Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. No reason. Just ending the week in style.
You can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
Have a good weekend!
He stepped into the old saloon and everything stopped. It was not that they knew him - no, it was in the way he carried himself. The way he stopped and surveyed the room, checking the angles, realizing he was right in the middle. He knew how it would go down, though. He held all the cards.
They were afraid. It was in the way his hands hung, calm, nary a tremor - the hands rested by two six-shooters. No one wants to mess with a man who wears two guns and a poker face.
He stepped up to the bar and ordered, turning his back on them. Let them shoot him in the back if they wanted. He wasn't leaving the saloon alive anyway. He tossed back the whiskey - it tasted like turpentine and rot. No matter.
The dynamite was under his coat. He knew it had to be this way. His head had a price on it anyway and, warranted or not, someone would collect the prize sooner or later - you can't outrun a name. He struck a match and lit a smoke he had rolled without anyone noticing. He took a few drags and then touched the orange tip to the fuse that he had pulled through his pocket.
By the time he smiled, it was too late - a cloud of dust and some charred wood would be his legacy.
They rebuilt the saloon and found a new bartender. Life carried on, peaceably now that the Stern gang was taken care of, and he was remembered as something of a hero. He wasn't a hero, but heroism is never cut and dried in the west.