*"Nice to meet you Sarge. Miss Fisha needed some help, so she sent a telegraph over to Morningwood. Seems she’s had some trouble with one of her girls, *Kat ** I think is her name. Something about lots of missing whiskey. Lots and lots of missing whiskey. She said she had heard about me, and thought that I would be a good [del]replacement for[/del] influence on Kat."
*As miss fisha walks to the bar, she’s thinking she could really go for a strong drink. Too bad a manhattan hasn’t been invented yet. With a Molotov in one hand, and a future **manhattan **in the other, nothing could withstand her, not even this thread.
But alas, she was stuck here, in this one horse town. Her loyal employees were either cowering behind a table, stuffing money in their corset with one hand, and upending a bottle of her finest whiskey with the other, or laying in his own effluvium with a carpetbag on his head snoring, or upstairs trying not to trip over his pants gathered around his ankles.
Miss fisha decides to saddle up her mare, just in case things get ugly.
As she walks out the back door, she notice Dog, the bad priest, blood dripping from his palms, heading for the main parlor.*
decides to drink some ginger ale at the bar and whittle wood in his spare time instead of chase hardened criminals
*The man in black finally realizes that he needs to retire for the night. He grabs Miss Kat and pulls her up from the floor and carries her to the stairs.
He shouts, “I’ll only pay for as long as she stays awake.” He carries the woman up the stairs and into the darkened room. “Tomorrow, at dawn, this thread is dead”, he thinks as he pulls off his boots.
*
SSG Schwartz
*Kat trips over something in the dark room.
“Turn on the light, idiot!” she snaps at the Man in Black.*
I’m Drunk!
*Miss Mon Key wonders to herself why the man in black took the drunken **Kat ** upstairs when he was just talking to her! Not usually a vengeful woman, maybe this was just the last straw after riding in that dusty stagecoach for four days listening to the lewd comments from the driver the whole way. Something in Miss Mon Key snaps. She grabs one of the few whiskey bottles left in the establishment and smashes it on the floor. The fire-water splashes all over and combined with what Kat had spilled, it accumulated into a right fair amount. Enough for her purposes anyway.
“I’ll show him. I’ll show everyone! No one is going to get out of this thread alive! Die you vile thread!”
With a glint of insanity in her eye, Miss Mon Key lights a match.*
*The mare is loosely saddled.
The guns are loaded.
She is prepared.
The **man in black **and her best girl, **Miss[**B] Kat **are occupied. Parcheesi, maybe scrabble. By a kerosene lantern that has a switch.
The beautiful Miss Key is nowhere to be found, perhaps she grabbed her bags and retired to her room. Perhaps** Big Baby **finally showed up to play with her.
The **Sheriff **is off to parts unknown, but promises to return.
The priest is incanting in the corner, and LOUNE is squirting ginger ale through his nose. The poker players play on.
Auto hasn’t moved, but by the noise and odour of his incessant flatulence, Miss fisha knows he’s still alive.
Before she heads off to bed, miss fisha gathers up her skirts and heads for the bar. Finding some rye, some vermouth, some angostura bitters, and her last maraschino cherry she saved from her long trip when she came out west, she hopes she can concoct a scrumptious potion to imbibe.
Not only to make her sleep easier tonight, but perhaps to kill the thread. Perhaps if she prays, and wails, and appeals to the basic human decency of the infamous one, the thread will die. And if he deigns to do the deed he will be called “Threadkiller” and immortalilzed for ever after by a tasty drink.
She drags the bloody priest into her room. “Father, can you raise the one who walks among us no more?”*
Miss Mon Key walks calmy out the front door of the saloon, tossing the lit match behind her. With a loud WHOOOMP, the thread goes up in flames.
*"My daughter, you have bigger problems than this right now. There’s a crazy whore downstairs trying to set the whole place on fire.
Only a drunken fool stands between her and immolation of us all."
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ !!! (Pardon my French, Father, I have something I need to attend to. Pray for me, pray for us all.”*
*Before the Man in Black can turn on a light, Kat hears a loud WHOOOMP from downstairs. She pauses and then sniffs.
“Do you smell smoke?”*
*Miss Mon Key sees a loosely saddled mare hitched just outside.
“How fortuitous,” she thinks to herself. She had wondered what her prospects of hailing a stagecoach at this hour would be. One more town she would have to put behind her. Since her release from New Bedlam, she had made hasty exits from no less than four towns. What was one more?
She tightened the saddle on the naggy looking mare and wondered how far it would be able to take her. Lithely she mounted the mangy beast and rode for the outskirts of town.*
:Shakes fist at retreating figure on horseback:
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!
*Sheriff Player struts back into town. That was some fine shooting. Nobody shoots like Player, the man with the hottest, fattest pistol around.
Yup, no one shoots like him. Not Sarge, who learned his trade in the army; or Big Baby, who is fast. Too fast. More often than not, it’s said that he shoots before he gets his gun out of the holster. Then there’s Auto whose pistol hasn’t been used in action for so long, it’s probably rusty by now. And any Dog that drinks ginger ale, well, you figure they can’t shoot nothing but the paper off of staws.
Damn. Everybody here’s passed out. The Woman in Red is passed out from pleasure. It’s time to go huntin’. He spits. With a low voice, he snarls, “No distractions now. That thread is mine.”
He walks over to the bar, past the slumbering dark figures. He should just kill them all now, but this thread is tough and he may need their help. He walks over the bar, stepping over the beautiful passed out fisha. He would have never left such a beautiful woman alone before, before he meet The Woman in Red.
He graps a bottle from the shelf with his left hand and rips to top off with his right. Tossing the top on the deserted bar, he pours himself a shot, directly onto his open right palm. Raising his hand up to his nose, he smells the content. Yup, SF+25. This will keep him white.*
Autolycus sips his Blue Lagoon and glances at the tables around. While true he doesn’t fire his guns often, he is confident in the knowledge that when he fires, they aren’t blanks. All is quiet for now, so he heads up to his bunk and clambers in. Sweet dreams of The Woman in Red will suffice his lust for action… for now.
How’s the Wii, Auto? I played one for the first time last night.
*Miss fisha slowly rouses from a deep sleep. As she lifts her head from the bar where she had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, she notices the Sheriff is back in town.
A large charred spot on the wooden floor, still damp this morning, reminds her of the small but intense fire that beautiful, shithouse-rat crazy, Miss Key tried to start last night. If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of Miss Kat and the Mr Labtrash to roll the wet Auto back and forth over the flames, all might have been lost. The smell of smoke and piss still lingered in the air.
After putting up her hair, and readjusting her corset, Miss fisha sets off to get things going for another day.
“Wake up boys. We’ve got a thread to kill and daylights wasting.”*
- Meanwhile unbeknownst to many, An Gadaí is cracking the town safe, taking most of the thread’s hard earn loose change. This is sure to get the thread all riled up once more, just in time for The Man In Black’s show down. His booty secured, An Gadaí gets in his rocket car (which he also stole) and heads out into the desert.*
I woke up with no hangover! Just a bad fantasy football team.
Roghty-o, keep killing this thread guys.
I’m house-sitting for the next *almost * two weeks, so my net time will be cut.
I expect you to kill, kill, KILL!