What happens when someone not-so-familiar comes to town, and isn’t met with warmth?
By AJ Schlang
It was sunset as the man walked through the streets of Edlen Gultch, a cloud of dust spinning into a small tornado behind him and the molten sun sprayed a red-hot glow across the clouds. The mountains behind him sighed, making his leather coat dance beneath his silver spurs. He glided through the streets, a dark figure against the painted sky behind him. No one stopped to gawk at him, at least not visibly. They waited until the dip in his spooned hat obscured his vision, then they stared. He led his white horse up to a saloon, and stepped inside. He didn’t bother tying up the horse.
Inside the ragged sound of a piano cut off as the swinging doors announced the gunman’s entry. The saloon was silent for a few moments, the only noise was the sound of throats taking heavy gulps. The man strolled up to the bar and held up a hand, one finger gloved in black leather held aloft. The bartender’s hands shook and he spilled amber liquid onto the counter as he passed the man a drink. The player began taking to his ragged tune again, only making a couple of mistakes as he tried to lighten the atmosphere again. It almost worked.
The bartender walked over to the man, wringing sweaty hands.
“Good sir, please! I beg of you, now is not a good time. If you have to come back, please, come at a later hour. I beg you!”
The man pulled back his black coat and a gasp was punched from his throat as he saw what was on the man’s waist.
“This has been coming for a long time,” the man answered in a voice that sounded like the drink he had just had was one of concrete. “You knew I’d be here eventually, but instead of preparing, you just buried your head in the sand. Now, do you want to do this the easy way? Or the hard way?”
The bartender wilted and pulled on the cloth that draped his shoulder, using it mop the sweat on his brow.
“Just make it quick, please,” he said lugubriously.
The man pulled his hat from his head, revealing a head hair that was dark and lank. It mopped his brow like a hood, casting a shadow over his pale features. The man pushed a pair of spectacles onto his eyes and then pulled a pen and paper from his waist.
“I will now begin my annual health inspection.”
By Isha Bhadauria
“Can we all raise a toast to the best guy in the tavern?” Gary bellows, raising his drink in the air. “To my oldest friend,” he says, gesturing to me, “and the greatest Blue captain to ever be sworn in, and to the man who’s going to make each one of us $10,000 richer!”
There is a unanimous roar, and I am shoved around the bar by a wave of hands patting me on the back. Laughing, I run up to Gary, and address my teammates.
“Thank you so much, everyone, but let’s remember– we haven’t won yet. The Paintball Throwing Tournament is the biggest, harshest, most competitive event of the year, and it’s basically the only reason this town isn’t boring.”
There are chuckles across the bar, and murmurs of agreement.
I smile. “My point is, everyone here lives for this competition, and no one is going down easily. Now, today was the very first day, and we have already made so much progress! We’ve already taken down Team Yellow!”
“Their puny, sunshiney team was no match for ours!” Gary says, and the bar erupts in cheers once again.
I try to get everyone under control. “That being said, Team Red took down both Team Green and Team Orange today. Only us, Red, and Purple remain, but we can’t underestimate either of them.”
Gary laughs. “Enough with the modesty, Captain! We also took control of the bar today, and right here is the only place you can get a decent drink in the town!” He smashes his glass against mine. “The bar is Blue, and the win will be Blue, too! And when it is, the town will give everyone on our team 10 grand. Drink to the captain, everybody!”
The entire bar begins to chant: “Blue! Blue! Blue!”
I return to my table by the wall with Gary, letting everyone enjoy the successful day.
Then the door opens, and everyone falls silent.
I turn around, mid-sentence, while Gary asks, “Who’s the party pooper?”
It’s a Red.
It’s the Red.
I clear my throat, and my teammates look at me, gaping. “Excuse me, you’re the Red Captain, right?” I ask, and he turns to face me.
“That’s me.” He stares me down.
“I just wanted to make sure you knew the competition is still going?” I say.
“Of course. No breaks until there’s a winner,” he says.
He still doesn’t look ready to leave.
“Why are you here, then?” I ask, sweat trickling down my forehead.
“I want a drink,” he says, loud and clear.
Gary steps in. “Of course not. Get out of our bar, Red. You’re in Blue turf now.”
There is a pause, and I can feel everyone staring at me, scared to even breathe.
My eyes won’t leave the Red Captain, and his eyes won’t leave mine. After a few seconds, he smiles, and I smile back, and his arms reach behind him, and I yell, “Duck!”
In the moments that follow, countless paintballs whizz past me, Red and Blue alike, but slowly, more and more Red begin to splatter on the walls of our bar. I knew from the start of the fight that we were doomed– most of the team is drunk, and no one is able to land a shot on the Red Captain.
His arms move in a blur, shooting more and more paintballs by the second, and our team just keeps dodging. I run to our supply and throw paintballs to the team, and then grab a dozen for myself and confront the Captain. This time, I smile first, and start throwing.
There’s red paint, blue paint, blue paint, red paint, paint, paint, so much paint…
And a whistle. A time-out whistle? “EVERYBODY STOP!” The town’s loudspeakers screech, demanding a time out.
I’m panting like a dog, barely managing to stay upright. My whole team and the Red Captain are in the same state– but we all anxiously await the announcement. A break has never been called in Paintball history. What could it be?
“It would appear that the entire Blue team, and the Red Captain, are all covered in Purple paint.”
Purple?
I look down at myself, and everyone else, and they’re right. Red paint, blue paint, blue paint, red paint… Purple paint?!
“And as the rules dictate, the loss of the captain means the loss of the entire team, and of course, the loss of the entire team means the loss of the entire team.”
I gasp, and stare at the Red Captain with a blinding rage. He looks back at me with terror, reality sinking in.
“Therefore, the Purple Team has eliminated both Teams Blue and Red. PURPLE TEAM, YOU ARE THE WINNERS!”
I can’t speak. I’m speechless. I sink to the ground.
I think I hear cheers from the Purple Team… But they’re distant. Far, far away from the fight.