Hello to all. I haven't used the document manager in some time. In actuality I haven't even used Microsoft Word in some time. There's been no urge for me to write or to do anything. It's been a rough few years actually. But I have this idea here. Kind of the cliche, one man against the world soldier type. So let's see how it goes. Thank you for checking this out. And welcome, to Resurgence.

Chapter One:
Hard But Good People

"Joyce, gimme another whiskey, straight up, please?" She nodded in return, listening more to her husband and Stan Lentz arguing about their card game. Someone accused someone of hiding cards, but he was tuning it all out. He leaned forward onto the bar. It was a small, dingy place, where he went to get away from it all.

Lee's was the only bar in town. There was a small kitchen with one stove, a fridge, and a microwave. There was only one bathroom, and it always smelled like piss and bleach. It was little more than a broom closet, something he hated, but he never had to use it. He could go outside for that. As a matter o' fact most patrons did just that. Not that Joyce or Lee minded.

It was a town of about a hundred fifty people year round with one temperature—cold as the tits on a nun. Thankfully the Bobbies kept a space heater going in the back corner. That's where old man George Cooper would rest his tired bones, basking in the heat he was not privileged to have in his trailer.

Cooper had to have been close to eighty years old. That's why they called him Old George, or Old Man Cooper. He'd been amongst the first to live in town, a town that didn't even have a name.

It had no postal address or post offices. It had one small market and a gun store. The gun store doubled as a tackle shop. Bullets and Bait the owner, Kenny Travis, called it. Every one shopped there, because everyone hunted and fished. It was the way of the town. It was their way of life. And a good life it was.

One week out of the year the weather would warm up, no hotter than seventy-two (the hottest recorded day in the town's history and it was still talked and raved about by Old George, for he was the only one left to have remembered it. He'd say, "I ain't never been so warm in my life. Ain't never seen deer that many and ain't never seen fish that big."), now it would grow to a mild sixty-five. But that's all you could expect up in the mountains like that. Cold weather and hard people. But hard people, he had found, were good people. Good people with no secrets or ill intentions, just people living their lives. That was what he'd been looking for.

"Here ya go Tiger." Joyce put down the whiskey. Straight up, only ice.

"Ah, thank you. Needed this today."

Joyce tilted her head to the side. She was pretty. Thirty-seven, pale skin with extremely red hair. Not orange, red. Like the colour of a rose or blood. The good kind of red. And she had tons of freckles. He could see why Lee had married her. She was strong, a helluva shot with a .30-.30, and pretty. A naturally good woman as well. Plus she made one strong drink.

"Rough day, Jim?" She asked, picking up the glass Hank Royce had left lying next to Jim. She grimaced at the grime around the edge and the oily finger prints contoured to the sides of the glass. Waiting for his reply, she picked up a dishrag and began washing it thoroughly.

He shrugged. "It's been a rough week. All my trees are rotted from those damn beetles during our siesta and now I'm paying for it in shitty firewood." The Siesta is what they called the warm period. Everyone would hold picnics and the kids, how few there were, would play together. Once they had opened a small pool, but soon found that to be a bad idea, the water froze when the week cut short.

Joyce nodded, "Yeah, Lee and I are having that problem too. We are lucky to have that damn heater over there. Hey, George! Get away from the front of that or your pants'll catch fire!" George waved her off and went back to his card game with Lee, Stan Lentz, and Carl Mannihan. "Electric bill is through the roof though." She shrugged. "What can ya do?"

"Not a whole helluva lot. Say do you know who took the Cup this year?" Jim asked, downing his drink slowly, savoring ever moment of it.

Joyce kept cleaning the glass. "No idea. Radio's just shootin' static, busted antenna up on the mountain we think. Last time we went into Bayside we forgot to ask."

Bayside was the closest town with a post office and supermarket. That's where their town got the supplies they needed. And during the first three months after the Siesta, there was no passage to Bayside by car or truck. The mountain always snowed over. But they got by.

"Yeah I was having problems with mine too. Radio hasn't cut out like that before. Wonder what's goin on up there?"

Shrugging, Joyce said, "No idea. But you know how they are up there in Riverview, an odd bunch. If you ask me they—HEY! Stanley Lentz you put that crowbar down! Where the hell did you even get that from?" Joyce slammed down the glass and her cloth and marched towards the poker table.

Jim shook his head and took another gulp of his drink. He watch the cubes clink around in the glass. It was nice to not have to worry about anything, except for those damned trees, he thought bitterly. He looked outside and saw it had begun snowing again. "Eh shit," he said more to himself than anyone in particular. He'd better start heading home. Even in the 4x4 it was rough riding in the snow. He left a few bucks on the bar and went to get his jacket when he felt a rush of cold air. It blew his hat across the room. Someone walked in.

But everyone in town knew to open the door softly and slowly, to avoid that cold mountain air from bursting forth like a drunken, abusive uncle. It was someone from out of town. And Jim got an uneasy feeling. He wrapped his hand around his glass and slowly sat back down. Waiting.

