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The Good, The Bad, & The Wealthy


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#1 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 07 September 2012 - 09:05 AM

Oh God. Just...oh God. I really went for it, guys. A pure, unadulterated orgy of all my favorite clichés. >.< You see, when some people indulge their inner weirdness, they write slashy smutfics. Apparently, I write Westerns. With that in mind, I should point out that this isn't a “the JN gang travels to the Wild West” type deal, but rather a re-interpretation of the characters based on the idea that they were born and grew up in the mid-1800s. (I chose to portray them as adults because Westerns typically contain elements that would be...unsuitable for kids ;) ). So there's obviously going to be some artistic license involved.
Anyway, I can only hope that you enjoy reading this 1/8 as much as I enjoyed creating it – and by “creating”, I mean “blatantly ripping off”. Major props to anyone who can spot all the films I borrowed from/referenced/parodied. Believe it or not, I did actual research for this fic as well before proceeding to ignore most of it; I will try to include notes on the historical shit and explanations for some of the more bizarre colloquialisms at the end of each installment. But those probably won't pop up until later - I'm just posting the first chapter today, and God only knows when I'll update again. My health has been rather poor lately, and creativity eludes me when I'm in pain.

Anyway, you're sick of hearing me blab. On to the good stuff! (Oh and here's a totally unnecessary pic *AHEM*)

 

the_good__the_bad__and_the_wealthy_by_ac


************************

This tale begins with a pair of boots. Custom-made, exhaustively-polished, patent leather boots, to be exact.

The saloon floorboards creaked as the aforesaid footwear set down. Dust plumed out from beneath the soles, turning circles in the air before settling. The legs that occupied the boots were clad in gray slacks; above that, a golden buckle bearing the initials “E.S.” added a touch of conceit to a swanky red vest and suit-coat. The head attached to this ensemble had none of its stylish bearing, however – a pug nose, thick eyebrows, and buck teeth completed the man.

“Blix,” said Buck-tooth, “we must interrogate this rabble as quickly as possible, before this filthy establishment diminishes the value of my new suit. Ahem - The boots!”

Blix the Butler immediately pulled a rag from his pocket, knelt down, and began polishing. Hunched as he was and dressed all in black, the old man gave the impression of a well-bred vulture. He straightened, bowed, and returned the rag to his pocket.

“Better,” said the buck-toothed man, wringing his hands together. “Now, for the rabble...”

Around the saloon, fingers crept toward their gun holsters. A trio of grizzly, unshaven men stopped their poker game and glared over at the newcomer. The tattooed hulk by the bar turned around with a growl. A few paces away, a vagrant on the floor licked the blade of his knife, while a giggling drunkard pounded discordant notes on the piano. The barkeep merely looked bored as he polished a glass.

“Rabble, eh?” repeated a one-armed lout at nearby table. “Now that ain't no way to talk. No way to talk at all.” He elbowed his buddy, who was hammering back shots of fizzy purple liquid. “Is it?”

The second lout coughed, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Maybe rich boy 'ere just needs a taste of our hospitality,” he slurred. Snorting, he spat a blob of mucus next to the leather boots. “There y'go,” he sniggered, “the first drink's on me.”

The patrons erupted into riotous laughter, and in a split second Blix pulled two firearms from his suit. Guns came out all around the saloon, and the butler's employer raised a hand to stop him.

“Down, Blix. The last thing we need is for these flea-bitten scum to start a fire fight.” The Butler re-holstered the weapons, and Buck-tooth condescendingly tossed the one-armed vagabond and his buddy a handful of silver coins. “Get lost,” he said. “I'm sure there's a house of ill repute in this two-bit town that accepts cash and greasy old men.”

The two drifters flashed him gap-toothed smiles and a thumbs-up, then staggered out of the saloon, leaving the washboard doors swinging behind them. The rich man strolled out into the center of the room, butler in tow.

“I've come to this impoverished rat-hole because I'm looking for somebody,” he announced. “Have any of you ever heard of an outlaw called 'Tex'?”

