Eggnog Shootout Part Two

The still point. The space between the last action and the next action. The infinite amount of time between the realization that you are about to be shot in the back and the actual being shot in the back. That point sucks.

Such were the thoughts of the stranger as he stared down his own arm, down the barrel of his gun, to the disproportional face of the bastard that sold him tainted eggnog. It wasn’t even about the eggnog, he realized out loud. “This barkeep lied to me, but more importantly, this barkeep disrespected me. If you, gentlemen,” referring to the dozen odd heavily armed patrons, “were in my situation, would you not want to kill this man? I know I certainly do.”His soon-to-be dispatchers cocked their guns. This was not good. The stranger’s fancy words would do him no good, here, as these weren’t men accustomed to reason.

A bead of sweat formed on the furrowed brow of the stranger, reflecting the fires that lit the bar. Slowly, it slid down his face. He slowly exhaled, and the droplet fell to the floor. A pool of urine was slowly forming around the left leg of the barkeep, who was frozen in place by the tension of the moment. The immense silence was only disturbed by the bartender's girlish whimpering. A long, near fatal moment transpired until the sound of a man's slow gait entered the bar. Step, step; another man, unaware of the explosive situation in the saloon. Step, step; louder, closer. Step, step; the unmistakable clanging of spurs. Step, step; all attentions firmly fixed on the intruder. Step, step; finally, the man stood outside of the swinging doors of the saloon.

Here’s that still point, again. Here’s the point when time stops and you can move between everything, looking at every angle and through every perspective. At this moment, we have what one might call an interesting situation. You have the stranger, completely innocent, simply wanting to regain his slighted honor. You have all of the local patrons, utterly contemptable, meddling in other people's affairs. But then we also have a variable, an unknown, a factor that will throw all predicted outcomes out. Another man with the dubious task of unleashing the floodgates of hell. So what will happen? Well that’s the thing with these still points; you can see everything except the very next moment.

A Viscous Tranquility

Such ambrosia has ne’er touch the lips of man
Like the nectar of midnight’s virgin snowflake.
That I, so moved by the reticent stillness,
To the heart of intangible tranquility, reach.
That I, surrounded by the shifting masses of giants,
Can touch the realm where all thoughts become one,
To see all that is through the eyes of the blind.
That I, a vaporous idea amidst the obsidian being,
Can be chained by the sense of unbound liberty.
For what eternal power do I bear this onus?
To what end do I long? Heir, I, to the winter’s night?
To the rapturous arms of a midnight’s virgin snowflake?

Eggnog Shootout Part One

A man stood at the entrance to a seedy saloon. The occupants of the establishment stared at him for a moment, looking away from their games of poker and their tall glasses of hard liquor. The moment passed, and the smoky ambience returned to normal. The stranger started towards the bar and the awaiting bartender. The man grabbed himself a stool, and slung his upper body over the bar.

“What’ll you have?” said a gruff voice, obviously uninterested in the newcomer. “Give me a glass of eggnog,” replied the equally gruff voice of the stranger.

“Never heard of it,” said the bartender, looking down to the spotless glasses he
was attending.

“I think you’re lying. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” the man began to rise. “What I don’t understand is why you’d hold back on me,” a hand slowly moved to the inside of his coat. The entire bar was watching the man, on edge, waiting for him to move, waiting for the coming pandemonium.

“I-I’m sorry, sir…” stuttered the bartender. “I-I forgot…we had some in the back. I-It’s really high quality stuff…too, homemade, ye see!” The bartender quickly rushed off into his back room. The man sat back down, and the palpable tension of the room faded. The bartender slunk back into the room with a large, glass pitcher, full of a golden liquid.

“Here you go, sir, nice and fresh. Made with the finest of ingredients,” a glass was produced and filled with the cold nog, “and the greatest attention to detail.” The outsider slowly brought the glass up to his nose, took a long deep smell, swirled the glass, and took a furtive taste. After a moment’s evaluation, he tipped the entire glass down his throat. Smacking his lips, the bartender thought his task was over, and started to leave. The man grabbed the bartender’s arm, and began, “A little bit too thin, but it’s got the right amount of yolk. Could use a tad more nutmeg, but, there’s something else.” He let go of the bartender and stood up. “This has got preservatives in it. You told me it was homemade. You lied to me, you son of a bitch.” The man reached into his long jacket and pulled out a revolver that seemed ridiculously large. The bartender, now at the business end of what must be the largest handgun ever crafted, began to wet himself.

Lapsing into his stuttering, “I-I-I didn’t know. T-the guy that s-s-sold it to me said it was homemade. I didn’t know! Please don’t shoot me!”

The bar was now ablaze with tension. All the patrons had pulled out their own firearms and were pointing them at the newcomer. “This ain’t your fight, gentlemen. This man sold me tainted eggnog, and it’s none of your business.” The guns didn’t lower. A smile slid across the face of the stranger, “I see how it’s gonna be.”