Ash Falling From The Mouth and To The Tray

ONE

"You gotta believe me on this, Mister - I never meant to hurt anybody."

They called him the Courier. And if they didn't call him that, they gave him a title that was always out of earshot. Buzz of a saw, revving of the mower in the front yard - there was always something which meant you never knew this guy's identity. Even his gender was a mystery, but in Platypus that might have been the boon for individuality a guy was looking for. There were only two things we'd know for certain about this weirdo - his pet owl had one wing smaller than the other, and his eyes were a dais upon which the light was shone.

"You do for the people that deserve it. If you stick to that, friendship ain't a problem. You just gotta deal with a bigger family."

That owl brought a different meaning to the term 'one-armed bandit'. Platypus had little sign of life and the remainder walked with slit throats. The bird could fall, or learn to fight - and fight it could. Those present never clarified what happened that night, or who went missing after. All they know (and you can make up your own mind about whether the guy had the stamina) is that the mob there were pretty keen on having their appendages moistened. The man had already been down on his knees for some time - in my view, you can't blame him for being a little sloppy. 

Saltz's Place sat placidly at the end of the junction - it's an odd one, the only bar I've seen more alive when bereft of man and simply filled with the rush of air. The entrance gave the impression of one steely owner, with a crest above the double-bolted monoliths set slightly adrift from the centre of the structure. It was a jarring sight, and I always had the urge as I approached to put my thumb my index finger to my face, pretending to drag the gates of hell. Just a little to the left and the place would look symmetrical - not perfect, but a damn sight less of a mistake. 

And yet to really catch Saltz at its most garish, you waited. You waited until dawn, when there would be that delicious contrast between the rising sun behind you and the flaming homestead in front. The windows caught the rays with fervour, beholden to the glory of it as if they couldn't wait to forget the frigid trauma of the night before. The cracks widened week on week, but remained steadfast in their devotion for the dawn to come. 

With the bloodshot windows and crooked teeth-doors, the face of the stalwart actually looked pretty great. Word is that Saltz scooped up on a load of timber back in the day, back when his wife wanted her slice of freedom. Witnesses said (or heard) that they traded 'niceties' until the passion ran dry, when Wifey produced a quart of Peruvian marching powder and took the ever-withering leash from the neck of her purebred. A shame - soon he was rampant enough to snatch it without her consent. 

"Yeah, old Saltz! Last time he went off the rails we all kinda took it as just another trip. We didn't know that leg was his - heck, from what he wore on it we thought it was the wife's!"

What I was told deserved neither recognition nor repetition. Yet it was the best chance to realise how the Courier came to be. Please understand, Alex - I never loved the man. I loved the miracle.

"Well? You set on writin' this shit down or what...?"