---

A knife planted itself into the center of a dart board; The sounds of a couple of goons already drunk off their asses going _{"E h h h?!"} echoed through the saloon as they stood around shakily, watching the short blonde man in front of them nail his throw with precision. At their disbelief of another perfectly landed throw, he posed and observed his latest toss; Noting it hadn't been his most centered, even if it was good enough to hit the center of the board.

"That's five," He commented out loud, a sly grin on his face. Donny had just made a simple gamble: If he could land five knife throws into the center of the dart board, they'd hand over the cash. They didn't look pleased with the results despite their disbelief, so he doubled-down on explaining what to do. "Hand over the coin, I won the bet."

"You 'tink just cause you landed a few lousy throws I'm gonna give you my money?" One of the men questioned, each standing at least six feet tall. There were three in total, and each of them began to look down at Donny with vicious looks. Donny could feel their intent; Feeling a large hand crash down on his shoulder. His eyes darkened as he lowered his head, a deep inhale marking his irritation with the situation...

And the long sigh afterwards, marked his willingness to get it out of the way.

"Yeah! You think we're goin' to hand our hard-earned cash to some tiny pissant like you?" Another spoke, hand swinging down to crash onto Donny's other shoulder; Only to meet air and be caught in the Brando's grip instead. His movements had slipped him away from the first man with ease, leaving the two current assaulters simply staring in a moment of surprise.

_"You..." Donny hissed, the anger practically seeping out of his eyes with his glare into the eyes of the men towering above him. "You're the types to underestimate, aren't you? Take your stature for granted, and assume that's enough?" He questioned, though had no intention of leaving time for answers. One of his hands slipped away from his grip, Donny keeping the arm in place with one hand long enough to reach back, gripping one of his bladed boomerangs.

He swung it forward; Whacking the man in his grasp with it as a blunt weapon rather than cutting through his skin, as he didn't want all that blood on him. The impact was enough to make the man spurt blood out of his nose onto his own clothes however, which Donny found a mixture of exciting and fitting as he fell to the ground. If they were going to lay hands on him, they ought to at least be ready to fight. Clearly they weren't.

"You busted his nose, ya bastard!" One of the men shouted, as Donny backed away to reposition himself for a fight that looked like it'd be a bit more troublesome: While he wasn't scared, he didn't want those large fists walloping him into the floor.

Goddamn it, he hated Thursdays.

---

---

---

The sound of a shattered window marked a fight continuing on; A man laying outside the saloon now, with shards of glass in his face from his horrid landing, rendering him out of the fight. Another man found himself flying through the two saloon doors, the doors flapping back to a closing position before Donny pushed them open to exit himself, resuming his pose outside the saloon doors as he looked down at the two men before him.

Before he could talk down to them, he found himself knocked forward by someone else pushing through the entrance; The man he had knocked down prior, face bloodied and expression pure anger as he moved forward and swung his fist, connecting it with the back of Donny's head and sending him down into the dirt.

"That's right, ya little shit. That'll teach you to get rowdy, won't it?" The man mocked as he approached; The other, that had been kicked through the saloon doors, was still trying to get to his feet. Donny knew that laying there and eating the dirt wasn't practical; He needed to get up: Quickly.

Picking himself up on his hands and feet, he pressed his shoes into the dirt; Springing himself forward on the downed man to begin assaulting him with punches. It turned into a scramble match as Donny also had to worry himself enough to dodge the man behind him as well; So he sprung away the first chance he had to leave the second downed man dazed so he could possibly handle the third.

Scrambling to his feet, Donny was panting; This all had to happen before the race, huh? Well, fuck it, he didn't really care. He'd finish this, then win the race. It wasn't a problem. He truly only had one oppressor left, really. One of the others was out, and the second one would need a minute. Donny just had to be fast about it; And this would be--

_{"What the fuck?"} He muttered to himself, feeling some dizziness. That hit to the back of his head; It didn't do him any favors. He was tumbling a bit now; Having tried to strike his pose but found himself unable to remain completely still as his view began to stir.

