A Writer, a Sheriff and a Brigand walk into a bar…

The Writer

Richard Castle stood alone on a weed cracked asphalt parking lot and looked up at a
partially lit neon sign that flickered on and off in the dark. The decrepit sign leaned a
little too much towards a swatch of roadway acting like a giant bug light, its sole
purpose to lure passing motorists into the windowless brick building that stood before
him. He did a quick three sixty to take in his surroundings, darkness prevailed. The
only things to be seen were the building, the sign and the swatch of roadway.

Had he been lured here? He couldn't remember. His car was nowhere to be seen. How
did he get here? Where was he? These questions swirled in his mind, he wanted to think
on it a moment but a sudden gust of wind blasted his eyes with grit and gravel and forced
him to seek refuge inside the building before him. The silence that followed as he slammed
the metal door shut on the howling gust of wind was profound.

He looked around the dimly lit interior and took in the bar's décor. It had a tired late
seventies early eighties look about it. Silver metal chairs with blue vinyl cushioned seats
sat around an assortment of chipped, simulated wood grain Formica topped tables. Red
pear shaped glass candle holders flickered in the center of each table, trying to imbibe a
sense of ambience to the sad place. It smelled of the stale spilt beer that marked the
carpeting, and of the years of cigarette smoke that stained the once white ceiling tiles to a
jaundiced yellow with surreal streaks of umber throughout.

He gave himself a shudder. He wanted to leave, but where would he go? He was lost.
At least here, he could get his bearings.

A long wooden bar against the far wall of the room drew him forward. As old as the place
seemed to be, the bar was well stocked. Multitudes of bottles gleamed and glistened as they
perched on glass shelving tiered across a giant mirror behind the bar. The mirror reflected
back the bottles and the room, and gave the area around the bar a respectability that the
rest of the room lacked.

He found himself a seat on the only barstool with its blue vinyl cover intact. Nope, as he sat
his hand found a split in the side and he could feel the cotton batting poking out. He swiveled
around in the stool to face the bar, and waited.

Ten minutes later, he was beginning to wonder if anyone was there, when he heard a noise in the back.

"Hello?" He called out. "Anybody there?"

He could hear footsteps becoming louder as they approached the front and he saw a head appear.
It seemed to hover just above the waist high slatted swinging double doors that separated the
bar from the back. The man looked at him for a moment before pushing through the doors, and
he waited till the doors stopped flopping back and forth before he spoke.

"Glad to see you could make it."

Rick eyed the short stocky, slightly balding man suspiciously. He was dressed in jeans, a well worn
black leather vest over a white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up. The man's barrel chest strained
against the buttons of both the shirt and vest. His ensemble was completed by a grease stained
apron tied around his waist and a bar towel tucked in at the edge.

"You were expecting me?" He asked. Even as he asked this question, part of him did not want to know
the answer.

"Sure, you and two others tonight."

'Two others?" He asked.

"Yeah, they'll be here soon enough. What can I get you to drink?"

As odd as things were, he felt a drink couldn't hurt till he could find out more, so he ordered.

"I'll have a Scotch and….," his voice trailed off as he reached for his wallet and found nothing. He frantically
dug around in all his pockets. Nothing, no cell phone, no keys and no wallet, not even a piece of lint…nothing.

"Sorry, I don't have any money on me." He told the barkeep.

"That's ok," the man replied. "Anything you want tonight is on the house."

"Ok…I'll have a Scotch and soda."

"Comin' right up." The man turned and grabbed a bottle off the shelf, poured up his drink and set it down
in front of him atop a cheap paper napkin.

"Thanks,"

"That's what I'm here for," he replied.

"And why am I here?" Rick asked the man.

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough," he answered enigmatically as he headed back through the swinging double
doors.