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kinkfestTitle: A Typical Night at The Last Chance Saloon
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ann8913
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little cursing, minor character deaths
Prompt: Weiss Kreuz, Any, Western!AU - the Last Chance saloon
Word count: 3,180
A/N: Heinold‘s First and Last Chance Saloon once existed. The saloon opened in Oakland, California back in 1883. The name came from the fact that the saloon would be the last chance for sailors to have a drink before falling under the jurisdiction of their boat’s captain and heading out to sea. American author Jack London occasionally frequented the saloon, listening to the stories told by world-traveling sailors. Mental speech in italics.
***
Heinold’s First and Lance Chance Saloon was famous for three things: the strongest liquor in California, the best looking saloon girls and the most dangerous fights. Despite that one drawback, the saloon was always busy, even on Sundays.
Church may save your immortal soul, but liquor is essential for the here and now.
It was a Saturday night, so the place was packed. As new patrons entered small fights would break out over territory, resulting in even more barstools turned into kindling and less seating available for the surly customers.
At a small table in one darkened corner of the room two women were deep in conversation, only pausing now and then to dodge a thrown barstool or knock unconscious any rowdy drunks invading their space.
“Manx,” the dark-haired woman sighed she poured more scotch into a glass for her friend, “why are we here? I should be back at the office, preparing next week’s issue of the Oakland Gazette.”
“You haven’t been in Oakland long enough to learn about the really interesting characters,” Manx replied. “Tonight you’ll get to watch the most powerful, dangerous and downright nasty men in action.”
“I’m always looking for a good story,” Birman said, scanning the crowded bar with greater appreciation. “Anyone of interest here yet?”
Manx snapped open a green silk fan so that it partially concealed her face. “Directly across us, three tables to the left. The pale Irish fellow with the eye patch is named Farfarello.”
“Interesting name,” Birman remarked. “What’s his story?”
“Farfarello is, you could say, a craftsman,” Manx answered. “He makes a small fortune supplying this saloon with replacement furniture: it’s almost as profitable as his primary job as the town’s coffin-maker.” Manx paused to pin Birman with a serious look. “He has a habit of filling many of those coffins personally, so no one is stupid enough to complain about the cost.”
“Bad news, that one,” Birman noted. “So why hasn’t the sheriff taken him in?”
“He’s killed two sheriffs and six deputies in the past year and a half, and that’s only the ones I could confirm as his work,” Manx replied. “Farfarello is very fond of knives: his nickname is The Irish Blade.”
“Good to know; I’ll keep my distance,” Birman said, mentally guessing at the number of knives hidden within the man‘s clothing of worn jeans and a plain cotton shirt.. “So who is the kid next to him?”
Manx warily eyed the young man Birman was referring to. Farfarello’s companion looked younger than his true age, due to his slight build and short stature. The dark grey cotton clothing he wore was practical, but looked like a school uniform on his thin, narrow frame. More than a few of the other saloon patrons were staring at him as well: even with the influx of Chinese and Japanese immigrants to California, the young man’s Asian features inspired a mix of curiosity and derision in some people.
If he noticed the scrutiny, it was well-hidden. The only expression on his face was visible boredom and a barely-perceptible annoyance with the raucous, drunken atmosphere around him. While Farfarello was knocking back whiskey after whiskey with abandon, in front of his companion was a simple glass of milk.
Manx explained, “That is not a child, and he’s more dangerous than the Irishman. He’s Naoe Nagi, more commonly known around town as Knock-‘em-Down Nagi. Bad things happen to people who upset that young man: very bad things.”
Birman looked at Nagi with more curiosity, and wisely with more respect. “What kind of things?” she asked.
Manx gave her friend a rueful smile. “You’ve noticed that California is prone to a lot of earthquakes, right?”
“Sure. It seems like there is a small tremor at least three times a week,” Birman answered.
“Well,” Manx said, “they happen a lot when Nagi is angry or feels threatened. And it is quite a coincidence that the most noticeable damage from these quakes affects his enemies. I’ve never seen Nagi and his companions emerge from the debris with even a scratch.”
