fragments of light could seep in to illuminated patches amidst the deep and bare darkness that was the night. Drunk off the ale and still bitter with his father, Michael stumbled down Main Street hollering sexual jeers to the women with whom he shared the evening. His circumstances were to take a new direction when he stopped to take a leak on the Cherrywood Saloon.
Cherrywood was a bar and brothel that competed with Al’s, so Mr. Locke—the scumbag who ran the place—was, to put it delicately, not a friend to Michael. As he staggered by aimlessly, Michael took a moment to observe Cherrywood through the window, having never seen the inside of the establishment before.
In many ways it was like Al’s; dense with sweaty, hairy men winding down at the end of their days; liquor passed around in silver mugs and swung back and forth, spilling onto the floors and walls; whores dressed, half-dressed, and not dressed faking soulful attraction to the beastly brutes they were paid to entertain. But the dancing! Loud, catchy music and men twirling women and arms around necks, singing and chanting so loud and boisterous that the sounds of the two hideous ranchers pounding fists into each other’s faces on the front porch were drowned out by the joyous song of the masses. This was not like Al’s. What kind of a bar was this?
As Michael watched from the window he unbuckled his breeches and balanced himself against the pane with one hand as he relieved himself against the wall. After a moment, Mr. Locke—standing among the crowd with his arm around a cute whore—happened to glance out his window and spot Michael there. Almost instantly he was there, standing on the porch in a three-piece pinstriped suit with a ruffian standing on either side of him.
“Yer Al’s boy, ain’tcha?” Mr. Locke all but swung the words at Michael. “Come three buildings down to piss on my bar.”
Michael struggled to fasten his breeches.
“No, no. Just curious about yer business. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“Oh, he ain’t lookin’ for trouble, boys,” Locke scoffed to his ruffians and they scoffed back. It was a regular goddamn scoffing festival. “Tell ya what, Mikey. Come on in buy a drink, get yerself laid and all’s forgiven.”
Michael’s heart rate accelerated as he thought of Loki with every last dollar that had belonged to him.
“Mr. Locke, I don’t want no trouble but I ain’t got no money. Yer whores are lovely. I’d love to come back next week or somethin’ maybe.”
Locke scowled and he looked to each of his minions and then back to Michael.
“Ain’t got no money,” He repeated, as though it were a phenomenon he’d never heard of. “Shame.”
Locke gave a vicious glance to the two big men behind him and went back through the front door to tend to his business. The ruffians stepped off the porch.
“Ya ought to know to bring money when you come pissin’ on Locke’s place,” said the bigger ruffian, lumbering along the Main Street boardwalk. “Ya ought to know he don’t none too appreciate it much.”
Both of the ruffians had guns at their sides. Michael wasn’t about to turn this into a shootout, but he wasn’t one for running either. He could take any beating the two could administer and he swore they wouldn’t leave without cuts and bruises of their own. This way maybe next time Locke sicced them on him, the goons themselves would at least be a bit more reluctant.
He balled his fists at his sides as they approached, closing the gap between them a step at a time. The men where ogres, six feet tall and a few hundred pounds each. He didn’t stand a chance at winning this, but he was ready to do some damage.
Suddenly there was a hand on Michael’s back. And there was a fourth man. A man who’d stepped up onto the boardwalk moving so smoothly his spurs never jingled and the sound of boots on wood never commanded a glance from anyone. And there was Tyr, standing at Michael’s side a friend.
Cherrywood was a bar and brothel that competed with Al’s, so Mr. Locke—the scumbag who ran the place—was, to put it delicately, not a friend to Michael. As he staggered by aimlessly, Michael took a moment to observe Cherrywood through the window, having never seen the inside of the establishment before.
In many ways it was like Al’s; dense with sweaty, hairy men winding down at the end of their days; liquor passed around in silver mugs and swung back and forth, spilling onto the floors and walls; whores dressed, half-dressed, and not dressed faking soulful attraction to the beastly brutes they were paid to entertain. But the dancing! Loud, catchy music and men twirling women and arms around necks, singing and chanting so loud and boisterous that the sounds of the two hideous ranchers pounding fists into each other’s faces on the front porch were drowned out by the joyous song of the masses. This was not like Al’s. What kind of a bar was this?
As Michael watched from the window he unbuckled his breeches and balanced himself against the pane with one hand as he relieved himself against the wall. After a moment, Mr. Locke—standing among the crowd with his arm around a cute whore—happened to glance out his window and spot Michael there. Almost instantly he was there, standing on the porch in a three-piece pinstriped suit with a ruffian standing on either side of him.
“Yer Al’s boy, ain’tcha?” Mr. Locke all but swung the words at Michael. “Come three buildings down to piss on my bar.”
Michael struggled to fasten his breeches.
“No, no. Just curious about yer business. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“Oh, he ain’t lookin’ for trouble, boys,” Locke scoffed to his ruffians and they scoffed back. It was a regular goddamn scoffing festival. “Tell ya what, Mikey. Come on in buy a drink, get yerself laid and all’s forgiven.”
Michael’s heart rate accelerated as he thought of Loki with every last dollar that had belonged to him.
“Mr. Locke, I don’t want no trouble but I ain’t got no money. Yer whores are lovely. I’d love to come back next week or somethin’ maybe.”
Locke scowled and he looked to each of his minions and then back to Michael.
“Ain’t got no money,” He repeated, as though it were a phenomenon he’d never heard of. “Shame.”
Locke gave a vicious glance to the two big men behind him and went back through the front door to tend to his business. The ruffians stepped off the porch.
“Ya ought to know to bring money when you come pissin’ on Locke’s place,” said the bigger ruffian, lumbering along the Main Street boardwalk. “Ya ought to know he don’t none too appreciate it much.”
Both of the ruffians had guns at their sides. Michael wasn’t about to turn this into a shootout, but he wasn’t one for running either. He could take any beating the two could administer and he swore they wouldn’t leave without cuts and bruises of their own. This way maybe next time Locke sicced them on him, the goons themselves would at least be a bit more reluctant.
He balled his fists at his sides as they approached, closing the gap between them a step at a time. The men where ogres, six feet tall and a few hundred pounds each. He didn’t stand a chance at winning this, but he was ready to do some damage.
Suddenly there was a hand on Michael’s back. And there was a fourth man. A man who’d stepped up onto the boardwalk moving so smoothly his spurs never jingled and the sound of boots on wood never commanded a glance from anyone. And there was Tyr, standing at Michael’s side a friend.
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