Gasps broke out all around the saloon, and the tattooed muscle-man by the bar whimpered like a little girl. The barkeep stopped polishing long enough to crook a finger toward the far corner, where a lone figure was sitting in silence.

“Over there,” he said.

The newcomer and his servant struck out across the room, weaving their way around shabby furniture and the occasional inebriated customer. As they approached, the duo saw that their quarry was reclining in a chair, boots propped up on the nearest table. The outlaw was dressed in brown trousers, a threadbare longcoat, and a tan cowboy hat. The brim of the hat hung down over Tex's face, hiding everything except a crooked smile.

“Tex?” asked the rich man.

“In the flesh, Bucky,” answered a female voice.

Butler and employer both backed up a step; they had been expecting a man. Still grinning, Tex raised her chin, and strands of blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. The face beneath the hat was delicate and fair, but her skin was streaked with grime, and the intensity of her green eyes hinted at either madness or great talent – or perhaps both.

You're Tex?!”

“Cynthia Aurora Vortex,” she replied with a tip of the hat, “at your service.”

“But...but you can't be a gun-for-hire!” exclaimed the rich boy. “You're a woman!”

Tex casually reached into her coat and produced a green-handled revolver. “One well-placed shot with this,” she said, “and I could make you a woman too.”

Blix's eyes widened. “Mein Herr,” he whispered, “that gun! Don't you recognize it? It's the famous Emerald Ire, the deadliest six-shooter in all Texas!”

“I can see that, you blithering idiot,” returned his employer. “Keep quiet.”

Tex twirled the weapon around her finger. “So,” she began, “what's the son of Rail Baron Strych doing so far from St. Louis? You didn't come this far west just to visit little old me, did you Eustace?”

His mouth fell open. “W-what? I didn't...How do you...”

“How do I know who you are? Your father owns the South-Central Pacific Railroad, you overdressed prat. Anybody with one good eyeball has seen your ugly mug in the newspapers.

“Why I never!” he gasped. “How dare you speak to me like –”

She pulled back the hammer on her weapon, and he shut up.

“Anyway,” she continued, “you didn't come here to cower in fear of my caustic tongue and superior gunmanship. You came here with a job offer.”

Eustace's ruffled feathers settled the instant money entered the conversation. “Exactly. I'm here with a business proposition. I have someone who needs to be, shall we say, 'taken care of', and I've heard from reputable sources that you're the gun for the job.”

“I do like to think I've got a corner on the market,” she returned. “So, how exactly do you want this fellow 'taken care of'? I offer three packages: scared off, maimed, and six-feet-under.”

“The latter. I need this individual dead and buried in a fortnight, and I'm prepared to offer you $1,000 to make that happen.”

“My rate is $3,000. $1,500 up front, and the remainder once I've completed the task. Take it or leave it.”

“Ah...just a moment.” Eustace pulled Blix aside and whispered in his ear. “We must pacify this trigger-happy trollop,” he scowled. “Three measly thousand dollars is nothing compared to what we will make once you-know-who is out of the picture and you-know-what is in our possession.” Blix nodded agreement, and the rich man turned back to the outlaw. “Very well, Miss Vortex, you have yourself a bargain.”

The butler produced a wad of cash and tossed it disdainfully onto the table. Tex grinned and thumbed through the stack.

“Splendid,” she said. “Would you like to see the full details of the arrangement, as drawn up in my official, legally-binding contract?”

“Your what?”

She reached into her coat once again, and this time pulled out a tri-fold piece of paper, which she handed to Eustace. He squinted down at the text.

“What in the...what is this? Even my filthy rich father's lawyers couldn't decipher this! You wrote this legalese? What kind of cold-blooded killer are you?!”

“I'm a fan of the law, when I don't have to follow it.”

He tossed the contract back in her face. “Forget the fine print. You'll get your payment when you finish the job. It's as simple as that.”

“Mmm, how’s this for simple: you sign the damn agreement, or you find someone else to do your dirty work.”

Exasperated, he motioned to Blix, who supplied him with a writing utensil. He signed his name in a flourish, then straightened. “Satisfied?”