“I’d been warned that the Wild West was a dangerous place to be,” Birman responded, “but I wasn’t expecting this much risk.”
“It only gets worse,” was Manx’s grim reply. “Those two are deadly, but predictable: Farfarello loves to hunt and kill, and Nagi strikes only when directly threatened or ordered by his boss. It’s the other two members of Schwarz you absolutely need to stay away from.”
“Schwarz?” a puzzled Birman asked. “Isn’t that the German word for ‘black?’”
“Yes, and it’s very appropriate,” Manx noted. “They are villains…”
“…and villains prefer black,” Birman finished.
Both women turned towards the main entrance as the saloon door was pushed wide open and a tall, lanky man confidently strode in. For a moment, they didn’t know where to start their appraisal of the newcomer, as it seemed every piece of clothing he wore was designed to clash with the rest, and very little of it subdued.
So much for the villain-black connection.
It was easier to start from the bottom and just work their way up. The ladies noted the well-made brown leather boots, tight-fitting jeans bleached an unusually bright shade of white, a pale blue shirt and a long duster coat dyed an ugly olive green. Untamed orange-red hair fell past the man’s shoulders, only restrained by a gaudy yellow bandanna.
“Hello, all,” the newcomer greeted the crowd with a wave and a flash of his sharp, cunning smile. “Nice to see you. Now get the hell out of my way.” With that, he strode past everyone - the crowd temporarily stunned into silence - and made his way over to Farfarello and Nagi.
“That was unexpected,” was Birman’s first comment. “I’m guessing he’s not your ordinary rogue.”
“Observant as always, Birman,” Manx answered. “The German’s name is Schuldig, but he’s better known around these parts as Drop-Dead Red. But unlike his friends over there, Red likes to play with his enemies.”
“What kind of play?” Birman inquired.
Manx replied, “He’s like a rattlesnake: he charms you even when you should know better, and strikes just as quickly. The man has a way of finding out even the best-kept secrets: if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he could read minds.”
Manx shuddered as she noticed the subject of her discussion watching her with narrowed eyes. Enjoying her discomfort, his face lighted up with a knowing, wicked grin and he blew her a kiss before turning his attention back to his companions.
If Birman noticed Manx’s upset, she didn’t mention it. “How did he get that name?”
“Most of the time people stay out of Schuldig’s way,” Manx said, making sure her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “The few people brave - or stupid - enough to challenge him suffer for it: suicides, disappearances, more than a few locked up at the madhouse in nearby Piedmont.”
Manx paused, looking around to be sure no one was paying attention, and continued, “Schuldig’s been in more than a dozen duels on Main Street: usually he wins by outdrawing his opponent - he’s faster than the eye can see - but once he just stood there, laughing while the other man fired until his gun was empty. Not a single shot even came close to hitting him.”
“Schuldig didn’t even draw his gun. He stared at the other man - seemed to me they were having a conversation that no one else could hear - until the pool soul started to shake, grabbing at his head while blood seeped out of his nose, ears and eyes.”
“It was horrifying to watch, but the worst part was seeing how much pleasure the German took in that pitiable man’s pain. If Drop-Dead Red smiles at you, get away as fast as you can.”
The women abandoned their conversation as a saloon girl approached their table bearing a tray with two glasses of sherry.
“Ladies, these are for you,” the waitress announced, “courtesy of Mister Schuldig.”
Birman and Manx stared at the drinks, horrified, as the girl scurried away. With her departure they had a clear view of the table the German sat at.
All three men were watching them: Nagi’s dark eyes flat and indifferent, Farfarello’s single golden eye lit with an inner fury and Schuldig’s intense blue eyes filled with cruelty and mirth.
Both Manx and Birman smiled in return - false, pasted-on smiles - raised the glasses to their lips and drank. Farfarello and Nagi turned their attention to the latest bar fight near the entrance, while Schuldig saluted them with his own shot of whiskey.
Charmed, ladies. You seem to have sharp instincts: stay out of our business and you will be fine.
Enjoy tonight’s performance: Crawford planned it for your benefit.
