DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

Bounty Hunter
By Rusty Dillingham


--Chapter Twelve – Lawless--

Beautiful. It were beautiful.

He was in a bed, brand new silk pajamas coloring himself over gray-and-black fur. Two lovely young things, scantily-clad and crawling all over him, were in his company, and every hand held a bottle of something brown and wonderful. In addition they fed him with a never-ending supply of expensive cigars, though he couldn't remember ever smoking before. Oh well – great time to start. And this, he knew, was only the beginning of it all. Soon the real fun would begin. It was heaven. It was bliss. It was wet.

Wet?

Jagged sputtered and swore loudly as somebody dumped a massive bucket of water over his face, and his delightful dream faded into obscurity. "What in the holy goddamn name of shit--!!"

"Get your smelly ass up!" boomed the bartender of the fine establishment the hyena had been sleeping behind, disposing of the bucket and procuring another, much fuller one. "You're fixin' my wall this mornin', and you ain't leavin' 'til it's done good and fine! That stunt you pulled yesterday, plowin' through my business with your little floaty-bike, I oughta tan your whole family's hide for what you done!"

"WHAT!?" screeched Jagged, dripping wet. "I'LL RIP Y—"

Splash came a tsunami of dirty water onto his face, and Jag quickly looked like he were suffering a seizure. "ARRRGHH!!"

"Aw, shut up, you could use the bath. Now get up and get over here. I got all the tools and wood you're gonna be usin' for the next coupla days all set for you. Up and at 'em, sunshine."

The man began plodding away while Jagged furiously struggled to get to his feet to wring this bastard's neck, splattering about in what was quickly becoming muddy sand and dirt. His boots slipped in the ground and his drenched head banged into the wooden wall of the bar. "Damn it!"

He finally managed to stand up straight, took one step, and promptly dunked his foot into a third water bucket that had been sitting there quietly. "I hate this whole place so f—"

"HURRY IT UP!" came a yell from the front of the building. "And just so you know, I'm expectin' payment from you for using my bar as a pillow back there."

Screw this. There was no way he was sticking around here all year. In spite of his pleasant dreams and dirty, pissed-off state, he had not forgotten the job he needed to do, and there was no telling where Fang the Sniper might have been by this time – besides north, which was all the information Jag had gotten out of this dump. If he could get moving quickly, perhaps he could have him before the day's end. Jagged stalked around the side of the building, slapping his fur and shaking the bucket off his motorcycle boot, swearing as hard as he could the whole time. "Stupid piece of shit zone. I can't believe I took this job. I could be home watching TV or something. I'm gonna miss the goddamn Puppy Bowl again. This must be what it's like to be in hell. I sw—"

Jagged stopped walking when he reached the front of the place, where he had left his new airbike, the same airbike that had been a part of his dreams earlier in the night. His new pride and joy. His new plaything. It was gone.

"What the fuck," he blathered, flabbergasted.

He looked up and down the adjacent street. No sign of it. He scanned the top of buildings around him. Not there. "What the fuck...!"

He knew he'd left it here. He could still see its various imprints in the sand. But it wasn't here. "Are you shitting me!?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the bartender fooling with the gigantic hole in the front of his business. "Hey—HEY!"

"Hmmgh?" rumbled the big man, turning around.

"Where's my airbike!?" the hyena shrieked, pointing at the location of the anomaly.

"What airbike?"

"The airbike I blew through your stupid fucking bar with! Remember now, idiot!?"

The bartender stared at the sight on the ground for a second, one lazy eye oozing around and not focusing on anything. "Is that where you left it?"

"OF COURSE THAT'S WHERE I LEFT IT!" Jag roared, sending a thunder through every nearby building. "WHERE THE HELL IS IT!?"

No reply for a few seconds. "That's funny."

"IT'S WHAT!?"

"Are you sure that's where you left it?"

Jagged's very fur began to bristle as his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists and the whites of his eyes became so red it must have looked like they were bleeding.

"Reckon it musta grew legs and walked away. Now get to work." And the man went back inside his bar.

It took every ounce of self-control he'd ever attained through his whole life put together, but Jagged somehow refrained from running in there after him and flaying him alive. Instead, he flailed his arms about, cursing his luck at the sky for all he was worth, wondering inwardly when this nightmare would end. It was one thing after another, out here. Leave it to himself to forget to take the stupid keys out of the damned thing's ignition or something. "Stupid fucking goddamn miserable dick-grabbing—"

In his irate state, he had not noticed a suspicious-looking rabbit lingering near him – at least not until the wiry fellow spoke up. "Excuse me, kind sir."

