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a spaghetti western. [closed] Read 1102 times

Lightning

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a spaghetti western. [closed]
« on: January 29, 2014, 09:29:12 am »
Glennwood, a measly town with nothing more going for it than the passing trains and the lucky bastard who struck black gold about forty-three miles out. What it truly survived on, the man couldn't tell, the dirt dry and cracked under his feet. He doubted much farming went on, although he couldn't see much else these townspeople could do. Then again, they seemed to be thriving, despite all odds. A market was going on not far from him, people trading goods, shouting prices, bargaining for the best offer. No doubt a few of the workers from the oil company were there, possibly one source of Glennwood's continued survival.

But he wasn't here for that. He hardly had a cent on him anyway, just a pistol, a horse, and enough coin to get him one drink.

The saloon was less populated then the market, where, he was beginning to figure, was where most of Glennwood's population was. He took a seat at the bar, ignoring the subtle stares, the quiet mumble of voices. He didn't look like an oil worker, nor a businessman from the city. It must have seemed suspicious then, Glennwood probably didn't get any other visitors.

"Gin." He said to the bartender, voice rough, dry. He should have asked for a glass of water, but gin would soon be harder to come by, he figured.

The bartender said nothing, setting the glass before him with one careful look. He wasn't stupid, that much the man could guess, but he figured in this sort of profession, one couldn't afford to be.

However, the one who took a seat beside him, could hardly be described as such.

He reeked of beer, a bottle in hand, half of its contents staining his shirt and vest, a bit of gold gleaming on the leather. A lawman, hardly a surprise really. The man doubted this town had much action of the law breaking sort. No wonder its police was a drunk.

"Where ya from, buddy?" The lawman grinned, teeth yellowed, bits of chewed tobacco stuck to his gums.

"Out of town." He responded, taking the shot down, quick, hardly savoring the burn.

"Well, no shit." The other snorted, slamming his beer on the counter with another laugh. "What are yer doin' in Glennwood, Mr. Out of Town?"

"Business."

The lawman squinted before taking a swig of his beer and uttering another laugh, "Mister, I'm sure I'm not the first ta' say but ya don't look like any business man."

He really didn't, not in his dirt covered clothes, his duster coat worn, pants a faded grey. His hat wasn't anything remarkable, nor did it resemble anything English, which the businessmen seemed to fancy. His face was dark with stubble, while his dark hair, clearly in need of a wash, was a bit long behind his ears.

At that, the man did chuckle, "S'pose not."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you look more like..." The drunk paused, seeming to have lost his train of thought as the sound of heavy boots hitting the wooden floor of the saloon interrupted them both.

"Holy shit, Hank, for fuck's sake don't you look at the damn wanted posters?!" This one wasn't a lawman, the gleam of gold absent on his chest. He must have figured he was tough shit, though, by the way the bastard carried himself.

Hank, the drunk lawman, blinked, surprised. "Course I look at the wanted posters! I put 'em on the wall!"

At this point, the man knew he should have been leaving, every instinct was telling him to do so. Still, he sat, waiting, knowing this needed to happen, although, he could have thought of better ways it could have gone about.

"Take a look at his fuckin' face then, you damned idiot!" Tough shit was raising his voice now, obviously frustrated. One of his hands was going for his gun, and the man at the bar, watched, careful. He wanted things to go down easy and that involved not getting shot.

Hank, stupidly oblivious to his trigger happy counterpart, turned, staring hard at the man beside him. "I think, Tom's sayin' yer on a wanted poster. That's prolly an insult, ya know."

"I am." The man smiled, one green eye still watching Tom, ready to twist the man's arm behind his back if necessary.

"Fer God's sake, Hank! It's fuckin' Jack Clayton." Tom had his pistol out then, and Jack was on his feet, quick to execute the action he'd been considering the whole while.

When Tom's gun clattered to the floor, it finally seemed to register to lawman Hank what was going on.

Hank scrambled for his gun, removing it from its hostler at his side with the unsteadiest of hands. "Let, er... Tom go!"

Jack raised dark brows before pushing Tom forward roughly, knocking the man into a few chairs with a small bit of satisfaction. Under his boot rested Tom's pistol. It would have been stupid to let the bastard keep it.

"Are...you really Jack Clayton?" Hank asked, sounding incredulous, gun still unsteady in his hand. It would have been all too easy to take it, but Jack knew better, he was about to make Hank's career.

"Yes, sir. You gonna arrest me?"
« Last Edit: January 31, 2014, 03:28:55 am by Lightning »

The March Hare

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Re: a spaghetti western. [closed]
« Reply #1 on: January 29, 2014, 05:25:50 pm »
She wasn’t aware stupidity ran in the family as well as balding until she watched Mayor Lee, a rotund man with a knobby mustache and hair styled into a horseshoe around a “bald patch” that took up nearly sixty percent of the man’s head. He had called her in that day to get her opinion about Glennwood expansion, though his real excuse was to break it to her that the plans were already set come the end of winter. He had played it safe at first, coaxing her with a rare import of coffee from one of his “associates,” and eased in to the conversation with talk about the winter season. When he thought she was completely dull witted enough to say it was a wonderful idea, Mayor Lee put his plan in the most delicate way possible… to which the young woman answered, “Sir, all do respect, but where ya gonna get the money? You’re already payin’ back debts from every town from here to the Northwest coast. The only thing keepin’ us afloat right now is that oil field, and that ain’t gonna last forever.”