Birman shook her head violently, as if that would chase away the words that invaded her mind. Manx, more collected, acknowledged the unusual conversation with a sharp nod then downed the rest of her sherry in one quick motion.
After a few minutes of shaky silence, Birman asked, “Do I even want to know who this ‘Crawford’ is?”
“You can’t avoid him,” Manx replied. “In fact, you’ve probably heard of him already. Brad Crawford is the owner of Oakland’s largest bank and four of the state’s most profitable gold mines. He is also the richest man in Oakland, as well as its largest landholder.”
“All that, and remarkably lucky at cards, I hear,” Birman added. “Didn’t he win the bank in a poker game two years ago? That’s the rumor I heard.”
“It’s true,” Manx said. The former owner accused Crawford of cheating, threatened to take him to court. They found the man a week later, one bullet hole right between the eyes. His family was slaughtered soon after, supposedly by Indians. Funny how those natives only used close-range knives in the attack, and left a single set of footprints.”
Birman blanched at Manx’s words. “Do you think he cheats?”
“Not at cards,” was her response. “Crawford is too smart to use marked decks. But he is better than anyone I know at anticipating a tread or predicting events. He’s always prepared, and plays all the angles. I know you like a good story, Birman, but don’t go out of your way to make an enemy of that man. He‘s called The Prophet for good reason.”
“I’ll remember your advice,” Birman answered. “I do, however, have a responsibility as a reporter. But I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Heads up, ladies!
This time the saloon doors opened far more sedately. A tall, dark-haired man with thin wire-rimmed spectacles entered the room in a calm, assured manner. He strode purposefully to the table where Schuldig and the others sat, not even needing to survey the room with his steely brown eyes to determine their location.
Brad Crawford’s white suit was in pristine condition, not a single wrinkle to be found. The only other color on his outfit was the black of his polished leather shoes and silk Ascot tie. He was impossible not to notice as he walked across the room, especially as he moved past the their table: the light caught on the spectacles in a most menacing fashion, momentarily blinding the two women.
Birman recovered her sight just in time to notice a chair slide across the floor untouched by human hands, moved into place just as Crawford arrived at his table. A saloon girl delivered a glass of sarsaparilla at the exact same moment.
Birman decided she would be very, very careful when dealing with Schwarz.
At that point all attention was drawn to a spot close to the door where a table was overturned, the legs broken off and now brandished as weapons. Birman had noticed the half dozen men there earlier: they were already drunk when she and Manx had arrived, and this late in the evening they were now angry, violent thugs.
“I don’t like foreigners,” one of them slurred, the words barely coherent, “coming here and taking our good-paying jobs.”
“Yeah,” a second man joined in, “and I won’t put up with pansy men in pansy colors swishing through our bar!”
A third man - this one definitely not drunk, but operating on sheer anger alone - yelled, “That bastard Crawford is responsible for ruining my cousin, stealing his livelihood and murdering his wife and children!”
All six men charged as one, rushing to the corner where Crawford and his team were still comfortably seated at their table. Anyone too slow to get out of the way was punched, stabbed or roughly shoved aside.
Both ladies moved back, further away from where the fighting promised to begin - Birman reaching into her bag for a small derringer, Manx sliding her hand down to the blade taped just above her ankle - but paused in their actions when they realized they were in no immediate danger.
The table where Schwarz was seated flew up into the air, the legs snapping off mid-flight before landing on two of the men, knocking them to the floor. The table legs, pieces of the maple wood stripped off so that the remaining portions were sharpened like stakes whipped with incredible force through the table top, impaling the men trapped beneath. The woman watched with distaste as a large pool of blood spread across the floor underneath the remains of the debris.
Their attention was quickly drawn to Farfarello. The Irishman had smashed his whiskey bottle over one assailant’s head while throwing a small, wickedly sharp blade at the other. As the first man reeled from his concussion, the now-broken bottle was swiftly dragged across his vulnerable throat. The blood spray from the severed artery caught Farfarello in the face: he howled out his victory, grinning as he licked at the splattered blood he proudly wore.
He didn’t even glance at his second target, and with good reason: the blade had pierced the man’s heart, resulting in a quick, almost-merciful death. The Irishman looked around then, pleased with the amount of damage the bar had sustained.
