Marc the Gunslinger

The piano was cool that night. It did not play a sweet melody or a tune of melancholy. It told no story neither did it set a mood. It just filled the air with note after note. The musician gently fingered the piano as it produced a medley that sang of pure emptiness to an empty bar save for the player, the barman, and the man in the brown shirt.

The barman dried a shot glass with a slightly damp towel and placed it face down below the bar. A man on the far left of the bar raised his hand and pointed down. The barman took notice, grabbed a fresh glass, and filled it with beer.

“On the tab, son?” The man nodded as the barman slid the glass down the bar into the hand of the man.

This man took a deep drink of the beer. Some of it ran down his five o’clock shadow, down his chin, and fell on his brown shirt. He slammed the glass against the oak bar and shouted,
“Whew! That’s good brew, Joe.”

Joe, the barman, chuckled to himself as he proceeded to dry another glass from the dishwasher.

Joe was a middle-aged man who had never been married. Not to say that he was unwise in the ways of women. His hair was beginning to gray, but his eyes remained ever young, with a glint that showed he was not a man to be tampered with, unless you wanted some trouble.

He took pride in his bar. Very few would know his joy about this place. It’s old flickering neon sign. The grand piano in the corner played by Eion, a Scottish man with a tall silk top hat and a great bushy orange beard with eyebrows to match. The large picture of Marilyn Monroe in her trademark white dress hanging over the fireplace. This was Joe’s home, in fact, he slept upstairs with an occasional “visitor.”

“Oi! Eion!” Eion’s fingers stopped playing and his head snapped towards the man at the end of the bar.

“Ya mind picking up the pace on those keys? I’m falling asleep over here.”

“Calm yourself, laddie. I’ll get there when I get there.”

You could have heard a pin drop.

The man stood up out of his chair without uttering a single word. He walked towards Eion. His hand on his revolver.

“Well, maybe, we oughta get you there a bit faster.”

Eion smirked. “Oh, well come on over here and show me what you got there, boy-o.”

Eion took his hat off, placed it brim up onto his piano, and stood up. He pulled out a sawed-off two-barrel shotgun out from his large trench coat and held it casually in his right hand.
“Your move.” Eion stepped out from behind the bench, brandishing his weapon like he was over-compensating. His eyes, once a vivid green, became like a moonless night. That cheery glint vanished and a chill ran down Joe’s spine. Eion was never one to back down from a little showdown. But the last time something like this occurred, Joe had to replace his Marilyn. The man grinned. It was not a grin of joy or pleasure. It was like a snarling dog. His eyes grew intense, his grip hardened on his six-shot, and he came to a stop just ten paces from where Eion stood.

The man drew his gun faster than Eion could bat his eyes. He threw the revolver at Eion.
Eion retaliated by bumping the revolver up in the air as the man in the brown shirt darted towards Eion, grabbed the shotgun, and popped out the two shells out using the action. He then threw the shotgun to the ground, caught his revolver, loaded it with a single bullet, spun the cylinder, and pulled back the hammer.

“Feeling lucky?” Before Eion had time to answer, the trigger was pulled, and a statisfying click came from the barrel. The man grinned.

The man proceeded to walk past Eion and place fifty dollars in the hat.

He walked back to his seat and drank deeply from his glass.

“Oi! Good move!” Eion laughed a good hearty laugh. “You know you’re the only one that I take requests from, Marc!”

Marc smiled and finished his drink to the sound of a wonderful honky-tonk rhythm. “Thanks, Joe. It was a good drink.”

“It’s a good drink every night, son. You coming in again tomorrow night?”

“Of course I am. I always do.”

Marc put on his black trench coat, straightened his revolver, and realigned his black leather fedora as he walked out the front door. The bell chimed and Eion took notice of Marc’s exit.

“Alright, lad. You take care of yourself!”

“I will! And make sure to keep that song going. I better hear it when I walk in tomorrow!”

“It’s a deal.”
Marc walked out the front door and into a cold, rainy night in Los Diablos.