Utterly Mad

Duncan

Grabbing the heavy crate full of what is essentially toxic deer bait, you go to hand it to someone. Nearly dropping the crate on your foot. *THUD* the crate shouted out as it slammed on the hard sandy path. Luckily it didn't shatter, behind you, you see your brother head into the saloon, and over in the distance you see your sister head into the general store.

And then there's you, with a crate of bait at your feet with a dumb look on your face. People are starting to stare at the beautiful Ricochet boy as if he'd become mentally handicapped from tonic abuse.

Flynn

Sunlight flooded the musty and dusty saloon, with the light revealing the thick dust particles that floated through the air like calm snow on a cold November day. It smelled of stale malt liquors, piss, with a hint of dried blood permeating the air. Upstairs you heard "escorts" whistling towards the more drunker patrons to a nice night with them, the slamming of piano keys boldly stood out against the loud chatter of its patrons, then there was the sound of the town drunkards pissing their time away in the small corner of the bar:

"Ja' fukn' wetalds you *hic* arre. I meahn I spent maih deys in dis ere' bar and what'd I git, no-tin' not a go-*vomiting*. *burrrp* n-nnot a gooshdurn ting!"

"Shit yer' mouth larnny, I don' wanna git toss-d ourt agave!"

"Baah, fuk you all."

He drunkenly stumbles towards the entrance, colliding into you before falling flat on his face as he passed through the doors.

On the other side of the bar there's some men and women gathered around a smelly and bloody table, with a man sitting on one side. Quickly stabbing the table, with his hand spread out where he is stabbing, barely missing his fingers and showing great control over where that knife goes... even without looking. He looks like he's chatting up some of them girls that pa' don't want you hanging around.

This man's opponent, looks pretty tough but his hands tell all. He's jittery, afraid, and before you know it- "GAHH FUCK!" blood leaks off the table, amassing other deep-red puddle around the table's left legs. The butch man then gets up from the table, sobbing and holding his gashed open finger, shaking violently as he walked out.

"Hey you, over at the entrance. You look pretty tough, wanna go a round!?", he arrogantly shouts at you holding up the saloon's Five Finger Fillet knife.

Amy

Swinging open the door, followed by the familiar ringing of the bell, you enter the quaint general store with a little bit of everything for day-to-day existence. Taking in it's dusty wooden smell as you walked past the small shelves containing: "Mr.Pooties Beans" "AJ Brand Health Tonic for Gingivitis" and "Sweeney Toad's Blood Candies: For Soar and Dry Throats".

In the back behind the counter you see Marley, a man with a handle bar mustache and the hair of a fancy pugilist. He looks up and a smile begins to emerge from that bushy blonde mustache that graces his well-chiseled face. "Well if it ain't [Ma']Mary-Ann's daughter. How is she doin' anyhow?", he politely asks you in that charming voice of his. He reaches under the counter, what ever he's grabbing at it sounds like its in a brown paper back. It might be your father's surprise.