“I’m going to be very busy this next week; looks like I’ll be making quite a few new pieces for the saloon,” he said to no-one in particular.
Schuldig raced past him, almost impossible to see except as a multi-colored blur. His assailant had already emptied one gun at the German - missing him entirely but killing five innocent bystanders and the saloon owner’s prized bottle of Huguley’s Old Amor Whiskey in the process - and was preparing to fire his second pistol. Except he couldn’t seem to locate Schuldig, even though the gaudy man was now standing right in front of him for everyone in the saloon to observe.
“Where did that German bastard go?” the man bellowed, not seeing the wide, cruel smirk of his target before him, nor the gun aimed at his gut. Two shots rang out and the wounded man fell to the floor, losing his own gun in the process.
“Who’s the pansy now?” Schuldig sneered, stomping on the man’s stomach with one foot. The injured man whimpered, the tears already running down his face increasing due to the added pain.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Schuldig said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Aren’t you the lucky one? Of course, gut shots are the most agonizing kind, and there’s still the chance you’ll die from an infection. Nasty stuff, that: your insides putrefy, your skin rots as the gangrene sets in, it’s such a messy business.”
Find your gun. Shoot yourself. Everyone’s laughing at you. It’s the only way to end your misery.
Both Birman and Manx heard the mental command - intentionally, it seemed - sent to the wounded man. He screamed as he dragged himself a few feet to the left to retrieve his second gun. A shaking hand lifted the pistol to his head and a single shot rang out.
The only assailant left stood before a calm, collected Brad Crawford, his pistol aimed at Crawford’s chest.
“You are going to pay!” the man shouted, finger tightening on the trigger.
Crawford aimed his words at the man standing before him. “Let me tell you what is going to happen here. You are not going to shoot me: instead, you will re-holster your weapon, turn around and walk away.”
“You’re crazy,” the other man stated. “You’ve ruined too many lives, and I will kill you!”
Without missing a beat Crawford continued, “You are going to return to your home. You should pack up your belongings and move your wife and son back to Virginia. If you did so the rest of your life would be secure and pleasant enough, if a bit boring. Sadly, you are not that smart. You will go home tonight easily enough, but later let your resentment and ridiculous need for revenge get the best of you.”
Crawford’s words, spoken in such a confident, matter-of-fact manner, seemed to deflate his attacker. The anger he had been radiating morphed into confusion; the arm holding his gun slowly dropped to hand loosely at his side.
The effect spread to the crowd as well; even Manx and Birman felt the assurance and sincerity in Crawford’s prediction. Everyone waited with baited breath for Crawford to go on.
“Because of that,” Crawford added, “you will take what is left of your savings and sign a contract with some expensive - but totally inept - hired killers to attack me and my team. They will fail miserably, but have the mercy of sudden deaths. Within a week of their failure your son will be found in the woods, a victim of some rampaging animal. Your wife, distraught, will kill herself by drowning the very next day. You will come at me again with your gun three days after that, and I will shoot you dead before you’ve even had a chance to aim.”
The man stood dully in front of Crawford before moving his gun back to his holster, then left the saloon without another word. Only after the man’s departure did the normally boisterous crowd resume their usual activities, careful to steer clear of the four victorious men.
“Let’s get out of here, Birman,” Manx hissed, almost dragging her companion from the saloon. It wasn’t until they were a safe distance away, nearing the two-story building that housed the local jail and sheriffs office that Manx resumed their conversation.
“Keep your distance from those men,” Manx warned, and Birman was inclined to agree.
“Is there anyone in this town willing to stand up to Schwarz?” Birman asked.
“The current sheriff is working on it,” Manx replied. “He is being very cautious, and for good reason. He recently recruited some suitable young men for his team, and I‘m assisting him. We could use your help as well.”
“You know I’m in. But can anyone beat Schwarz? They are incredibly powerful!” Birman said.
“The men that make up Weiss may not have unusual powers,” Manx confidently answered, “but they have a way of accomplishing the impossible.”
