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milliways_bar2004-09-21 08:37 pm
joewithnoname.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2004-09-21 08:37 pm
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Two set peices in one day, I have no shame
After a big breakfast and a disturbing conversation with Angelo, Joe had spent the body of the afternoon roaming around the bar, and after finding it, the lake, which was almost too beautiful and green for eyes accustomed to the desert to handle. He'd also seen some strange creatures in the distance, though, and once again he was pre-occupied with being disarmed.
He approaches the bar furtively and leans close before he speaks. "Bar... can I have a gun, please?"
When he was a kid they would go into Kansas City two or three times a year, and always in the big glass window of the mercantile was The Gun. Not a gun, The Gun. Easily twice the size of his mother's little pistol that he'd learned to shoot on, with a huge wooden stock to balance the long gleaming barrel. It was a patented revolver, and he'd known without ever touching it the tension he'd feel under the hammer and the trigger if he had it in his hand.
It was, basically, the same drive that would send kids of a hundred and thirty years later buying Nikes and Louisville Sluggers--the simple childlike faith that with the right tool skill would come not by hard discipline and practice, but descending from Heaven like a mantle of greatness.
The gun that appeared on the bar was a perfect replica of The Gun.
A perfect replica in chocolate.
He approaches the bar furtively and leans close before he speaks. "Bar... can I have a gun, please?"
When he was a kid they would go into Kansas City two or three times a year, and always in the big glass window of the mercantile was The Gun. Not a gun, The Gun. Easily twice the size of his mother's little pistol that he'd learned to shoot on, with a huge wooden stock to balance the long gleaming barrel. It was a patented revolver, and he'd known without ever touching it the tension he'd feel under the hammer and the trigger if he had it in his hand.
It was, basically, the same drive that would send kids of a hundred and thirty years later buying Nikes and Louisville Sluggers--the simple childlike faith that with the right tool skill would come not by hard discipline and practice, but descending from Heaven like a mantle of greatness.
The gun that appeared on the bar was a perfect replica of The Gun.
A perfect replica in chocolate.
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Spike peers at the chocolate gun, smirks, and sits down at the bar, sliding his card onto it. "Cold beer, please, bar. And one for my friend here if he wants one."
He takes out the cigarettes and, as usual, offers one to whoever's nearby... this time being the guy with the squint and the blonde hair and the chocolate gun. He lights his own smoke and takes a sip of the beer the bar provides.
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Too bad: 16 round magazine, semi-automatic, fixed-sight, double action. It's a beautiful gun. I almost miss using it. Almost.
He tucks the gun back away. "Nah, if I need to defend myself, I still have my fists."
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"A peice like that, you must come after me," he says. "They still need bounty hunters out West, or has the job moved on?"
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He lights another smoke, reminiscing. Different worlds, different times. How much does this Joe guy know that he doesn't?
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Still, kind of heartening to know there's still people like him in the future, too. "I reckon there's two kinds of people in the world: those who can take care of business, and those who have to pay somebody else to. Long as that's true, there'll be guys like us."
He takes a gulp of beer and stubs out the dead cigarette. "Never been much further than old Mexico myself." He uses the Spanish pronunciation. "Thinkin' about heading down that way after I leave the bar." Assuming I can leave the bar.
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He realizes for the first time how odd it must be for Joe to have lost his gun. "Like having another arm, isn't it, when you're packing a piece like that. A little bit extra security and a whole lot of smug. If I ever leave this place, first thing I'm doing is going back to my ship. Then I'm stocking up on 9 mil rounds for that baby."
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"You got a ship? I met a sailor name of Shipwreck in here last night."
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He offers up another cigarette. "Spaceships. Shit like that guy Shipwreck's never seen."
Spike tucks the Jericho away again in his jacket's chest pocket and pats it fondly. "Semi-automatic. Load it and go."
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Spike nods in thanks for the second beer. "I was born on Mars Colony in 2044. They made it look just like Earth did before the meteor showers started making it rain rocks all over the place. But we still had to have money and buy the shit we needed, just like normal. Or steal it if you didn't have any money. So yeah, we still cook our own food out there. Whatever time it is."
He takes a long sip of the ice-cold beer. "I never thought I'd be fucking asking a bar for anything. But sometimes you just gotta roll with whatever shit the universe throws your way."
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"Shit. Just thought of something. I hear some people here are dead--I ain't sure I'm not myself. That's alright, but problem is, I hope to God I don't have to see that bastard Angel Eyes again. Christ."
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Spike falls into a thoughtful silence. He's been dead before... whether clinically or not is up for grabs but it also doesn't matter. He thought there was something that felt familiar about this.
Fuck.
Well, if this is dead, what the fuck. Can't do shit about it, can I. And if I'm not... it's my lucky day.
"Angel Eyes? Haven't met him."
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[OOC: Oy, 50 more pages of reading on medieval women's movements to do before morning comes. Night all.]