“Thrilled beyond measure,” she chuckled, tucking the contract back into her longcoat. “All right, Bucky...where am I off to?”

“100 miles west of here, to an unpleasant little dust-bowl called Retro Valley.”

“Retro Valley? Never heard of it.”

“No one has. But that will change before long. I need that land, you see; I'm planning to – ”

“Save it, Strych,” she interrupted, returning her gun to its holster. “I don't need a backstory. Just tell me the name of the man you want me to kill.”

“His name is James Neutron,” replied Eustace. “He's the town Sheriff.”

********************************

hurrplz.png

Hope you enjoyed durr hurr You better comment or I will seppuku myself

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
*** ← these are tumbleweeds
-There is no South-Central Pacific Railroad. The name is an amalgam of two real companies - the Central Pacific railroad, which merged with the Union Pacific in 1869 to form the first transcontinental railroad - and the Southern Pacific company, which later leased Central Pacific. In this story, the Central Pacific and Southern Pacific railways do not exist...only the Union Pacific does. In my little "alternate timeline", the former two are combined into one imaginary entity, the 'South-Central Pacific Railroad', owned by Eustace's father. The transcontinental railroad would thus not have been formed until sometime in the 1870s, a bit later than in real life. This may or may not be important to the story. Hint: it will
-Tex's gun is an 1863 Starr Single Action Revolver. With a range of up to 66ft and easy-to-use design, it was much more popular than its double-action predecessor from 1858, and would have been used extensively by Union Army soldiers. The handle was painted green at some point because I said so.

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
__________________________________________________________________

PART 2: click
PART 3: click
PART 4: click
PART 5: click
PART 6: click
PART 7: click
PART 8: click

PART 9: click

PART 10: click

PART 11: click

PART 12: click

PART 13: click

PART 14: click

PART 15: click

PART 16: click

PART 17: click

PART 18: click

PART 19: click


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#2 Katia11

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Posted 07 September 2012 - 04:05 PM

Dun dun dun.... love it! Mara you are just amazing!
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#3 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 07 September 2012 - 04:36 PM

I've always wanted to write a stereotypical saloon scene! :thumbsup:

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
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#4 Katia11

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Posted 07 September 2012 - 04:46 PM

you are just too funny friend. :)
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#5 underwater

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Posted 07 September 2012 - 10:21 PM

Hey-o!
This is awesome. I love how you turned retroville = Retro Valley and Vortex->Tex (very clever). Nice little play on words with Emerald Isle-Emerald Ire too. :thumbsup:
Btw, you have an amazing knack for capturing both the pompously rich and the gross criminal types >.< But you probably knew that...

Favorite description:A vagrant on the floor licked the blade of his knife, while a giggling drunkard pounded discordant notes on the piano.
Can totally picture this!
Favorite dialogue:“I'm a fan of the law, when I don't have to follow it.”
Applause!


Can't wait to read more (especially wondering how you're going to turn this into a romance)!


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#6 Ang

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 02:56 AM

"I lied about not writing any more JN fics"

Yes, my dear, you did. (:

Absolutely stunning! Your writing style is so enjoyable to read, really! It isn't overly descriptive that drugs on and on -OR- one with too much dialogue and not enough description.

I could totally imagine the WHOLE scene. Westerns are fawkin' awesome. :rock:

“Anyway,” she continued, “you didn't come here to cower in fear of my caustic tongue and superior gunmanship. You came here with a job offer.”
Bravo! I could totally imagine a hit-man Cindy saying this ^

Seriously, this is AWESOME. I cannot wait to read more! This is a fantastic idea & am totally in wub with it. :wub:


PLEASE POST MORE ;D

*shot*
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#7 Emily

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 03:03 AM

Spectacular, Mara-san!! This is indulging reading I've encountered thus far! Keep up the awesome work, girl!! But just one point: you ARE aware that Jimmy is my fave, and it hurts my heart dearly should anything bad MAJOR happen to him, like lacerations or worse... I do hope you'll keep that in mind; I'm not telling you how to write this, just informing you of my preferences. ;) Can't wait for the next installment!! :thumbsup:
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#8 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 03:27 AM

But just one point: you ARE aware that Jimmy is my fave, and it hurts my heart dearly should anything bad MAJOR happen to him, like lacerations or worse...

