GUN SALAD

They left the dismal atmosphere of the bar behind, making their way out into the sunlight together. The man squinted against the harsh light of day; based on his habits, Roulette figured he didn’t get out much around noon. Long hours spent indoors nursing drinks could do that to a man.

“Y’okay there… Uh, sir?” she inquired. Only now did it occur to her that she’d yet to learn his name.

“Sir, huh?” he answered, smiling wryly, “Could get used to that term of address.”

Roulette rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t. I’m only usin’ it ‘cuz you never gave me your monicker.”

“And I won’t,” he replied, “‘Til I have reason to trust you… If that day ever comes.”

Roulette led him alongside the wall of brightly-colored storefronts, more to reinforce the fact that she was worth following than anything. In actual fact, she had no idea where they were going; she knew virtually nothing about the layout of Port Pistola. All she knew was that she needed a plan for getting sir’s gun back from the mob, and that meant leaving the waterfront behind. There was no way that a criminal organization could work out of the squat little buildings on the strip–not exclusively, at least.

“Don’t even know why’m out here, to be honest…” her new companion grumbled. “I seem to recall tellin’ you I didn’t want anythin’ to do with you or–”

The man cut his griping short all of a sudden, whipping his head around to scan the long stretch of beach and buildings behind them. Roulette turned to have a look herself, but nothing stood out as being particularly unusual or threatening; obviously her liquor-swilling compadre was suffering a bad bout of paranoia.

“Somethin’ wrong?” she asked, arms folded.

“Y’know, I used to be pretty good at the kind of work you’re playin’ at…” he muttered, turning away from the scene behind them with reluctant slowness. “All that experience taught me to trust my instincts. And my instincts are tellin’ me that we’re bein’ followed right now.”

“That so?” Roulette leaned to the side dramatically, trying to catch a glimpse of their tail around the obstructing form of her dour associate. “Can’t say I see what you’re speakin’ of, partner. You sure those ‘instincts’ aren’t the wages of all your time spent in cups?”

The man glared back at her for a moment, shaking his head, but was quick to sublimate his disappointment with an exaggerated shrug.

“Maybe so,” he conceded, “Where to next, ‘boss?’”

Roulette smirked, basking in his deference (sarcastic as it was). “We need to get out of here. Gotta find where that mob outfit is based, ‘cuz it sure wouldn’t be in this part of town. If we’re lucky, we can find a way to negotiate with ‘em. I don’t want to tussle with a whole crew of criminals if we can avoid it.”

She gestured in the direction she’d been leading them in originally, prompting the man to continue following her on their path out of the district.

“Makes sense,” he replied drily, “Have you considered that, in light of my dealings with ‘em, I may already know where they’re based?”

She sniffed, loath to admit that she hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Well, go on then. No sense in bein’ coy about it.”

“They’ve got fronts and boltholes all over town; reckon I even spent some time drinkin’ in one or two of ‘em,” he began. Even as he spoke he continued to toss the occasional glance back over his shoulder, no doubt seeking some hint of the stalker Roulette had so readily dismissed as fiction. “But the criminals ‘round here–the serious ones, at least–they’re practically high society. Their top brass operate out of the northeast section of Port Pistola, where all the villas are: the Grenado District.”

Roulette listened carefully, eager to hear about any little detail she could exploit. It seemed he’d been telling the truth; all that talk of familiarity with the town’s underbelly hadn’t been bluster after all.

“They call their leader the… Uh… ‘Blunderboss.’” he continued, wincing as the crime lord’s ridiculous title passed his lips.

“‘Blunderboss?’” she replied, thoroughly nonplussed by the revelation. “Really?”

“More dangerous than he sounds,” he assured her. “He’s a Gunslinger like us. Totes a big, old-timey shotgun that can waste anythin’ you please with a single shot. Folks say that’s how he got where he is in the organization; when he sets his mind to blowin’ someone away, there’s never anythin’ left. No blood, no body… No single scrap of evidence for the police to go on. Not hard to see why a guy like that would rise high in a gang of killers.”

