Most nights in Amistad the saloon was a bustling place of loud music, hootin’ and hollerin’, gamblin’, drinkin’, and anything else you might reckon a man would find himself getting involved with to forget the circumstances of his life. Tonight was no exception, in fact the denizens of Amistad seemed in even higher spirits than most nights, or perhaps it was just the strength of the booze that was higher in spirit. Maston found himself nursing a bottle to himself at the end of the bar, doing his best to avoid the main throng of singers and dancers further down the bar. A rather rambunctious fellow took front and center as he hollered for the attention of the crowd, slurring and stumbling over his words he took little time rallying the crowd for another rendition of whatever diddy suited their fancy. Clapping and stomping the crowd soon began building to a crescendo once more and Maston made to pour himself another glass.
As fate would have it, all was not well. The moment Maston’s arm rose up hefting his bottle a disturbance at the other end of the bar broke out between a couple rowdy singers. One man bumped into another and that man shoved the other one and slowly but surely the shockwave rippled its way down the bar man to man. As Maston made to raise his freshly filled cup the man to his left suddenly stumbled backwards and Maston soon found himself wearing a majority of his booze rather than drinking it. The smell of alcohol permeated Maston’s senses and the liquid dripped slowly from his face. Maston took a slow deep breath as he rounded his gaze towards the man who’d fallen into him.
Would he have apologized and offered to right his wrongs Maston might have let things go. As it were, the fool gabbed on with his companion with his back turned to Maston. He’d not even realized, or not even cared. Maston attempted to get the man's attention but was brushed off rather abruptly. Anger brewed like a stormcloud over Maston’s head as he tried once more to grab the man’s attention. The man shrugged Maston off again. Like a stormcell snapping into a hurricane Maston’s anger swelled. The next time Maston reached for the man it was not so polite, his hand found the scruff of the man’s neck and his other hand found the waist of the man’s pants. If he’d known what was coming he’d maybe made it harder for Maston, given the man’s inebriated state and Maston’s element of surprise though it was no difficult feat for Maston to hoist the man into the air and throw him bodily across one of the nearby poker tables.
It was likely the gentlemen participating in that game didn’t take kindly to that.
Jesse Li slouched at the bar, scowling into the watered-down whiskey as if it held the answers to her predicament. The day had been a parade of disappointments, each “no” more disheartening than the last. Monster hunting jobs, it seemed, weren’t for “boys” like her.
She ran a hand over her smooth jaw. The chest binding, the deepened voice, the careful way she carried herself—none of it had been enough. To everyone else, she was just a green youth trying to play at being a man. And no one was willing to risk sending an untested boy into danger without a seasoned hunter to watch over him.
Maybe if she looked a little older, they’d take her seriously.
Should I get some horsehair and glue? she thought, imagining herself with an obviously fake beard. The mental image almost made her snort her drink.
A commotion erupted at the other end of the saloon—raised voices, the scrape of chairs, the dull thud of fists meeting flesh. Jesse paid it no mind. She had enough problems without getting mixed up in a bar fight.
Fate, of course, had other plans.
A body came hurtling in her direction. Jesse sprang to her feet, avoiding the human projectile. In her haste, she stumbled backwards, colliding with something solid and warm.
“Goddammit!” a voice snarled behind her.
Jesse whirled around to find herself face-to-chest with a burly man. His shirt was soaked, an empty glass clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Slowly, Jesse raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
She watched as the man’s eyes narrowed, assessing her. Jesse could almost see the questions flitting through his mind: Man or woman? How old? Could he take her down on his own? White or… not?
Jesse’s own mental checklist was far simpler: Man? Check. Pissed off? Double check.
The shorter list gave a crucial edge. Jesse ducked just as the man’s meaty fist whistled through the air where her head had been a split second before.
“Whoa, hold on!” Jesse backpedaled, hands raised.
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean—”“Shut your trap,
son,” the man growled, advancing on her. His face was a mask of drunken rage, focused solely on the dark-skinned varmint. “I’ll teach you to watch where you’re going.”
Jesse’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an ally, an escape route, anything. But the other patrons seemed content to watch the show, cheering and jeering as she dodged another blow.
“Five cents on the runt!” someone called out.