You do realize that this fic is going to be a romance, right... :rolleyes:


~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
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#9 Emily

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 03:41 AM

Oops!! Guess I missed that! Then here's my response now: <3
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#10 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 03:53 AM

I could totally imagine a hit-man Cindy saying this ^

ROFLMAO...this sentence suddenly made clear to me how fundamentally absurd fanfiction is. Bravo, dearie, bravo.

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
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#11 ~~Megan~~

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 05:34 AM

This is a beautiful, beautiful, splendid, perfect AU and I am in love.

I'm sorry but I am just fangirling so hard over Cindy saying "Splendid" and I don't know why

I just hear her saying it to Eustace with a hint of sarcasm, making fun of his sophisticated accent, but it's just a tad too subtle for Eustace to catch

And ohmyword

It's so beautiful and perfect

*dies*
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#12 okmeamithinknow

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 07:12 AM

Well I approve!!!! I seriously love your writing my dear!!! When you write your first best-selling novel, I will definitely be the first in line to have it autographed.

~Crys~
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#13 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 07:28 AM

Well I approve!!!! I seriously love your writing my dear!!! When you write your first best-selling novel, I will definitely be the first in line to have it autographed.

GURRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLL I will sign it with my face. Sokka style.

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
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#14 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 07:57 PM

This is a beautiful, beautiful, splendid, perfect AU and I am in love.

Would you say that this Au is...gold? **shot forever for horrible periodic table pun**

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
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#15 Katia11

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Posted 08 September 2012 - 08:18 PM

:D
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#16 ~~Megan~~

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Posted 10 September 2012 - 02:41 AM

Would you say that this Au is...gold? **shot forever for horrible periodic table pun**

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =


This alternate universe is as golden as a fanfiction AU can get. :kawaii:
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#17 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 10 September 2012 - 09:46 PM

HEY-O. Here comes part 2. Hope y'all're ready to meet some new characters ;)


****************************

Far to the west, across miles of sand and wind-hewn crags, the sun rose and set and rose again on a quiet frontier town. At the end of a dusty street, past some flat-fronted houses, a church, and a tiny bank, stood another saloon. A wooden sign hung from the porch-roof, creaking back and forth in the breeze; it bore the words “Retro Valley Juke Joint” in stenciled block letters.

Inside, the saloon's owner was wiping down the mahogany bar. She was dark-skinned girl clad in a low-cut magenta blouse and ruffled skirt. Rouge colored her cheeks, and she wore her black ringlets pinned up in a bun. Her bracelets clinked against the glass bottles as she arranged them on the shelves.

“Oye, mami!” came a grating shout. “You never gonna believe this!”

The individual who burst through the saloon doors looked like he might be, for lack of a better term, one burrito shy of a combo plate. He was dressed in a ragged plaid shirt and denim overalls, and he held a pick-axe in one hand. His hair stood on end, and the amount of dirt on his face and arms was almost comical.

“Guess what?”

The proprietor rolled her eyes when she saw him. “Don't tell me. All your crazy prospectin' is finally on the verge of payin' off. You finally found the right spot to dig, and this time it's gonna be different. This time you're gonna strike it rich. Does that sound 'bout right? Or did you 'finally' realize you need to fix that loose screw in your head?”

“Loose screw? Ay caramba, Libby, how can you say that? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times – there's gold in them thar hills! Why won't you believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you, Señor Estevez. And I pray to the Lord Almighty that when you find this legendary gold, you have it melted down and made into a washtub.”

He stamped his foot. “I will find it, woman! And when I do, I'm gonna march in here with an armload of nuggets and dump 'em right on the counter. Then you'll see the error of your ways and apologize, right after you grab me by the britches and lay a big wet one on me.”