Everyone stopped talking and stared at the stranger. He was tall and lanky, dressed in a black overcoat. He radiated pretension. He took his fancy, expensive leather gloves off slowly and looked around the room, scoffing softly at the sight. The apprehension between the townsfolk and the newcomer could be cut with a knife.

"Who owns this," he paused slightly trying to come up with a word for it, "place." It rolled off his tongue like a dying snake sliding off the side of a riverbed, and floating down stream.

Joyce straightened up. "It's my place." Her anger was not unnoticed. Joyce was a very patient and compassionate woman. She had to be patient to own the only bar and eatery in town. But her anger went unparalleled when invoked. It was legendary. And it was present.

"Ah, good. I'll have a… oh bollocks what do they call it… a…" While stumbling over his words the door opened again. And someone else walked in. By the sound of heels, Jim figured it was a woman. He hoped he was wrong.

"I'm sorry for my colleagues foul attitude, ma'am," the woman said. "He'll have a gin and tonic and, if you please, may I have seltzer water?"

"Fuck," Jim cursed under his breath, signaling to Joyce, who had worked her way behind the bar again, for another whiskey. She poured his first and then beckoned the other two to a table at the other corner of the room.

The man began to speak again but before uttering something stupid, the woman punched him in the arm. There was no more talk from him and they sat down.

Joyce brought them their drinks and the woman thanked her. Rounding the bar again, Joyce leaned low close to Jim so she could whisper. "What's goin' on shoog? You know them don't you?"

Jim put his head between his elbows that were leaning on the bar. His hand still around the glass. "You know last Siesta when I broke Fred Dallas' jaw?"

"Yeah?"

"You had better get ready for something just like it to happen again," he warned.

"Ah… I'll let Lee and the boys know. Just do me a favor, hun?"

He glanced up at her.

"Try not to bust up Ol' Albert up too much, huh? I don't think he'll take another fight." She nodded her head towards the big mounted skull of a moose, just above the window and broken jukebox.

Jim smiled slightly and then glanced over at the boys staring from the poker table. All of them held their hands on their six shooters. "Calm them down over there for me, Joyce. They'll just get themselves killed. These aren't the kind of people you walk away from a fight with empty handed."

Joyce quickly glanced apprehensively at the stump where Jim's left hand should have been. He didn't have his hook attached. It was in the truck. He preferred to keep it off. He felt more comfortable without it. But she nodded and went over to them. He saw all of the men, Old George, Lee, Stan, and Carl visibly tense and then move their hands from the grips of their revolvers. None of them stopped staring at the strangers however. Joyce made her way back to Jim.

"Remember, hun, I got Betty Sue behind the bar here." Betty Sue was a .84 Caliber Double Barrel Muzzleloader with a 1600 grain bullet that had been passed down from her great grandfather to her grandfather and so on. It was one hell of a rifle, and though obsolete, it would blow a man clear in half.

"Thanks," he said and got ready for it. He heard one of the chairs slide out and footsteps approach him. "I'd back up if I were you, Joyce."

A finger tapped his shoulder. He didn't turn around.

"Hi, Harry," a female voice spoke.

Jim grimaced. "Don't know anyone named Harry. You got the wrong person."

"Oh really? So what is your name?"

"He's Jim Hoffer." Joyce said coldly, her hand moving underneath the bar. Jim shook his head slightly. She stopped.

"No he isn't!" The man stood up, Jim heard the chair fall back and hit the floor. All the boys stood up just as fast with their hands flying to their sides. "He's Harry Potter and he owes me a damn good explanation."

Jim heard the woman mutter underneath her breath. For Merlin's sake, Ron.

She then addressed everyone. "I'm sorry for my brother's rudeness, please, we only need to speak with our friend Harry hear-"

"My name ain't Harry," Jim said, finishing his drink and standing up, still not taking his hand off the glass. "And I ain't your friend." Jim was a tall, strong man. Built like a tank. He could easily lift a decent sized tree trunk off the ground and into his truck by himself. His jaw was square and large under a burly beard and his hair was black and unruly. He was only about twenty-eight but there were scars riddled across his face, making him appear to be twenty years older. His hair was graying and he was blind in one eye where a large, viciously pink scar ran through it. But his other eye, his good one, was a furious and alluring green. Cat-like most would say. And then there was his missing hand. It was more from halfway up his forearm to the hand that was gone, but he just said it was his hand. No one in town knew how it had gone missing. They just knew that sometimes he wore a clamp or a hook. Once, drunkenly at a Siesta, he'd shown them a prototype for a knife he'd been working on.

He rounded on the pair. "And I suggest y'all leave, before you get hurt." Jim was a head taller than Ron, his shoulders at least double the other mans. But, Ron was stubborn and pushed past the woman, walking right up to Jim. He poked him in the chest.