“Nah, Big Jim’ll flatten ’im in a minute!” another voice countered.
The man—Big Jim, apparently—lunged again, but Jesse was quicker. She sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past her. He stumbled, crashing into another group of people.
Reginald sat at a corner table, meticulously polishing the silver head of his cane. The saloon’s cacophony was a constant assault on his refined senses, but he found solace in the ritual. Each stroke of the cloth was a reminder of the order and discipline that had once governed his life. His suit, immaculate and perfectly tailored, stood in stark contrast to the grimy surroundings.
Before the fight erupted, Reginald had been lost in thought, reminiscing about his days as a butler in the grand estates of England. Those days were a distant memory now, but he clung to them fiercely, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of his mind.
As he sat there, he nursed a glass of water, the only beverage he deemed acceptable in such a place. He observed the patrons with a mixture of pity and contempt. Their crude manners and boorish behavior were a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet, even in this den of iniquity, he maintained his standards, a beacon of civility in a world that had lost its way.
It was in this state of detached observation that he noticed the commotion beginning to brew. The raised voices, the scrape of chairs, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh pulled him from his reverie. With a sigh, he set his glass down, intending to remain a passive observer.
However, fate had other plans. As Big Jim lunged at Jesse and missed, his momentum carried him forward, directly into Sir Reginald’s table. The impact sent the glass of water flying, drenching Reginald’s pristine suit.
Reginald’s eyes flashed with a mixture of outrage and contempt.
“You insufferable brute,” he hissed, rising to his feet. Big Jim, disoriented and enraged, turned to face the ex-butler, his eyes narrowing.
Without another word, Big Jim swung at Sir Reginald. But the ex-butler was quicker than he appeared. With a deft movement, he sidestepped the attack and brought his cane down on Big Jim’s wrist, causing him to yelp in pain and drop his fist.
Big Jim, now even more enraged, lunged again. Reginald, with the grace and precision of a man trained in the art of service, sidestepped once more. This time, he used Big Jim’s momentum against him, guiding the brute’s head directly into the wall with a sickening thud. Big Jim crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Sir Reginald straightened his coat and turned to Jesse.
“You should be more careful,” he said, his tone stern.
“This world is full of savages.”Jesse gaped at the fancy gentleman. His effortless takedown of Big Jim, using only a cane and wit, was nothing short of amazing.
“That’s some slick moves, mister!” she blurted out, her voice pitched a touch too high in her excitement.
But the thrill was short-lived. Over the gentleman’s shoulder, Jesse caught sight of a figure walking towards them, broken chair leg in hand and murder in his eyes. Her heart leapt into her throat. She pointed urgently behind the fancy man.
“Look out!”Meanwhile Maston was doing his best to navigate the floor of the saloon while avoiding the various brawls that had broken out. Tripping over a broken chair left him stumbling into the back of a man wielding a chair leg. In response the man made a swipe at Maston and even caught the edge of his shoulder, it would have been his head but Maston had managed to lean into the swing and leverage his other shoulder forward to ram the man in the chest midway through his swing.
Maston’s anger was steadily building and he didn’t plan on having any of what the man was trying to offer. As the assailant stumbled back from Maston’s shoulder check Maston leaned back and planted the flat of his boot square into the center of the man’s chest with a solid and forceful shove that sent the already off balanced man reeling backwards. Maston was a little taken aback when the man windmilled backwards and tripped over another immobilized patron and pitched clear through the window and out onto the porch.
He didn’t really spend much time contemplating what had just happened considering someone had grabbed Maston by the shoulder in an attempt to line up a good punch. Bigger fish to fry.
The cool night air was calm under the starry night sky, like the surface of a pristine lake under the gaze of the moon. Abruptly, as if throwing a rock into said lake, the peace and calm shattered. The silence of the night was interrupted by a shrill scream from the direction of the saloon, shortly after the sound of shattering glass reverberated throughout the night and the faint sounds of yelling and screaming could be heard carrying up the street. Anyone who found themselves out at this late hour of the night would almost certainly hear the commotion coming from the saloon.
op2024
ChronicleMan
ctrlsaltdel
vietmyke
HereComesTheSnow
wintersoldier
Pen Name
Crimson Flame
TheMushroomLord
Snowdrops