"What's wrong? Not as tough as you look?" His opponent mocked, Donny stumbling as he was approached. Though he tried to dodge, Donny ended up taking a punch directly to his stomach; Knocking the wind out of him and sending the short blonde American to the ground, coughing blood into the dirt. This was followed by a swift kick, sending him rolling in the dirt, but not expressing his pain. Instead he was gritting through it.

"You act tough but you really ain't nothin'. I could have handled this without 'em." The man seemed to disregard his strength in numbers, since he was the only one left standing. "This is what we do to little party trick folk like you; Good luck getting your money from me after this."

The man stomped on Donny's back, causing a shout of pain to actually escape him. Now stuck on the ground, he was getting the shit stomped out of him continuously as the three on one finally fell from his favor: The sight being perhaps, to some, disgraceful that so many men teamed against one.

But at the same time, it was perhaps admirable or terrifying how much of a fight the small American put up against them. It was looking like none of that mattered now, however, as he was currently on his way to getting himself stomped into the road proper.

---

Saying that the day was off to a bad start would have been an understatement. Simon had ridden in late last night, gotten his number, and immediately passed out once he got himself a room at the local inn. All without looking at what his number was. The moment he woke up, Simon had grabbed his saddle cloth, intending to fasten it to Cecilia's saddle after breakfast. Which was when he saw it. 1313. Not only had he gotten the unluckiest number to exist, he had gotten it twice.

Which was why, currently, Simon found himself wandering around town, leading Cecilia behind him. He was desperate to find someone who would trade numbers with him. In truth, Simon was not entirely sure it was legal to trade numbers, but he knew he couldn't race with numbers as bad as the ones he had. It was practically suicidal. To make matters worse, the fact that he was leading around his horse made people even more wary of him, as if he had something planned. In truth the only reason he hadn't left Cecilia in the stables was because he feared a devious racer might try to harm rival horses.

The first few people Simon asked responded with expected answers, a great deal of variations of the phrase 'fuck off.' Sometimes followed by the word 'pardner.' Yet still, he was undeterred. Well, actually he was very deterred. He didn't want to get yelled at again, but after weighing the benefits in his head, figured that being yelled at was a better fate than being stuck with 1313.

Simon's train of thought was soon derailed by the sound of glass shattering. Unfortunately for him, his fight or flight reflex wasn't able to activate in time, due to him being quite near the source of the noise. It was the saloon, which was..not particularly surprising. Years of being a policeman meant Simon had seen a lot of bar fights go south.

Of course, he wasn't a policeman anymore, so it really wasn't any of his business. Which was why Simon ignored how the short and terrifying blonde was throwing himself around like a human battering ram, and why he continued to ignore the scene even as said terrifying blonde man was stomped into the ground.

Simon merely kept walking, his feet literally shaking in his boots with every step. It wasn't until he heard the person currently stomping the crap out of the shorter man declare "Why ain't you stayin' down!? Dammit.." In response to the fact that his victim wouldn't cease struggling, that Simon paused in his hasty escape. The sound of the bar fighter drawing a gun from a holster finally convinced Simon to whirl around. Did this ruffian really plan on shooting someone during a simple bar fight?

As said ruffian attempted to line up his shot despite being a bit off-balance from the beatings he received, Simon's hand ghosted over towards his holster. The moment he realized it wasn't an empty threat, and this guy really did plan on shooting someone, Simon sprung into action. His arm moved with practiced ease, sliding his trusty six-shooter out of the holster and pointing it dead ahead. His other arm temporarily dropped the reigns of Cecilia, and moved to pull the hammer back.

