[TDS] The Good, The Bad, and the Sand

Chapter 1

"The guy asked me, "have you seen this man" and I looked at the picture and I'm like "no, no I haven't" and he looked at me as if I'm not sure." The person talking chuckles, "Well what else do you want me to say?" I tried to listen closer to the conversation, but banter only gets you so far when you're hiding at the back of a bar in hopes for a drink. I wasn't supposed to be here, in all honesty I should be booking a flight off the continent. I don't know why I don't, I suppose I have emotional attachment. A creak from the door laid the way for a scrawny man in a suit with greased back black hair to exit the back with a bottle of beer.

"I don't know why I do favours for you; although quite frankly one of these days you'll slip up and be shot dead." Sir Gatsby pointed out. I cracked the bottle open with the knife from my pocket and could only channel my ears toward the soothing sound the bottle made as it cracked open to a nice, cold drink. I put the tip of the bottle to my lips before noticing the bartender still standing there waiting.

Eyes are the window to the soul, or maybe just a closed window if you don't have any. That's what makes things without expression so eerie, because you can never tell what they may do next. What their motives are, or if you'll be the first to die. As far as preparation goes, nothing would prepare you here.

I could clearly see his eyes were stained with impatience, like a pot about to boil. "Right," I said and reached into my pockets. His hand extended as my pockets unveiled three dollars. He looked at the insufficient amount in his hand and looked back at me, his moustache almost twitching like a crazed murderer.

"Beer is four dollars," he informed me. I reached into a different pocket this time, and cocked the hammer of my revolver back. He looked from me to the muzzle of the gun.

"Yes, of course. Let's just screw me over. Thank you so kindly for your donation." He refuted sarcastically. I holstered my gun back into the fine leather and took another sip. I learned over the years to stop drinking to ward off the bad, but to drink to savour the taste. The motive went downhill quickly as the drink became beer or whiskey, I rarely was able to keep a constant.

There's always constants in life. It's what makes life predictable and boring, it's why we do things that aren't a constant. Being shot at, hunted down, and getting the final laugh aren't constants that I'm very proud of, and they don't make it boring. Although it ain't a roller coaster anymore either. I don't have to make myself excited though. I don't like surprises, because you never know what's in it. Or what's not in it.

Sir Gatsby looked at me one last time, "There's been a few bounty hunters over recently. If anyone asks, I did not know you were behind my bar." I waved him off, I was past warnings by now. Plenty of people have been looking for me. The Towers, Enolizer. Private hunters and the various sheriffs that I keep "accidentally" killing. I don't mean to shoot them, they just give me no choice. Maybe one day I might get lucky and be the first one to eat a bullet in a duel. As I sip my beer now, it doesn't seem that appealing now.

Out off into the distance was the entire world, a place beyond the same deserts that I was born and raised in, stayed for all my life. Beyond the dusty canyons and various economy "towns". I've seen my fair share of good, evil, and sunsets on the more literal and metaphorical meanings. Sometimes I wonder if I've seen it all. Either way, it'd probably be best if I finished up and got out before anyone saw me. I held the cold glass to my lips one last time until the bottom half of the bottle shattered right in front of me with a loud bang, leftover beer spilling onto my fairly clean shirt. I jumped back, throwing the rest of the bottle to the side and pulled out my gun. It was wet in my hands, smelling of alcohol.

"You should've never left that burning building."