“Hm.” Roulette bit her lip, no longer quite as confident about stoking open hostilities with the local mob. “And you’re tellin’ me you sold your gun–your most valuable possession–to these guys, of all people?”

He sighed. “In a moment of weakness, yeah,” he confirmed. “I didn’t need it anymore. What I did need was funds to support my, ehh… ‘New lifestyle.’” The man rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the pointed toes of his smart brown shoes in embarrassment. “It’s not like they’d be able to use it the way I could, anyhow; without its user, a Gunslinger’s weapon is just a gun, after all. They’d have to load it like usual, and the bullets wouldn’t bounce. No advantage to them at all aside from the look of the thing. I’d wager it’s fixed to some wall in the Blunderboss’s mansion, by now.”

“So,” Roulette replied, a sly smile pasted across her features, “That was your power, as a Gunslinger? Your bullets bounced?”

The man cursed under his breath. A Gunslinger’s ability was one of his best-kept secrets; a secret he’d just given up all too easily.

“You may as well tell me your name, now,” she gloated, raising her hands behind her head triumphantly as she moved to outpace him, “After all, if you’re givin’ up intimate details like your power, you surely must trust me. Maybe you’d like to lay bare all your sins, while you’re at it? Mother’s maiden name? A list of your past lovers…?”

“A careless move on his part, I agree,” came an unfamiliar voice from behind. Roulette froze in place, paralyzed by fear. The tail, she thought. He was right! We were being followed all along!

“As everyone knows, a Gunslinger only reveals his power moments before he initiates combat with another of his kind,” said the newcomer. “Is that not correct, my inebriated friend?”

The girl spun about to find her companion with his hands up while a dark, oddly familiar figure pressed an unseen weapon to the small of his back. During the conversation, Roulette had failed to notice that the inclined path they’d followed up from the beach had led them into a seedier part of town: a low-class neighborhood of blocky, whitewashed buildings that probably housed a fair chunk of the community’s laborers. Laborers who, as yet, hadn’t returned from their daily toil, leaving the rows of tiny homes and the alleys between eerily quiet and devoid of potential witnesses.

In other words, it was the perfect place for an ambush.

“Nngh…! More or less…” his hostage grunted, meeting Roulette’s eyes as they narrowed with contempt for the man gripping his shoulder.

“Of course, from what I have just heard, it seems you no longer count yourself among our number,” the assailant continued. “A pity. I coveted that revolver of yours very much; it might have covered the significant tally of slugs you still owe to my colleagues. You can thank your new friend, here, for sparing you the full brunt of my wrath, however. She was kind enough to pay off your debt to me, at least, and so I shall reward you with a quick and painless death…”

“Wait…” Roulette gasped, a look of recognition dawning on her face, “It couldn’t be…?”

The mystery man stepped out from behind his victim’s shadow, revealing himself in the glare of the afternoon sun. Sure enough, it was none other than the bartender of the Totin’ Teetotaller–the jocular, affable man she’d met only minutes before running into the object of her search. The sun glinted off of his shaved head as he regarded her with calm satisfaction, the warmth of his earlier demeanor gone. All that remained was a chilling aura of killing intent, dampened only slightly by the continued presence of a liquor-stained apron on his lean, athletic body.

Roulette’s would-be comrade-in-arms closed his eyes, as if sensing that the end was upon him. “Guess my road ends here, kid. Take care of yourself out there, y’hear?”

“NO!!” the girl screamed, lunging forward with her hand outstretched… But her actions proved to be too little, too late. A shot rang out, reverberating throughout the quiet streets. Her partner’s eyes glazed over as he fell to his knees, teetering in that posture for a single, heart-wrenching second before he slumped to the ground face-first.

A flock of birds took flight nearby, startled by the sound. Then, for the first time since leaving Wesson, Roulette hung her head in despair…

And cried.