"I don't have to take any shite from you! He can be the Boy-Who-Lived all he wants but he is gonna take the time to talk to us!" The man's face was as red as Joyce's hair. He was shouting now, spittle flying from his jowls like a hungry lion. But he was nothing compared to the mighty king of the jungle.

"I suggest you take your finger off me," Jim said coldly, glancing down at Ron's finger still poking him in the chest. The redheaded man grinned, trying to be menacing, but it made him look half autistic.

"And what are you going to do if I don't? You don't have the balls! You never did unless you had help from us. What-Are-You-Going-To-Bloody-Do? You only have one hand and one eye!" Ron accentuated each point by poking Jim again and again. The room went absolutely silent and still.

Jim heard Joyce suck air in through her teeth. She said, "He warned you pal."

Ron looked over Jim's shoulder at her. "Shut yer fuckin' trap you cun-" But he never finished his thought. As a matter of fact he didn't talk a week after that sentence was uttered. It happened incredibly fast.

Jim swung with all his might, whiskey glass in hand, and connected with Ron's temple, next to the ear. With the pain and tinnitus, his equilibrium off kilter, Ron staggered, and Jim grabbed him by his neck, sweeping his legs with an easy kick.

Jim's hand was already swelling from the force of the impact and there was still glass imbedded in his skin, but his rage took over. He picked Ron clear up off the floor, and even higher than that. Jim had to look up to see into the man's eyes. They were filled with absolute terror and excruciating pain. He tried to yelp but Jim's hand just clenched tighter. The glass was cutting into Ron's neck, sending small streams of blood over Jim's fingers and onto his shirt sleeve. Ron kicked out but it had no effect.

"I could kill you. One snap of my wrist and you'd go limper than a buck on opening day. You understand where we are at? We aren't fucking friends-" He pointedly looked at the woman, stared her down. He saw her reach to her side but froze suddenly. Her eyes were filled with fear as well.

"I wouldn't do that, shoog." It was Joyce. She was holding the double barrel tight to her shoulder. Thumb on the hammer, ready to make it go BOOM any second. "I don't know what you're reachin' for, but you don't strike me as someone who knows a lot about guns so let me tell you about this. This is Betty Sue, she's an old relic, somethin' they don't use no more. It's a double barreled .84 caliber muzzleloader. You know why they don't use it no more? Course you don't. They don't use it no more 'cause it hurts like a sonuvabitch. It kicks like a buck in heat. But she's strong. I watched my granddaddy put a hole in a big old Kody. This bear was the size of a small car. The hole my granddaddy put in it was bout the size of a basketball. I personally have turned a mountain lion into pulled pork with it. And the best part?" Joyce pulled the hammers back. "At this range I can't miss even if I tried."

The woman turned and looked back, staring down the barrel of four different Colt .44s. The numbers were stacked against her, and that her brother's face was turning purple. His kicking was slowly. She gulped and removed her hand from her waistband.

Joyce smirked. "Good girl," she chastised as if the woman was a dog sitting down or a horse that stopped bucking around.

"You're the one with no balls, Ron Weasley. Don't ever touch me again." Jim looked at the woman. "Here," he tossed the man at her feet and crouched down to look him in the face. "Now get the fuck out of my bar and get the fuck out of my town."

Ron gasped for air and began fumbling through his overcoat. Jim lifted a heavy, booted foot into the air and brought it down quickly onto the man's leg. There was a sickening snap and Ron began screaming. Horrified, his sister grabbed him under the arms and began hauling him out of the bar. Jim turned back to the bar and began picking pieces of glass out of his hand.

"Harry," The woman said from the door.

"My name is not Harry, Ginny Weasley, my name is Jim. You do best to remember it. And do not come back here." He turned his good eye at her and stared her down, like a bull to an unlucky matador.

The woman back out the door and was gone.

Joyce handed Jim a bag of ice and his hat. He thanked her and tipped his hat at the boys. While walking towards the door, Joyce called his name. He stopped and turned to her.

"Who were they? I know it's nun-my-business, but why did they wanna talk to you and why'd they keep callin' you Harry? I ain't seen you mad like that in a long time."

With a tired blink Jim said, "Joyce, it's a long story and I'm too tired to tell it. But if they show up 'round here again," he looked at everyone, "know that they are extremely dangerous and blow 'em to hell." Everyone watched somberly as he walked out of the door and into the snow driven night. The sound of his truck broke the silence and faded off slowly into the distance, up into the mountain towards his home.

Joyce looked around the bar. The chair was broken, she was short a whiskey glass, and there was blood across the bar and floor. Plus those two strangers hadn't paid for their drinks. Someone let out a low whistle. "Yeah, you can say that again," she said. And then she looked at the men all standing around the poker table. "The hell you all doin'? Get over here and help me start moppin' this shit up!"

Now that you've read it what do you think? I'm working on the next chapter but I want to update weekly rather than when it's done so I don't burn myself out. Ideas? Questions? Comments? Ladiesthatwanttothrowthemselvesatme?... wait what?