Author/Artist:
ann8913Rating: PG
Warnings: A little cursing, minor character deaths
Prompt: Weiss Kreuz, Any, Western!AU - the Last Chance saloon
Word count: 3,180
A/N: Heinold‘s First and Last Chance Saloon once existed. The saloon opened in Oakland, California back in 1883. The name came from the fact that the saloon would be the last chance for sailors to have a drink before falling under the jurisdiction of their boat’s captain and heading out to sea. American author Jack London occasionally frequented the saloon, listening to the stories told by world-traveling sailors. Mental speech in italics.
***
Heinold’s First and Lance Chance Saloon was famous for three things: the strongest liquor in California, the best looking saloon girls and the most dangerous fights. Despite that one drawback, the saloon was always busy, even on Sundays.
Church may save your immortal soul, but liquor is essential for the here and now.
It was a Saturday night, so the place was packed. As new patrons entered small fights would break out over territory, resulting in even more barstools turned into kindling and less seating available for the surly customers.
At a small table in one darkened corner of the room two women were deep in conversation, only pausing now and then to dodge a thrown barstool or knock unconscious any rowdy drunks invading their space.
“Manx,” the dark-haired woman sighed she poured more scotch into a glass for her friend, “why are we here? I should be back at the office, preparing next week’s issue of the Oakland Gazette.”
“You haven’t been in Oakland long enough to learn about the really interesting characters,” Manx replied. “Tonight you’ll get to watch the most powerful, dangerous and downright nasty men in action.”
“I’m always looking for a good story,” Birman said, scanning the crowded bar with greater appreciation. “Anyone of interest here yet?”
Manx snapped open a green silk fan so that it partially concealed her face. “Directly across us, three tables to the left. The pale Irish fellow with the eye patch is named Farfarello.”
“Interesting name,” Birman remarked. “What’s his story?”
“Farfarello is, you could say, a craftsman,” Manx answered. “He makes a small fortune supplying this saloon with replacement furniture: it’s almost as profitable as his primary job as the town’s coffin-maker.” Manx paused to pin Birman with a serious look. “He has a habit of filling many of those coffins personally, so no one is stupid enough to complain about the cost.”
“Bad news, that one,” Birman noted. “So why hasn’t the sheriff taken him in?”
“He’s killed two sheriffs and six deputies in the past year and a half, and that’s only the ones I could confirm as his work,” Manx replied. “Farfarello is very fond of knives: his nickname is The Irish Blade.”
“Good to know; I’ll keep my distance,” Birman said, mentally guessing at the number of knives hidden within the man‘s clothing of worn jeans and a plain cotton shirt.. “So who is the kid next to him?”
Manx warily eyed the young man Birman was referring to. Farfarello’s companion looked younger than his true age, due to his slight build and short stature. The dark grey cotton clothing he wore was practical, but looked like a school uniform on his thin, narrow frame. More than a few of the other saloon patrons were staring at him as well: even with the influx of Chinese and Japanese immigrants to California, the young man’s Asian features inspired a mix of curiosity and derision in some people.
If he noticed the scrutiny, it was well-hidden. The only expression on his face was visible boredom and a barely-perceptible annoyance with the raucous, drunken atmosphere around him. While Farfarello was knocking back whiskey after whiskey with abandon, in front of his companion was a simple glass of milk.
Manx explained, “That is not a child, and he’s more dangerous than the Irishman. He’s Naoe Nagi, more commonly known around town as Knock-‘em-Down Nagi. Bad things happen to people who upset that young man: very bad things.”
Birman looked at Nagi with more curiosity, and wisely with more respect. “What kind of things?” she asked.
Manx gave her friend a rueful smile. “You’ve noticed that California is prone to a lot of earthquakes, right?”
“Sure. It seems like there is a small tremor at least three times a week,” Birman answered.
“Well,” Manx said, “they happen a lot when Nagi is angry or feels threatened. And it is quite a coincidence that the most noticeable damage from these quakes affects his enemies. I’ve never seen Nagi and his companions emerge from the debris with even a scratch.”
“I’d been warned that the Wild West was a dangerous place to be,” Birman responded, “but I wasn’t expecting this much risk.”