Simon was trembling and sweating, but his hands didn't shake even a bit. He squeezed the trigger, and BANG! The shot rang out, and the bullet tore through the unfortunate goon's shoulder. Forcing him to drop the gun, and knocking him right onto his back. "Y-um, y'really shouldn't go around tryin' ta shoot people. It just ain't right." Simon declares, attempting to lecture the person he literally just shot in the back.

---

San Diego, where the Bitches are fine and the Beaches are finer. Or was it the other way around? She'd never been any good at stuff like that due to all her traveling. But her brief time here had been fun.

Slow Ride trotted through town slowly but steadily. Not seeming to mind the fact that both her and her plate armored friend were riding him. This would probably be her last trip through a town for a while. She needed to make sure she had everything she needed. Food? Check. Water? Check. Rope? Check. She had her cleaning kit, a map of the area, as briefly useful as that would be, but what else would she need?

She turned around to face Neon Knight."Hmm... hey Neon, can ya think of anything else we might need? I think I got everythin'." A voice spoke out from the helmet. "Uh... W-What about medical supplies? What if you get hurt out there?" Annie thought for a brief moment before responding. "Well, I did think of that, well I suppose you could say I thought of you and decided to get me a roll of bandages. Maybe a bottle of whiskey could do me some good. Or maybe some of these stores got some candy. I do like my caramel."

She didn't need to waste money on ammunition or anything. Her knight-like friend would do most of the defending. She had something sharp in her cleaning kit if push really came to shove. Or her spade. It was... oh 9:30? Maybe a little after? It was about time for her to start the journey back home to New York. Don't want to start too late into the day.

Annie directed Slow Ride to a nearby trough and tied him to a post nearby, much like a few others. She hopped off Slow Ride, as well as Neon Knight. "I guess it couldn't hurt to look around a little. Come on Neon, let's go see if we can't just find something we're missin'."

---

Okay, okay. He could handle this. This situation went to shit fast but all he had to do was get--

_"Fuck!"

All he had to do was--

_"Ahck!"

All--

_"Goddamnit!"

Every time Donny attempted to struggle to his feet, he was met with a boot again. Continuously he found himself getting kicked down, resetting his mind to getting up, only to get kicked down again. He was, needless to say, pissed. But he couldn't do much about it aside from keep trying. Blood leaked from his mouth as the kicks began taking effect on him more, not entirely sure if the guy had broken something important yet.

Eventually, Donny found himself stuck. Beaten, laying in the dirt, threats of a bullet causing him to struggle to no avail. So this was how he was going to go out, huh? Not winning the race, not even during the race: The man above him was about to turn his brains into a road decoration for the birds to eat. He gritted his teeth, trying to push up, but he felt all hope leave up as a shot rang out.

...

...?

Donny opened his eyes, finding that the pressure on his back was gone. A man crying out from a shot caused his eyes to dart around; A man, big stache, nice hat; He had shot the man? At least if the still smoking gun was any indication. He was saved. Donny hadn't expected anything but the end, over a few damn coins at that. But at this point he figured he ought to be happy he was alive.

A voice rang out behind him; Back where the men were. Sounded like a woman, talking trash to the men he had gotten in a fight with. Okay, maybe he had more help than he thought; Most people would've just left it alone, Donny was surprised. What were they getting out of it? He had nothing to offer; He was gambling with those shambles just to get a chance at some supplies for the race. But now they were fleeing? He wouldn't get his money... At least he had his life.

The woman had demanded he stand, but Donny was admittedly struggling a bit as she nudged him. He was taken by surprise as he was pulled up by the collar of his shirt, stumbling as she released him, finding balance as she dusted him off. Another action he hadn't expected, and overall this situation was somehow becoming more uneasy than having just gotten shot in the head. This was bizarre, to say the least.

"Seems like I owe it to you." He spoke, seemingly talking to just the woman. But, after a moment, he did turn and point towards the gunman; Taking note of how he tried to hide his large figure behind what, compared to the man himself, was a tiny pistol. "_{Ho, Ho...} You're a pretty good shot with that thing. I saw what you did, of course." He commented on the situation with relief for being alive, not wanting to say much, but... While his family lacked honor in any sense of the word, Donny still felt a little in debt to the gunman.