She snorted. “That's 'Miss Folfax' to you, Señor...and I'll do you one better. If you ever actually strike gold in that godforsaken patch o' desert, I'll marry your crazy Mexican backside and be done with it.”

He grinned. “I'm gonna hold you to that.”

Libby shook her head. “Anyway, now that we've got that cleared up, whaddya want? If this ain't your usual gold fever fandango, then why'd you come barrelin' in here? Is Butch face-down in the water trough again?”

“Nope. But there is a pistol-packin' chica dressed like a bandido outside, and she's tying up her horse to your porch.”

“Say what?”

Miss Folfax and Señor Estevez heard the clink of spurs well before their wearer appeared. Tex burst through the washboard doors and glared into the interior, as if daring any rowdy patrons to speak their minds. When she saw that the only occupants were a prettily-dressed barkeep and a mud-encrusted prospector, she relaxed a little.

“Welcome to Libby's Juke Joint!” called out the proprietor cheerfully. “What'll you be havin', Miss?”

Information on my target, thought Tex. She sauntered over and slapped a fistful of dollars onto the counter, and aloud she asked, “What's the most vile, gut-rotting concoction you sell in this place?”

“That'd be the 'Mule Skinner' – 100 Proof Flurp cut with cayenne powder and rotten saguaro and served in a rusty tankard.”

“Sounds disgusting. I'll take it.”

Miss Folfax set to work making the drink, humming to herself as she fished out a jar of cayenne from one of the cupboards. Señor Estevez pulled up a stool beside Tex.

“Where you hail from, señorita?” he asked, using his pickaxe as a back-scratcher. “Back East? I don't suppose you've heard any news about that big gold strike up in Arkansas...”

Libby conked him over the head with her stirring spoon. “If she's from back East, then I'm a beef-head Anglo sodbuster. Look how she's dressed! This girl looks like she was born in a saddle and spoon-fed gunpowder instead of mother's milk.”

Tex grinned. Saloons were always the best place to gather intel, and this was exactly the sort of woman she liked running in to: sassy, with wits enough to understand the world, but without the discretion to match. All Tex had to do was ask the right questions, and this loose-tongued strumpet would start handing out gossip like communion wafers at church.

“Lots of empty seats,” commented Tex, with a nonchalant glance around the room. “Business sluggish these days?”

Libby set the tankard in front of the outlaw. “You're just a touch early for the regulars,” she said. “'Course, in a town as small as this, we don't get much of a crowd even durin' peak hours. That's fine by me, though – this here's a Juke Joint, not some filthy cantina south of the border. We come here to drink with friends, not to fight.”

“Smart policy,” dead-panned Tex. After a pause, she cocked her head to one side. “Say, what’s the head count round here, anyway? I couldn't help but notice when I rode into town...it's not exactly downtown St. Louis.”

Miss Folfax looked to the Señor. “What would you say, Sheen? Can't be more 'n what...four dozen souls who live here year round?”

He nodded confirmation.

“That's all?”

“'Fraid so. If you're lookin' for action, you should head a few miles up the road, past Sagebrush Sally's ranch. There's a proper town there called Marble Orchard, with a bunkhouse, a workin' post office, a couple bordellos, an' enough liquor to keep you loaded to the gunwhales for as long as you've got coin.”

Tex eyed Libby over the rim of the mug. “Wow, sounds pretty lawless. It must be hard to keep order around here, being such wild territory and all. I feel for you.”

“Don't worry,” sniggered Señor Estevez, “this town's different. Safer than any one-horse pueblo in Mexico, that's for sure. Retro Valley is home sweet home, long as you don't mind having locos for neighbors.”

“Case in point,” drawled Libby, gesturing at the prospector. “But Sheen's right. Marble Orchard gets the criminal types. We just seem to get the loonies. Hardly surprisin' though, considerin’ our lawman is…well, he ain’t exactly the typical fare.”

 

Tex's grip tightened on her cup, and she crafted her next prompt carefully. “I don't know...I've run into more than my fair share of badge-wearing crazies over the years. I doubt yours is anything out of the ordinary.”
 