“It only gets worse,” was Manx’s grim reply. “Those two are deadly, but predictable: Farfarello loves to hunt and kill, and Nagi strikes only when directly threatened or ordered by his boss. It’s the other two members of Schwarz you absolutely need to stay away from.”
“Schwarz?” a puzzled Birman asked. “Isn’t that the German word for ‘black?’”
“Yes, and it’s very appropriate,” Manx noted. “They are villains…”
“…and villains prefer black,” Birman finished.
Both women turned towards the main entrance as the saloon door was pushed wide open and a tall, lanky man confidently strode in. For a moment, they didn’t know where to start their appraisal of the newcomer, as it seemed every piece of clothing he wore was designed to clash with the rest, and very little of it subdued.
So much for the villain-black connection.
It was easier to start from the bottom and just work their way up. The ladies noted the well-made brown leather boots, tight-fitting jeans bleached an unusually bright shade of white, a pale blue shirt and a long duster coat dyed an ugly olive green. Untamed orange-red hair fell past the man’s shoulders, only restrained by a gaudy yellow bandanna.
“Hello, all,” the newcomer greeted the crowd with a wave and a flash of his sharp, cunning smile. “Nice to see you. Now get the hell out of my way.” With that, he strode past everyone - the crowd temporarily stunned into silence - and made his way over to Farfarello and Nagi.
“That was unexpected,” was Birman’s first comment. “I’m guessing he’s not your ordinary rogue.”
“Observant as always, Birman,” Manx answered. “The German’s name is Schuldig, but he’s better known around these parts as Drop-Dead Red. But unlike his friends over there, Red likes to play with his enemies.”
“What kind of play?” Birman inquired.
Manx replied, “He’s like a rattlesnake: he charms you even when you should know better, and strikes just as quickly. The man has a way of finding out even the best-kept secrets: if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he could read minds.”
Manx shuddered as she noticed the subject of her discussion watching her with narrowed eyes. Enjoying her discomfort, his face lighted up with a knowing, wicked grin and he blew her a kiss before turning his attention back to his companions.
If Birman noticed Manx’s upset, she didn’t mention it. “How did he get that name?”
“Most of the time people stay out of Schuldig’s way,” Manx said, making sure her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “The few people brave - or stupid - enough to challenge him suffer for it: suicides, disappearances, more than a few locked up at the madhouse in nearby Piedmont.”
Manx paused, looking around to be sure no one was paying attention, and continued, “Schuldig’s been in more than a dozen duels on Main Street: usually he wins by outdrawing his opponent - he’s faster than the eye can see - but once he just stood there, laughing while the other man fired until his gun was empty. Not a single shot even came close to hitting him.”
“Schuldig didn’t even draw his gun. He stared at the other man - seemed to me they were having a conversation that no one else could hear - until the pool soul started to shake, grabbing at his head while blood seeped out of his nose, ears and eyes.”
“It was horrifying to watch, but the worst part was seeing how much pleasure the German took in that pitiable man’s pain. If Drop-Dead Red smiles at you, get away as fast as you can.”
The women abandoned their conversation as a saloon girl approached their table bearing a tray with two glasses of sherry.
“Ladies, these are for you,” the waitress announced, “courtesy of Mister Schuldig.”
Birman and Manx stared at the drinks, horrified, as the girl scurried away. With her departure they had a clear view of the table the German sat at.
All three men were watching them: Nagi’s dark eyes flat and indifferent, Farfarello’s single golden eye lit with an inner fury and Schuldig’s intense blue eyes filled with cruelty and mirth.
Both Manx and Birman smiled in return - false, pasted-on smiles - raised the glasses to their lips and drank. Farfarello and Nagi turned their attention to the latest bar fight near the entrance, while Schuldig saluted them with his own shot of whiskey.
Charmed, ladies. You seem to have sharp instincts: stay out of our business and you will be fine.
Enjoy tonight’s performance: Crawford planned it for your benefit.
Birman shook her head violently, as if that would chase away the words that invaded her mind. Manx, more collected, acknowledged the unusual conversation with a sharp nod then downed the rest of her sherry in one quick motion.
