It’s all Jonathan LaForce’s fault.
This icon of . . . well he’s a Marine, what do you expect?

Of all the things to trigger my Muse . . .

Chapter One

First warning

Thursday, September 20, 3738

I woke to itchy nerves.

Not a good sign. But not into panic mode . . . yet.

I rolled out of bed, showered quickly and dressed.  I’d missed breakfast—it had been a busy night, and I’d had to eject a couple of customers.

The Texas Bar and Grill was a popular lunch and dinner spot in the west side of the city. Mostly because of the scantily clad waitresses. Partly the nightly (a new one every hour, at seven, eight, and nine) Wild West shootouts in the bar.

Barely broke even. On paper.

Half the actual profit came from the late hours, when those cute waitresses were more than willing to invite a gentleman back stage for a mere two hundred rubles.

The other half of the boss’s income involved serious crime, and kept the connection to the Bar and Grill quiet.

My stuff. And by the chill in my nerves, it was time to relocate. Again.

I dropped down to the basement kitchen and grabbed a sandwich, then got on my computer and checked a few sites for activity. Nothing to explain my nerves. 

“Hey, Gadget!” Diedrich waved me down. “How about tonight, I shoot you?”

I  grinned. “You bet.”

Doing Dinner Theater was fun.  We sat at a table a little elevated from the rest of the tables, strong tea in whisky glasses, playing poker. Just the three of us, leaving a side open to the watchers. Talking loudly, a little trash talk . . . all in fake “western drawls.”

Acting drunk, taking offense . . .

Promptly at seven ten, I rose to my feet and accused Crusher of being a cheatin’ polecat. He jumped to his feet, furious, and shot me three times in the chest. I shot him back as I “died” on the floor. He collapsed and died too.

Medium hard plastic bullets we reloaded ourselves, with just enough powder for a bang, a few additives for a flash and smoke. Very impressive, without damaging anyone’s hearing.

Applause and laughter, from the diners.

For the eight o’clock show (with a change of costume), I accused Diedrich of killing my father and appealed to God to help me get revenge . . . two shots and I was dying on the floor. More applause, from the second round of patrons.

Maybe we ought to do these things a little earlier. The late crowd seems to be a lot more interested in T and A.

Then the last show, at nine.

Diedrich eyed my “eager to get killed” get up.

“You look too prosperous, especially the fancy two gun rig. That’s more the reigning champ’s style.”

I had to admit he was right. “Damn.” We swapped gun belts, and I strapped on the plain one with the wood grip revolver. For this playlet I needed to walk in the front door, so I headed for the side exit.

Chapter Two

Vice Squad

Thursday, September 20, 3738

“I can’t believe I let myself get roped into a prostitution investigation.” Detective Falk Asch tried to ignore the snickers from his coworkers.

His boss just snorted. “Might have something to do with a tall blonde police detective?”

“And what aren’t they telling me? Because Angel Zeller is in the Special Investigations group. Not Vice.”

“Good Luck.”

“I think we’re just having dinner at the suspect location, tonight.” But if it’s with Angel, that would be excellent. So long as the other detectives aren’t there.

Which they were.

Two of them, Captain Dimitry Ivan Federov and Detective Lord Tikhon Sobakin he knew. The fourth man was introduced as Investigator Rupert Hoffmann.

Not a police rank. Inquisitor? Executioner? Alliance Guard?

At least Angel is here.

The tall blonde subject of most of his dreams looked more amused than resentful.“So I just get to sit in the van ‘monitoring’ the situation while you guys load up on ‘authentic Texas barbeque’ and flirt with barely dressed saloon girls?”

Falk grinned. “I’ll let you know if there are any handsome Cowboys . . . no wait . . . I’m absolutely positive they’re all ugly, with poor personal hygiene.”

That got a laugh out of her, and then they were pulling into the parking lot of the Texas Bar and Grill.

It was all done up like a movie set, a polished mahogany bar, then tables. A balcony across the back of the room, women in scanty “Saloon girl” chic lounging against the rail. One blew a kiss our direction as we walked in.

Below the balcony, one table was on a platform raised a couple steps like a tiny stage. A man in fancy western get up sat there, spotlighted. Bolo tie, embroidered vest, black pants, a tooled leather holster holding a flashy gold embossed grip of a big gun.

45 revolver, Colt, at a guess. Glass of whisky, playing solitaire.