He figured it might be worth bringing up later.

"You too, of course." He spoke as he spun back around to the woman, looking up to her face with some blood still leaking down his chin. Upon taking another look at her, she was... Surprisingly tall. Like, tall enough Donny had to tilt his head to look up to her face. It was embarrassing, in a way. But with a height like his, these things were expected. They usually weren't this much taller than he was, though.

"Donny Brando," He introduced himself, holding out a hand. He offered a smile, but as he did so, one of his teeth fell out, leaving a gap. Seems like he didn't get away terribly free; But he also hadn't even noticed it happened yet, so he'd probably be just fine.

---

A familiar sense of regret and dread sunk into Simon's core before the smoke even stopped flowing from the gun nozzle. He couldn't help but think that maybe he was too hasty, and too harsh. That shoulder shot was a nasty one after all. Not that anyone could tell he was remorseful from his stance. It was an odd sight, a large, bulky man cowering behind the gun he just used to shoot someone down. What would likely cause even more suspicion was the fact that his horse, Cecilia, had not even flinched at the noise. Which made it apparent that the horse had heard quite a bit of gunfire to become so well adjusted to the sound. Simon's mustache twitched as he holstered his six shooter.

He let out an incredibly unbecoming yelp as a woman he hadn't even noticed complimented his shooting. Simon had been so focused on the shot that she had walked over to the scene without him noticing. How long had she been there? Did she know that Simon was planning on running away from the scene like a coward at first? He couldn't be certain, which filled him with more nervous energy. Simon barely managed to get out a "Uh, thanks." before she was scaring away the thugs. Despite none of her intensity being directed at Simon, he still felt rather intimidated.

The next thing Simon knew, the incredibly terrifying short man was being hoisted up onto his feet by the aggressive woman. Did shootouts usually conclude this quick? Was Simon just rusty? He felt like this was a bit abnormal, but didn't want to be rude even in his thoughts, so he decided that no, he was just being antsy. Simon crouched down to pick up Cecilia's reigns, and got back to his feet just in time for the terrifying short man to turn to him and compliment his shooting.

Two compliments in such a short span of time was overwhelming to Simon, which was why he responded with total silence. He did manage to actually choke out another "ᵁʰ, ᵗʰᵃⁿᵏˢ." in an unintentionally quiet voice, but the terrifying short man had already turned away from him by that point, and introduced himself to the aggressive woman as Donny Brando. He would definitely keep his ears trained for that name when the race was underway, best to be cautious around someone who reminded Simon so much of a badger.

Figuring his good deed of the day was done, and being intimidated by the confidence of the two people nearby, Simon decided it was time to withdraw coolly. After all, Simon prided himself on his ability to get a read on people, and despite both of them being friendly he was getting some seriously dangerous vibes from them, as if they were so chaotic they'd end up unintentionally causing him a great deal of stress. Was this almost 100% just Simon's paranoia? Yeah. But he had lasted this long by trusting that paranoia.

Simon attempts to lead Cecilia away from the saloon, hopefully without drawing any attention to himself. Though, that was unlikely given the fact that absolutely nothing about Simon was subtle. In fact, he wasn't even quiet about his attempted departure, his saddlebag was rattling with each step Cecilia took. Damn, definitely shouldn't have taken those spoons.

---

Annie and Neon walked slowly through the town, glancing left and right, looking for anything interesting that might be useful. The only thing that really caught her eye was a candy store of some sort.

It was about that time when a loud cracking sound went above the voices and ruckus of the street. Neon Knight immediately adopted a defensive stance and looked around for any signs of trouble. A moment passed, and nothing seemed to happen. Neon Knight relaxes, and puts its weapon away. With that out of the way, Annie continued down the street. All was going mostly well, when suddenly...

