Dead Shots and Soft Spots
The bar was dim, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and old wood. The two men hadn't even looked at each other when they walked in-two strangers just passing through the same space. It wasn't until they both ordered the same drink, neat and without hesitation, that they shared a glance. A silent acknowledgement. One of those rare moments where two people on vastly different paths find themselves at the same crossroads.
The photographer was broad-shouldered, built like a man who had seen his share of fights and walked away from all of them. Black hair, scars on his knuckles, tattoos peeking from under his sleeves. At first glance, you'd never guess he spent his days behind a camera. But if you looked closer-if you saw the way his fingers twitched like they were used to framing a shot, or the way his eyes lingered on small details-you might suspect there was more to him than his rough exterior suggested.
The sniper was smaller, lean but compact, like someone who didn't need to look dangerous to be deadly. White hair, sharp blue eyes that saw more than they let on. He looked like he belonged in a library, not on a battlefield. And in a way, he did-his own kind of library, one hidden deep in the woods of Missouri. A place where silence was a comfort and knowledge was just as valuable as a clean shot.
Neither of them expected to get drunk together. But here they were, leaning on the bar, laughing a little too loudly, caught in the haze of good whiskey and unexpected company.
At some point, the inevitable question came.
"So, what do you do for a living?"
A poem from my dearly appreciated fellow nerd:
Through marsh and mudcreek rivers,
A rough-rider camped outside of town,
Was about to meet his maker;
By the snap and flash of a photograph,
Both men's lives were taken.
Eric Erbe
