stool with the brevity of a whip's crack. His slightness hurtled effortlessly over the bar, and landed with cat-like control and precision; knees bent for his next action, feet steady, a pair of scissors in each hand should the need arise.

There was something odd about his voice, its sing-song lilt meshing uncannily with its gravelly timber, as he hollered from behind the bar and amidst the chaos, "I find that I gots to agree, philosophically, with the 'Man of Integrity'. I also gots to, kindly of course, add that enforcing Law be a twin pillar to preserving Order -- and that you, and, well, us, may be best served in that there endeavor if you all weren't so itchy with the trigger fingers, yeah?"

 

[Dismas]

Akikatsu Sue​

---

Just outside, where the air is nippy and the moon looks you over like some God damn voyeur the tallest hunter stood. He sniffed the air and with a flair he turned his head towards the saloon as if to brood.

His wide silhouette faced away from the public eye, hiding what the hunter deemed private. All was good inside the Oldest Crone. The booze was affordable, the people were unkind and the spittoons plenty. Not so suddenly, though, the hushed cacophony had been abruptly interrupted by what seemed to be... not whispers.

If I could have a moment of your attention, ladies, and gentlemen...
"Huh..."

I am well aware of this establishment's busy patronage, so I will be brief.
Sue chuckled.

Good Mister Cornelius Clanton wishes to assemble the state's premiere hunters for security purposes.
"Oooh, boy. Tell me more..."

The assignment is expected to last roughly six to ten weeks.
"Okay."

Compensation is ten grand a head flat. Bonuses available.
"Well now... color me interested!"

Applications should be dire-
"Go on..."

BANG!

"Now you, fellas, just ain't got a spirit for entrepreneurship. How's a devil like me gonna put food on the table?"

Sue zipped up his breeches and took to the cover of the shadows, not that it would do his hulking frame any good, but he had to try. He snuck up behind the corner and beheld the Apocalypse. The Oni's breath was cut off for the immediate moment. The hushed cacophony had vanished and in its place, the close vicinity had become ripe with screams, gunshots, thuds and every other violent sound he could imagine. From what his eyes could see the sight was just as incoherent as the hellish soundscape it came with. Some part of himself begged to bolt and make a run for the nearest horse, but the Oni knew better. He slowly retracted his husky self from the vicious scene. He weighted his next movements carefully. Each subsequent step was more hushed than the last. He held on to the dangly bits of his attire in hopes of removing all the noise from the equation.

His mind was quiet, devoid of any voices as his sharp senses took over. He'd be out of here in no time.
​

 

[Jack Robinson]

JOHNNY FRANKLIN

"Holy shit!" Johnny cried as the sheriff and his posse burst in. He'd been enjoying a smoke while cupping the left breast of a halfway decent prostitute when all of a sudden some loser in a top hat got his brains blown out. Quickly, he drained his glass, slapped the butt of the whore as she ran sprinting away, and withdrew his two revolvers. He spat on the floor, took two steps forward, and fell onto his face.

"Holy shit, I'm drunk as hell," he muttered, peeling himself up off the floor. His ears were ringing. People were shouting. This was a ripe old mess. To add to the chaos, he fired at the ceiling as he crawled from table to table, heading toward a window. For good measure, he hurled a bottle of whiskey at a couple deputies, distracting them as he made it to the window, just barely obscured by a couple chairs and a table. Now he just had to lift himself through that window, find his horse, and get out of town. Okay. Easy.

He stumbled to his feet and fumbled at the window, trying to open it. "Shit, shit," he cursed. He kicked the glass and bit his lip to keep from yelping in pain. He sighed, cocked his revolver and blew open the window. "That'll do it," he said. He lurched out the window and into the light. He hit the ground with a thud and groaned.

"Well, damn. I think I'm stuck." He laid there for a moment. "Anyone wanna help a guy out? I'm very drunk!" Hopefully someone else heard him before a deputy did. That'd be nice. He'd been arrested before, of course. Many times. But it wasn't an experience he was eager to repeat. It was rather unpleasant, and sometimes he had to piss in a pot. Johnny Franklin did not escape life on a farm to piss in a pot.