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.”