The hostess was a pretty petite blonde, with lots of cleavage, and a blouse low necked enough to display as much of it as was legal. All in a western theme, taking liberties with the historical skirt length. She led them right up to a table in front of the stage.

The waitress who took their orders was just a scantily clad, with the skirt gathered up in the right place so the split petticoats could display lots of leg.

She swooped back with their beers, and a few minutes later, big plates with lots of meat and sensibly sized side dishes. “Four combination barbeques. Enjoy, gentlemen. The Shootout should start in ten minutes.”

Falk blinked at enough food to feed a small family. “So if I eat enough to slow the alcohol uptake, will I still be able to move if anything happens?”

Hoffmann grinned. “I doubt it. Good thing we’re just scoping out the restaurant. I . . . already don’t think I’ll bring a date here.”

Sobakin nodded. “Definitely a guys-night-out sort of place.”

Federov shook his head. “My wife would think it was funny . . . think about it for a couple of days, and then laugh even harder and ask just how big a tip I gave that over-endowed waitress.”

A snicker in his earbud. “I want pictures.”

Falk pulled out his phone and took a picture of the heaping plate . . . and a quick shot of the waitress at the next table. Couldn’t get a good angle at the saloon girls up on the balcony almost overhead.

He put the phone down and grabbed a rib. Delicious, smoky, tender . . . the sauce different, tomato base, with unusual spices . . .

The lights came up slowly on the mini-stage. The actor stood up and walked to a window on the left, peered out, then strolled back to the table. Not one, but a pair of flashy “gold” embossed six guns. A vest with red embroidery over a black shirt and pants. Odd boots, blocky two inch heels and rather pointy toes. A black cowboy hat hung on the back of the chair on the right as he took the seat facing the watching diners. A scantily clad girl scurried up with a whisky bottle and filled the glass on the table.

“Leave the bottle.” He waved her away, picked up a pack of cards and shuffled them. Started laying out another game of solitaire.

The front door slammed; Falk looked around. A young man stalking across the room, chimes . . . ah, spurs with loose rowels. 

His curly black hair was slicked back under a battered cowboy hat, a revolver at his hip. He surveyed the room coldly as he stalked through the tables.

Damn, he’s projecting a lot of glow! Attention getting, mind you . . .

People turned to look and nudged each other.

 A man stepped away from the bar. “Listen boy, we don’t want any trouble in here.”

And a bit of power to project his voice . . .

The boy glared at him, then looked over at the man on the stage. “Is that Jim Miller? I want a word with him . . .”

“Don’t do it, kid!” The other man shook his head. “Facing him isn’t going to get you the reputation you’re hoping for!”

The boy shook off his hand and chimed his way to the back of the room. Stepped up on the platform. “So, Miller! You think . . .”

The older man stood up. “That I’m a faster gun than you. Damn right!”

They both went for their guns. Miller got off the first shot. An under powered bang, with a lot of muzzle flash and followed it with four more, shooting with both hands. The kid fired once, as he fell backwards, a proper roar from his gun. He hit the floor and sprawled, DRT, as they say—dead right there.

Falk was on his feet . . .

“Police! You’re under arrest!” Sobakin was ahead of him, leaping onto the stage.

Miller was looking shocked.

But the boy sat up, looked at the flock of plain clothes cops and started laughing. Sobered quickly as he rolled to his feet, picking up his hat, to sweep a bow to the crowd, a forced-looking grin on his face.

Miller  bowed too, holstering his guns.

The kid picked up his revolver, holstered it and headed out a door at the back.

We all followed.

The boy held the door; closed it once we were all through. Glared at Miller. “What the hell did you load your gun with? Are you suicidal?”

Federov loomed over him. “You are the one with dangerous ammunition.”

“Yes, and we swapped guns just before we got started.” He was frowning, now, looking thoughtful. He cocked his head at Miller. “Did anyone handle your gun, before you strapped it on?”

Miller shook his head. “No. It was hanging in the usual place. You . . . you could have killed me!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started Monday afternoon. And kept going and going . . . .

I quit at 3AM Tuesday Morning, the word count at 5069.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a flood of words like this, feels like years. It’s probably only been a few months, but it feels Soooooo Gooooood!

Who knew I needed a Marine to kick the Muse into action. I don’t remember Jon ever mentioning being a drill sergeant, but dang!

So, thanks, Jon.

I’ll be over here writing.

Anyone else ever get triggered by a meme?