Jagged whirled around, coming all too close to punching this guy in the face before he could stop himself. "What!?"

"I was standing over here, and I couldn't help but take notice of your terribly unfortunate predicament."

"So what!?"

"Well," sleazed the strange-looking fellow, sparkling bucktooth jolting with every word, "I believe I can perhaps help you out of this mess. Sound good to you?"

"What the fuck ever. I don't want any bibles or newsletters or whatever the hell you're pawning—"

"On the contrary, my friend, I happen to be selling a machine I believe you'd well enjoy. I'm a fellow who looks out for the little people who go through the misfortunes this terrible society might give them. See, I run that little lot over there, where I sell various collectible vehicles of excellent value for your dollar."

The hyena spared a short glance down at the place, then looked back at this stranger.

"Well, if you're interested, mayhaps we could work out a deal that sees you on your way? I sincerely doubt you'd prefer to stay here and help old Chip with those many, many repairs, now, would you?"

Jagged stared down at him silently.

"Yes, well, ahem. If you'll follow me, please."

Jagged watched the little man start off. The rabbit gestured to him, and the hyena reluctantly followed, entirely uncertain of where this was headed.

When they reached the sight the rabbit had referred to, a small lot with a half-dozen beat-up junkers sitting around collecting dust, the salesman pointed at what looked to be an airbike. It wasn't as big as Dry Horn's, with a smaller engine and seat, but it looked like it could do the job. "Yes, I just got this in a few days ago. Unfortunately, no one around here is very interested in such a fine vessel, despite its low price. Philistines, all of them. None of them have anything resembling a fine taste, which I'm sure you have, as that wonderful machine you owned was a remarkable specimen of—"

"How much do you want for this chunk of shit?" interjected Jagged impatiently. He had work to do, and he had to get moving fast.

The rabbit quieted abruptly, watching the hyena with his brow furrowed. He looked back at the airbike. "Well, it had an original price of four thousand—"

"WHAT!?"

"Ahem!" coughed the salesman. "Let me finish, friend. That was when they brought it here, but I'm beginning to believe that it won't sell at such a price."

"No shit it won't sell at such a price. That's highway fuckin' robbery."

The rabbit's brow furrowed again. "Which is why I'm willing to drop the price to two thousand."

Jagged outright glared at him, the grotesque scars near his eyes scrunching. "That's almost as much as my freaking house cost."

"You must live in a very pleasant abode."

There was a long silence from the hyena. Jagged stepped away and curled himself onto the machine's seat, seeing if he could get comfortable. The leather felt old, and his ass had become well-acquainted with both old and new leather by this point, since he'd practically lived on motorcycles since he'd been a kid. The handlebars were too close to his body, and the whole craft felt like it was for someone half his size. Plus, there was a catastrophic problem in weight distribution – he could feel the back of the bike sink lower into the sand beneath them, as the seat was too far back to provide an even weight when the rider was on.

"So?" queried the rabbit, putting his black nose far too close to Jagged's face for comfort. "You like, friend? Hmm?"

"No."

"Oh, well, I'm sure you'll grow accustomed to it. It's a very popular model in Starlight City."

Jagged rolled his eyes and tried to get comfortable again. No dice. This thing almost felt like it were supposed to have more parts on it. The seat felt like it wasn't even supposed to be on this machine – like it had been recently replaced. Strange. The handlebars looked like they belonged on a completely different airbike as well. "I guess I don't have much choice."

"Glad to hear it. So, how will you be paying?"

Jagged blinked. He hadn't thought of that. Oh shit. "Uh—"

The rabbit's expression began to turn dour. "You can pay, correct?"

"Of course I can pay, you jackass jackrabbit. Err, uh—"

The rabbit watched him silently, suddenly looking very unimpressed.

Jagged watched back, then hurried to get out his cell phone. He dialed a number and placed it against his ear. "Hey, Tim, it's Jag."

Silence.

"No, it's Jag. ... Jag. ... JAGGED, damn it! Can—JAGGED, DAMN IT!! No, I-- ... Yes, I know I owe you twenty dollars. ... Goddamnit, shut up! ... Shut up! ... What? ... I didn't sleep with your fucking wife!! I— argh, shut up and listen! Just—shut up! Shut up and listen for a sec, okay? God. Listen as hard as you can. I need an advance on my next couple of paychecks."

There was a large amount of yelling from the phone's tiny receiver. The rabbit stood there, staring at the hyena.

