Son Of A GunMature

With the shadow of death in his wake, Cyrus Briar hunts the ghosts of his past in hopes of redemption for a lifetime of murder and theft.
Soon Cyrus' actions bring the law's attention to him. Looking to stem the bloodshed, Cyrus' estranged father, an old gun vowing never to kill again, is hired to apprehend him.

The harbour was alive and all too enthusiastic for the scruff of a man that stepped off the boat. He looked around, pushing a strand of dirty hair from his face. He stuck his finger in his beard and found his mouth somewhere behind it to pick at something between his teeth. His beard shifted from side to side as he rolled the undesirable scrap onto his tongue and spat it out.

A few of the other passengers disembarking shoved him lightly, as if to get him moving along. He did, and soon found himself wandering down the main street.

He had the look of a man searching for something. The locals kept their distance, either from the smell or from his disparaging glare. That being said, asking for directions seemed strictly out of the question. Soon, however, he found what he was looking for just past a post office on the left hand side of the road. He lumbered through the door and walked up to the bar.

"What'll it be?" Asked the barkeep, as he shuffled down the counter to his new patron.

"Well, I need a bath."

"I can tell."

"Thanks." He said grinning. "You got rooms in this hole?"

"I'm assuming you mean my establishment?"

"That's right."

"Yes, you're welcome to one, if you've got the coin for it."

"I've got a few left. You know, I don't like your money; I'm accustomed to the Queen's currency. Here." He slammed a palm full of change on the counter. "Is that enough?"

The bartender stabbed a few coins with his fingers and pulled them away from the scruff. "This should do."

"Alright."

"Rooms are up the stairs, here's the key." He said, passing him a rather new looking skeleton key.

"Change your locks recently?"

"Maybe, what's it to you?"

"Nothing, you got something for me to shave with up there?"

"No, but there's a barber down the road."

"Good, I need a shave."

"I can tell."

"You seem to tell a lot don't you?"

"Other than why you're here. You're Canadian right?"

"Not really." He said, picking at his teeth again.

"How can you ‘not really' be from somewhere?"

"By not really being from anywhere I suppose."

"You're a raw prawn aren't you?"

"If that's reference to me having been on a boat for too long, you may be right."

The barkeep smiled and shook his head. "I guess that's maybe what I mean."

"Well, I'm gonna go clean up." he said, taking up the key and pushing off from the bar.

"Enjoy, I'll have a hand bring up some hot water for you in a minute."

" ‘Preciate it."

The barkeep watched him up the stairs and wondered what kind of mischief the man would cause. He soon turned from the thought, hoping that if he didn't think of it, his worries may not materialize.

The End

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