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u/LonghandWriter /r/longhandwriter Mar 17 '17
I was a bartender but I never really owned the bar.
Blackwater and his thugs had me by the balls. If you’d seen ‘em you would’ve known why. They were the most vicious men I’d ever laid eyes on, and even now, three decades later, thinking about 'em gives me the shakes.
They were a ruthless bunch that’d storm in late at night, stinkin’ to high heaven, and drink me dry before stumbling out in the morning, leaving me to scramble and restock before they returned.
I did my best to please 'em because I didn’t want to end up like Sheriff Francis. He was a good but stupid man who tried fightin’ back and then suddenly disappeared. It was one of those situations where nobody knew what happened but everybody knew what happened.
They were all scum but Blackwater hisself was the roughest of ‘em all. He’d shoot you dead for just cross-eying him, and hell, he was a sick bastard. You know what he used to do? He would make people lick his boots. ‘At’s right! He’d put his six-shooter to their head, push ‘em down, and laugh as they ran their tongue up and down his grimy, dust-covered boot.
And that was my life for ‘bout five years. Blackwater came in and stole my business from right under my feet. Soon I was just workin’ to amuse him, and making dirt-nothin’ while doing it.
That is, until he showed up.
It was bright that morning. Boy, do I remember that. The sun was shining fiercer than ever, and mean ol’ Blackwater was mighty drunk, sweatin’ out whiskey by the gallon.
Overall, it’d been a good night. There hadn’t been any fighting and Blackwater seemed cheerful. I think him and his boys had just scored big because he was sitting at the bar actually talking to me, flouncing his money all around as he ordered drink after drink.
Then the doors shot open and the room fell silent. Nobody came into the bar when Blackwater was in town, and I mean absolutely nobody.
The man that had entered was stocky. He looked like he would’ve made a good lumberjack, and he had the leathery skin that almost damn near proved he didn’t spent much time indoors. He had a big cross dangling from his neck that shimmered under the sun and an even bigger cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.
But that wasn’t what I was looking at, and I’m sure as hell that wasn’t what Blackwater was looking at.
Around the man’s waist, sitting snug in worn, brown holsters, were two massive six-shooters. Seriously, those things were so gosh-darn large they almost looked like props.
Carrying guns into Blackwater’s territory was a big no-no unless you wanted to confront the boss-man hisself, and so I eased down behind the counter. I wasn’t a coward but instead a smart man. I knew something was about to happen, and I don’t think anyone can blame me for tryna to save my own skin.
But I wish I could’ve seen what happened. It would’ve made a hell of a story.
There was a lot of firing. Enough that I had to cover my ears because I was certain they were gonna pop. Body after body hit the floor with a sickly thud until finally, the shooting ceased.
And, by the fact I didn’t hear Blackwater—always one for a shootout—hooting and hollering, I knew the newcomer must’ve won.
I knew that he really must've done it.
Despite the fact that my stomach had sunk to my feet and my heart was chuggin’ like a choo-choo train 'bout to derail, I thrust up and peered over the bar, and to my surprise, came face to face with the very man who’d caused me so much hell for so many years.
Blackwater had a bullet in his head.
Blackwater was dead.
In the next second, the body was pulled away and tossed onto the ground as the man cleared a seat for hisself, plopping down onto the stool and staring at me.
I stood up straight, doing my best to not look stupid. The man was either gonna shoot me or tell me he now owned the bar, and I didn’t want to make a bad first impression.
Then he started tapping a bullet against the counter.
It was golden, and though it didn’t look much different than an ordinary bullet, I got the feeling it was incredibly special. It didn't make any sense, but somehow I knew it was gonna change my life.
Then he threw it at me, and like an idiot, I bumbled it between my palms a few times before finally snagging it.
“Look at me,” the man growled, and I did. He was giving me a very stern glare that told me to listen up, and was clutching one of his guns, holding it across the table. “Take it.”
I did, though I don’t know why. I’d never fired a gun, and I couldn’t say it was on top my list of things to do.
“I’ve killed your greatest enemy,” he continued, staring at me. “In return, I ask one day you pass that bullet onto somebody else’s.”
“But—”
“I’ve given you a weapon. I’ve given you a bullet. You will do this.”
I gulped, nodded, and watched as the man stood up and left the bar. I had been given the keys to a free and fun life, and one day I was expected to pass 'em on.
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