The mayor sighed in such a dramatic fashion that the woman sitting before him thought the man should have been something other than a mayor. “I’ve made arrangements.” He raised his hand before the woman could open her mouth. “Now, now, I know what’cher gonna say, but hear me out. If we expand Glennwood, we’ll be better for it. More traffic means more money, and y’know better than I do that that’s what we don’t got. You been with us fer a long time, Annie, and I understand that this may come as a surprise t’ya, but we need this – and it’ll be good in the end.”

The woman slowly leaned back in her chair, having bent forward with wrists on her knees this whole time, and the mayor waited. Despite the foreignness of her features, naturally bronzed and sharp with wide eyes the color of a clear, blue sky, it was her body language that drew more attention. Thick, dark hair, curly and untamable, was bound back as tightly as possible with a leather band, which only added to the severity of Annie’s expression. “This is probably the worst decision I’ve heard ya come up with in the past ten years-“

There was a sudden ruckus outside the mayor’s office: yelling, rustling, an ensuing argument, and Annie was already up, revolver out, hammer back. Someone came rushing in not a moment after. It was one of the lawmen, Jones, and he stopped dead once his face came in contact with the barrel. “Ma- ah!”

Annie rolled her eyes and sighed. “Jesus, Jones. Can ya see we’re having a private conversation here?” She pushed forward the hammer with an audible click and holstered the gun at her hip. “What did I tell ya, huh? Ya gotta problem, get Hank.”

“That’s the thing, Ma’am. It’s at the saloon. Hank’s already over there, and he’s… well, he’s drunk.”

Annie rolled her eyes for the second time that day. “God damn idjit.” She turned to look at the mayor who had been unusually quiet when Jones entered. The woman lamely pointed a finger in his direction, glaring daggers all the way to his soul. “We ain’t done here. Jones, follow me.”

On their way out of the mayor’s office and into the street, Jones picked up the pace behind the woman. She wasn’t exactly listening when he started going on about a little tussle happening. In her mind, it was just another one of Hank’s weekly, drunken brawls with that no-good, stick-up-his-ass Thomas Higgins. She had already warned him once, and that’s all the warning she would give before she dunked the drunken sot into the nearest basin of water she could find.

It was when they rounded the corner to the saloon that Annie and Jones stopped. A crowd was forming out the doors and into the street. Names were being murmured through the small crowd of townsfolk, and Annie caught wind of one: Jack Clayton.

“Move!” Annie shouted. The people parted like the Red Sea, and she along with Jones at her heels, entered the saloon just in time for Hank to drunkenly raise his gun, and for the stranger to acknowledge that one question. “Are… you really Jack Clayton?”

“Yes, sir. You gonna arrest me?”

God damn, this was not happening.

Hank looked like he was going to lose his balance, and Annie nodded to Jones. The lawman hurriedly went to Hank, who lost his footing and crashed into the younger of the two before sputtering invectives that would have made any woman of gentle birth faint. Annie, somewhat embarrassed by this display of nonsense, stepped forward. “You’re really Jack Clayton, huh?”

The man seemed nonchalant and raised a dark brow. Annie continued. “I guess you’re true t’yer name… and the wanted posters. Dead or alive, huh? I reckon you rather it be more alive than dead then?” She calmly placed her hand on her holster, though she made no attempt to withdraw her revolver. “Hello there, I’m the sheriff around these parts. We want to end this as peacefully as we can, so you can come with us quietly or not – that’s up to you, but know that if you try grabbin’ that gun under your foot or whatever you have on ya, I will shoot you dead right here, right now.”

« Last Edit: January 29, 2014, 10:03:41 pm by The March Hare »

Lightning

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Re: a spaghetti western. [closed]
« Reply #2 on: January 30, 2014, 08:52:20 am »
A female sheriff. Well, he hadn't seen enough of the world to say he'd seen much, but this, he was certain was something extremely uncommon. He would have thought she was joking, but the badge on her chest claimed otherwise. It gleamed gold, the letters s-h-e-r-i-f-f engraved into it. Jack doubted her gun was a joke either, her hand just a breadth's away from it.

Her company was helping Hank to his feet, the drunk muttering a string of curses as he made to stand. The other hissed something at him before snatching up Hank's pistol from his hand. This lady sheriff had one hell of a team.

Tom's gun was still under his boot, and, after a glance at the sheriff, he kicked it aside, the gun spinning to a halt a few feet away. "I'd like to come quietly, ma'am. I ain't got any intention of dyin' today."

To think he was giving himself up to a woman. Then again, it was much better than to a drunk.

The man that had helped Hank to his feet went about restraining him, the female sheriff watching, still weary, Jack suspected. They disarmed him quickly, his only pistol now in the hands of the law. They'd take his horse too, no doubt. The animal was still tied up outside, ever patient, unaware that his owner may never return to him.

"My horse is outside. Mind makin' sure he doesn't starve, Miss Sheriff?" His hands were finally tied, the rope burning just a bit as he moved his wrists.

"Don't go makin' requests you damned criminal!" Tom yelled from across the saloon. It seemed he'd taken to distancing himself quite a bit once he'd been disarmed.

Jack smirked, "We can consider it compensation for keepin' that gentelman over there alive." He paused, "Although I s'pose that ain't much of a favor."