After a few minutes of shaky silence, Birman asked, “Do I even want to know who this ‘Crawford’ is?”
“You can’t avoid him,” Manx replied. “In fact, you’ve probably heard of him already. Brad Crawford is the owner of Oakland’s largest bank and four of the state’s most profitable gold mines. He is also the richest man in Oakland, as well as its largest landholder.”
“All that, and remarkably lucky at cards, I hear,” Birman added. “Didn’t he win the bank in a poker game two years ago? That’s the rumor I heard.”
“It’s true,” Manx said. The former owner accused Crawford of cheating, threatened to take him to court. They found the man a week later, one bullet hole right between the eyes. His family was slaughtered soon after, supposedly by Indians. Funny how those natives only used close-range knives in the attack, and left a single set of footprints.”
Birman blanched at Manx’s words. “Do you think he cheats?”
“Not at cards,” was her response. “Crawford is too smart to use marked decks. But he is better than anyone I know at anticipating a tread or predicting events. He’s always prepared, and plays all the angles. I know you like a good story, Birman, but don’t go out of your way to make an enemy of that man. He‘s called The Prophet for good reason.”
“I’ll remember your advice,” Birman answered. “I do, however, have a responsibility as a reporter. But I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Heads up, ladies!
This time the saloon doors opened far more sedately. A tall, dark-haired man with thin wire-rimmed spectacles entered the room in a calm, assured manner. He strode purposefully to the table where Schuldig and the others sat, not even needing to survey the room with his steely brown eyes to determine their location.
Brad Crawford’s white suit was in pristine condition, not a single wrinkle to be found. The only other color on his outfit was the black of his polished leather shoes and silk Ascot tie. He was impossible not to notice as he walked across the room, especially as he moved past the their table: the light caught on the spectacles in a most menacing fashion, momentarily blinding the two women.
Birman recovered her sight just in time to notice a chair slide across the floor untouched by human hands, moved into place just as Crawford arrived at his table. A saloon girl delivered a glass of sarsaparilla at the exact same moment.
Birman decided she would be very, very careful when dealing with Schwarz.
At that point all attention was drawn to a spot close to the door where a table was overturned, the legs broken off and now brandished as weapons. Birman had noticed the half dozen men there earlier: they were already drunk when she and Manx had arrived, and this late in the evening they were now angry, violent thugs.
“I don’t like foreigners,” one of them slurred, the words barely coherent, “coming here and taking our good-paying jobs.”
“Yeah,” a second man joined in, “and I won’t put up with pansy men in pansy colors swishing through our bar!”
A third man - this one definitely not drunk, but operating on sheer anger alone - yelled, “That bastard Crawford is responsible for ruining my cousin, stealing his livelihood and murdering his wife and children!”
All six men charged as one, rushing to the corner where Crawford and his team were still comfortably seated at their table. Anyone too slow to get out of the way was punched, stabbed or roughly shoved aside.
Both ladies moved back, further away from where the fighting promised to begin - Birman reaching into her bag for a small derringer, Manx sliding her hand down to the blade taped just above her ankle - but paused in their actions when they realized they were in no immediate danger.
The table where Schwarz was seated flew up into the air, the legs snapping off mid-flight before landing on two of the men, knocking them to the floor. The table legs, pieces of the maple wood stripped off so that the remaining portions were sharpened like stakes whipped with incredible force through the table top, impaling the men trapped beneath. The woman watched with distaste as a large pool of blood spread across the floor underneath the remains of the debris.
Their attention was quickly drawn to Farfarello. The Irishman had smashed his whiskey bottle over one assailant’s head while throwing a small, wickedly sharp blade at the other. As the first man reeled from his concussion, the now-broken bottle was swiftly dragged across his vulnerable throat. The blood spray from the severed artery caught Farfarello in the face: he howled out his victory, grinning as he licked at the splattered blood he proudly wore.
He didn’t even glance at his second target, and with good reason: the blade had pierced the man’s heart, resulting in a quick, almost-merciful death. The Irishman looked around then, pleased with the amount of damage the bar had sustained.
