1892. Deadwood.
Buck Allison walked towards the local pub in Deadwood. His boots were covered in mud. It rained yesterday, the first in years. Inside, sweaty patrons and a local mariachi band from Juarez played some Mexican folk. Buck sat on the furthest bar stool, the spot he always sat on in the last six years.
“Chicory! Tequila,” Buck said to the bartender.
Chicory placed a fogged shot glass that was recently rinsed on the table and poured some tequila in it. The bottle was almost empty. Buck smiled and drank the liquor.
“Shit, that was some good tequila!” he said. He requested another shot. Chicory complied. He drank it all once it poured on his glass. He didn’t even gave the spirit chance to settle on its own. He just drank it all.
“Woah, easy on there Buck. You got any bucks in there?” Chicory asked him, demanding Buck to show money.
Buck, drunk and tipsy, got a 20 dollar bill on his jacket and placed it on the table. Chicory looked at the cash for the moment, after examining it, Chicory grinned then crumpled the cash, he then threw it in Buck’s shot glass. Buck was pissed, he didn’t do anything, why did the bartender acted like this? He asked Chicory: “What the fuck Chicory, what’re you doin’ huh? Why’d you threw the cash in my glass? You nuts?”
Chicory then slowly got closer to Buck’s face and talked in a somewhat sinister manner: “When I said a buck, I didn’t mean cash. I am referring to your soul, partner. Your time’s on the 25th, but hey, easy work for me if I off you now.”
Buck’s eyes swollen in fear as Chicory lifted his hand and sucked his soul from the back of his head. All of the patrons are dead, except Chicory, which reveals himself as the harbinger of death.
END
Masokishtak 