“You're just sayin' that 'cause you've never met Mr. Neutron,” snorted Libby. “He used to be some sort of genius gunsmith back East. Made all kind of gizmos and contraptions for the Union Army durin' the war. I can't imagine why he ditched his cushy life for a dusty, flea-ridden patch of scrub like this, but he did. He owns the whole town, you know, and much of the desert that borders it.” She shook her head. “He really is a wonderful man, and a fine hand with a gun, but it's like his mind is somewhere else.”

Tex made a mental note of 'fine hand with a gun'.

“More 'n just his mind, mami,” grinned the prospector. “When was the last time he spent a full day at the jailhouse? He's too busy chasing lightning in the desert and letting his hob-legged perro run after Farmer Wheezer's llamas!”

They both had a good laugh, and Tex cataloged away the information – she'd need to have a word with that farmer. Tex drained the tankard, then slid it back toward Miss Folfax. The outlaw had spun her exit lie before the dark-skinned woman even had the mug in hand.

“Thanks for the refreshments, Libs. I need to tend to my mount before he keels over from hunger – you mentioned a Mr. Wheezer? If he keeps animals, he must have some horse feed for sale. Where can I find him?”

“Up the road apiece. The Wheezers and their grange hands Oleander and Miss Emily run a good-sized farm near the river. You can't miss it.”

Tex tipped her hat at them, exchanged a farewell, and took her leave. Once outside, she untied her tawny-colored horse from the porch and sprang up into the saddle. The beast neighed grumpily.

“Easy there, Humphrey,” she said, scratching him behind the ears. “The trail's hot. It won't be long now.”

She rode him away at a canter, and Miss Folfax appeared behind her, waving a handkerchief in goodbye. “Don't be a stranger, girl!” she called. “Come back an' listen to me sing sometime!”

Tex felt a twinge of guilt. In a roundabout way, she had just manipulated a friendly young woman into aiding in a homicide. She quickly shook off the notion. It's no skin off that girl's back if the sheriff ends up at the bottom of the river...

Tex's hand drifted to her six-shooter. The Emerald Ire seemed to have a mind of its own, at times like these – it sang in its holster, a verse for every life it had taken. Tex had known that song once, but not anymore. It was a dirge now, and it had grown too long.

**************************

ERMAHGERD tell me what you thought :popcorn:


HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
-Why yes, Purple Flurp was totally an alcoholic beverage in the Old West :rolleyes:
-"Juke Joint" is term for an informal establishment featuring music, dancing, gambling, and drinking, primarily operated by African American people in the southeastern United States. Tons of these "freed slave saloons" popped up after emancipation in the rural south, where Jim-Crow laws generally prevented sharecroppers and other black workers from going to "whites only" establishments. By selecting this name for her business (instead of Saloon, Cantina, or Barrelhouse), Libby is not only paying homage to her roots, but also setting up her bar as a haven for people who are rejected elsewhere.
-Some colloquialisms:

  • Beef-head Anglo Sodbuster = Dumbass white boy farmer
  • loaded to the gunwhales = drunk off your ass
  • Marble Orchard = graveyard (a town with this name would've been very dangerous)
  • Bordello = brothel

-If you're confused about any of the Spanish words Sheen uses, just google them.

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
-P.S. I was watching part of Attack of the Twonkies last night, and when Cindy started auditioning with a song about being a fast-shooting cowgirl from Kalamazoo, I was like...whoa! This story is more canon than I thought! Time to do a happy giggling prospector's dance!

PART 3: click


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#18 Katia11

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Posted 10 September 2012 - 09:57 PM

:) there are no words..
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#19 Mara=^.^=

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Posted 10 September 2012 - 10:01 PM

:) there are no words..

I was thinking the same thing :rolleyes: I would like, however, to mention just how immensely thrilled I am to have finally used the sentence "there's gold in them thar hills!" in a piece of writing. Check that one off the ol' bucket list...


~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
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#20 Katia11

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Posted 10 September 2012 - 10:09 PM

Bahaha! You are a funny girl :)
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