“I’m going to be very busy this next week; looks like I’ll be making quite a few new pieces for the saloon,” he said to no-one in particular.
Schuldig raced past him, almost impossible to see except as a multi-colored blur. His assailant had already emptied one gun at the German - missing him entirely but killing five innocent bystanders and the saloon owner’s prized bottle of Huguley’s Old Amor Whiskey in the process - and was preparing to fire his second pistol. Except he couldn’t seem to locate Schuldig, even though the gaudy man was now standing right in front of him for everyone in the saloon to observe.
“Where did that German bastard go?” the man bellowed, not seeing the wide, cruel smirk of his target before him, nor the gun aimed at his gut. Two shots rang out and the wounded man fell to the floor, losing his own gun in the process.
“Who’s the pansy now?” Schuldig sneered, stomping on the man’s stomach with one foot. The injured man whimpered, the tears already running down his face increasing due to the added pain.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Schuldig said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Aren’t you the lucky one? Of course, gut shots are the most agonizing kind, and there’s still the chance you’ll die from an infection. Nasty stuff, that: your insides putrefy, your skin rots as the gangrene sets in, it’s such a messy business.”
Find your gun. Shoot yourself. Everyone’s laughing at you. It’s the only way to end your misery.
Both Birman and Manx heard the mental command - intentionally, it seemed - sent to the wounded man. He screamed as he dragged himself a few feet to the left to retrieve his second gun. A shaking hand lifted the pistol to his head and a single shot rang out.
The only assailant left stood before a calm, collected Brad Crawford, his pistol aimed at Crawford’s chest.
“You are going to pay!” the man shouted, finger tightening on the trigger.
Crawford aimed his words at the man standing before him. “Let me tell you what is going to happen here. You are not going to shoot me: instead, you will re-holster your weapon, turn around and walk away.”
“You’re crazy,” the other man stated. “You’ve ruined too many lives, and I will kill you!”
Without missing a beat Crawford continued, “You are going to return to your home. You should pack up your belongings and move your wife and son back to Virginia. If you did so the rest of your life would be secure and pleasant enough, if a bit boring. Sadly, you are not that smart. You will go home tonight easily enough, but later let your resentment and ridiculous need for revenge get the best of you.”
Crawford’s words, spoken in such a confident, matter-of-fact manner, seemed to deflate his attacker. The anger he had been radiating morphed into confusion; the arm holding his gun slowly dropped to hand loosely at his side.
The effect spread to the crowd as well; even Manx and Birman felt the assurance and sincerity in Crawford’s prediction. Everyone waited with baited breath for Crawford to go on.
“Because of that,” Crawford added, “you will take what is left of your savings and sign a contract with some expensive - but totally inept - hired killers to attack me and my team. They will fail miserably, but have the mercy of sudden deaths. Within a week of their failure your son will be found in the woods, a victim of some rampaging animal. Your wife, distraught, will kill herself by drowning the very next day. You will come at me again with your gun three days after that, and I will shoot you dead before you’ve even had a chance to aim.”
The man stood dully in front of Crawford before moving his gun back to his holster, then left the saloon without another word. Only after the man’s departure did the normally boisterous crowd resume their usual activities, careful to steer clear of the four victorious men.
“Let’s get out of here, Birman,” Manx hissed, almost dragging her companion from the saloon. It wasn’t until they were a safe distance away, nearing the two-story building that housed the local jail and sheriffs office that Manx resumed their conversation.
“Keep your distance from those men,” Manx warned, and Birman was inclined to agree.
“Is there anyone in this town willing to stand up to Schwarz?” Birman asked.
“The current sheriff is working on it,” Manx replied. “He is being very cautious, and for good reason. He recently recruited some suitable young men for his team, and I‘m assisting him. We could use your help as well.”
“You know I’m in. But can anyone beat Schwarz? They are incredibly powerful!” Birman said.
“The men that make up Weiss may not have unusual powers,” Manx confidently answered, “but they have a way of accomplishing the impossible.”
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Date: 2009-11-18 01:27 am (UTC)*Adds to Memories*
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