"Do you believe in gravity?"

The voice made Annie nearly jump out of her boots. Who was that. She turned to see a large and imposing man standing before her. "G-Gravity?" she took a step back, and Neon Knight stepped to her side. "Uh... W-Well, last I checked, yes. It supposedly holds me on the ground so yeah, I guess I do seein as it works and all." Annie held her hand out to the side, blocking Neon Knight. She shot him a quick glance, as if saying "No".

"So... might I ask who you might be? I'm Annie."

---

Donny momentarily felt awkward with his hand out, tooth-gap smile slowly fading until she decided to actually shake. Donny glanced down at her hand, noting it's size compared to his own, and also the wetness of what he assumed was some awful sweat. Kinda strange, but as they ended the shake he casually wiped his hand against his pants to get rid of the wetness that he contracted; Not caring much to notice what she did with her own hands in the meantime.

Jules? J u u l e s. Strange name, though he wouldn't comment it. Her politeness was met with a nod, though admittedly her concern was a bit over the line; He didn't need a baby sitter. He hadn't exactly started the fight either, he was just trying to get some money. Sore losers weren't his fault. "Bastards; Sore losers. Lose a simple gambling game, and they lose their minds..." He complained, though she didn't seem to be listening quite that well.

Actually, she wasn't listening at all. She was walking away.

He stood there for a second, figuring the conversation to be discarded to the wind: That was, until she looked back to speak again. Right; The race. He needed to get down there, it'd be starting soon. This race was a big chance to win some money; Sure, it was a long ride, but he was used to the wilderness so most of it would probably work out pretty well. And if it went south? Well, at least he tried. But he intended to try his hardest to find success out there.

"You're right." He responded, following after her: He wasn't exactly tailing right beside her, instead keeping a small, but reasonable distance for interaction's sake. Her tall form was, in a sense, actually a bit intimidating. But he had no intentions of personally showing that. "Are you in the race?" He asked, eyes gazing from her head down to her hips; Noticing a particular accessory in a couple of bulky-looking spheres. What the hell were those for? It didn't really matter, but he was silently curious.

---

And just like that, Simon had made a successful escape. Seemingly evading any and all repercussions for his actions. Nice! Well, actually, that just wasn't the case at all. While Simon had managed to escape the two Obviously Dangerous Strangers that harbored no ill will towards him and did nothing to him except compliment him, he did not escape the prying eyes of other people watching the bar brawl gone wrong. Several people saw Simon shoot a man straight in the back, and walk away just as quick. That, combined with the number on his saddle; 1313, gave people a false sense of danger concerning him. Simon had unintentionally given off the impression that he was some ruthless gunslinger ready to shoot people in the back instead of dueling them proper, which would likely paint a target on his back.

Yet as if lady luck floated down from the heavens and spat directly into his eye, Simon hadn't realized this whatsoever. He was far too focused on hoping that the two strangers hadn't seen just how quickly he was beating a hasty retreat. Did they know how scared he was? Agh, they probably did. Simon's mustache twitches just as he recalls why he was wandering around in the first place. Trading numbers, that's right. He was still stuck with the double thirteen, perhaps that's why he stumbled upon the bar fight. Because of that unlucky number.

But it was already getting to be a bit later than he'd like. When was the Race itself starting again? He couldn't recall. Simon briefly curses himself for not paying enough attention. Either way, it was better to be safe than to be sorry. He probably should start heading to the beach. "C'mon, Cecilia. We ought ta head over an' see how long 'til the race itself starts." Cecilia did not respond, because she was a horse. But she did follow Simon, as docile as ever.

While the duo of Rider and Horse made their way to the starting point of the race, Simon idly took out his six shooter. He removed the spent casing of his used bullet, and pocketed it just in case. Ignoring the fact that the voice telling him to pocket it sounded remarkably like Perform This Way. He replaced it with a new bullet, and holstered it once again. Did he expect to need the six shooter again so soon? No, and he certainly didn't expect to need all six bullets. But it was a habit, and habits helped distract from the fact that he was extraordinarily nervous.

---

"Recall? Well, uh..." Annie looked over at Neon, who seemed to have calmed down a bit. "What do ya mean by that? And what do ya mean by 'stand'? Like a nightstand? I didn't bring anything like that with me. Wouldn't fit too well on the horse."

Annie put her hand to her chin and looked down. "Although now that you mention it..." Annie thought back to a few months ago when she first got Neon. He just up and appeared one day, right after she got sick. He told her something about a "stand" and something about manifestation. But her focus was more on why nobody could seem to see this plate armored fella standing next to her. He lifted things up to try and prove he was really there, but everyone just said it was some sort of elaborate magic trick.

"Say, wait a second. Does that mean you can see ol' Neon here? You'd be the first person in a while to say you could. Thought the last guy ran off when he saw him. Wonder what that was all about. Besides, I'd rather have him out. Having someone to talk to when yer traveling really works wonder for mental health."

"Anyways, I'm about to head out and start my travelin' back home to New York. Spent so long in the south I started pickin' up on the accent. You're welcome to travel with for a while. Unless you're headed off to New York for your own reasons. Then I guess you could go the whole way if you wanted."

---

Donny paused momentarily, observing Jules atop her horse. So she was in the race? This was, in a sense, unfortunate: She had helped him, after all. It was a shame she'd have to be left in the dust during the race. "That so?" He questioned, strolling straight past her: Approaching a horse tied to a post nearby. The fight was a good example of why he hadn't wanted to leave the mare near the saloon; shit tended to get out of hand in places like that. She was much safer at a distance.

The mare, O'Riley, had a number on her: 0891. Nothing of particular interest to Donny, he didn't care what number he had. The main objective was winning; he could worry about silly things as bad numbers and 'misfortune' another day. Untying her from the post, He sprung up onto the horse without issue; Though his legs were still a little shaky.

"Thatta girl." Donny spoke as he distracted himself with patting O'Riley for a moment, seeming to show care of his steed. While they hadn't spent an overly long time together, he was fond of the horse and her attitude. Seeing her bravado was occasionally noteworthy for Donny, except when the dumbass decided to get herself into trouble.

---

The hell was she laughing at? Donny narrowed his eyes as Jules took her leave, finding his hand toying with the knives at his waist. Just because she yanked him out of the dirt didn't mean he was helpless; The situation hadn't been in his favor. Not to mention she didn't do shit aside from show up after the slinky gunman took his shot. He didn't bother with a response; A seething irritation would have took him down the path of yelling at her, at the very least. He simply let her do her thing, going ahead to that gunman.

Donny had been riding along slowly, but figured with that cocky ass woman being ahead, that he might as well hurry along to the beach. Though, before he could speed O'Riley along, he noticed a particular sight as she was busy talking about trailblazers. That stallion she was riding, it... Took a shit right in the road as they were trotting along. She liked to talk big, didn't she? Then disregard him as some sort of child?

Maybe it was proving a point in her favor, but if she wanted him to be childish, he would. He hopped off his horse as he approached the manure. Without hesitation, he scooped a handful of it up. It was... Strange. Grainy almost, yet slippery at the same time? Smelled absolutely horrid. Perfect.

Mounting back on his horse after a moment of struggling to do so with only one free hand, Donny set his plan into action: He shifted in his saddle, reins slapping the flank of his mare to motivate her to gallop forward. With ease, he sped past the gunman who saved him early; And even easier, he pushed forward to pass Jules. During the split moment they were side-by-side, Donny took his chance.

He slung the manure at her, performing the world's first driveby involving shit of any variety. Quickly he began wiping his hand off on the side of O'Riley, laughing all the while. "Now you have a reason to talk shit!" He called back, continuing his journey towards the beach. That'd teach that asshole; Talk shit, get shit.