"Yeah, I know. ... I know. ... Damn it, I know!! Okay! Okay! Just do it. Go tell the boss. ... Of course you can do it! Just have them put the money into my account. It's easy. They do it all the time in the movies and fanfiction. Huh? ... Whaddya mean you can't do that!? You stupid little-- ... All you have to do is go ask the boss! It's easy, you just gotta grow a pair. Sh-- What? ... I gotta use it to buy an airbike."

More yelling.

"I am not the stupidest goddamn man who ever lived. Go tell that to your mom-- ... I know what the hell I'm doing! ... See-- ... SHUT UP! ... I just need the money for this and that's it! ... Oh, come on! ... Just—N-- ... Liste-- ... Get your goddamn stupid monkey-brained autistic ass in there and do it already! I'm pretty certain I outrank you or whatever. ... YES I DO! ... Yeah, well, fuck you too. Hey, while you're talking to the boss, ask him if I can have a raise. ... Hello? Hello!? If you hung up on me, I'm gonna set your asshole on fire the next time I s—" And a loud dial tone began buzzing in his ear.

Jagged flipped the phone shut, irritated and disappointed all at once. "Jerk."

He sat there, looking morbidly confused. What to do... What to do? The rabbit was standing there and looking at him wordlessly, and Jagged felt his face flush from frustration, anger, frustration, confusion, and frustration. Damnit, damnit, damnit. Gotta do something, gotta do something, gotta DO SOMETHING--

Suddenly he remembered the GUN credit card. He tried to remember how much of it he'd blown on booze, but they always had large limits, and there certainly should have been enough left on there for an expense like this. And they probably wouldn't be upset if he used it now anyway for this. Nothing bad ever came from flagrant usage of credit cards anyway, and it wasn't like Jagged would have been too down in the dumps if something did go wrong as a result of his mishandling of their money. Or at least that's what he believed.

"Can you take this?" asked the hyena, holding up the fancy little gold-colored card.

The rabbit stared for a moment, then snatched it. "Absolutely, friend. I'll be back in a little bit. I'll have to find a place to, ah, use it, so you sit tight and I'll clear this through the nearest machine and grab the necessary paperwork."

And the salesman hurried away. Jagged sat there. He crossed his arms, quickly feeling his eyelids grow heavy.

An hour later, he awoke with a start. The rabbit hadn't returned. Jagged snorted and spat, rubbing his eyes and wondering what the hell the hold-up was.

It wasn't until then that he thought to himself – Hadn't he already tried to use that card around here before...?

He looked around. Townspeople were walking past and giving him strange looks. But he didn't see the rabbit among them, and he felt something in him start to grow hot with aggravation.

"Hey!" Jagged barked at one of them. "Where'd the sleazy little doofus who runs this lot go?"

"Chip owns that lot," the man replied hesitantly.

Jagged thought to himself. Wasn't Chip that bartender? "But, what about that... rabbit... dude—"

"Him? He got outta town about an hour ago." The man hurried on his way.

Jagged paused silently. But he still has my—

He took out his cell phone and glanced at it.

312 Missed Calls

Missed Call 1 – GUN Finance Department, 4:04 PM

Missed Call 2 – GUN Finance Department, 4:04 PM

Missed Call 3 – GUN Finance Department, 4:04 PM

Missed Call 4 – GUN Finance Department, 4:05 PM

Missed Call 5 – GUN Finance Department, 4:05 PM...

"Ah, crap."


The rain had let up by the time Fang saw New Mettle draw up on the horizon. He stopped the Queen at a rise and leered down at the settlement from a rise, watching it carefully. There was a good deal of movement to speak of, which meant that he might be able to blend in better, but he knew his face was well-known by people who had reason to not like it. He could hope all he wanted that no one would recognize him, but he would expect it as well. To do otherwise would be foolish, and he'd been in this game too long to have excuses for his personal screw-ups, so he'd solve that problem by not allowing a potential screw-up to come close to happening.

He was near. He could feel it by now. Claw was running out of places to hide, and Fang had him cornered. Down in that town, he would take the bounty for all he was worth.

The Queen's engines grumbled, and Fang began to make his way to the nearest street.

Hondo the Scorpion sat outside the Black Jack, New Mettle's favorite watering hole, as far as getting hammered went. He rocked back and forth in the seat, his eyes roaming up and down across every woman who passed by, to their obvious displeasure. He chewed on a toothpick and looked thoroughly bored, index finger tapping away at the grip of the little 8mm semiautomatic holstered on his belt and wishing he could put it to use. The new policeman – or Town Marshal, whatever the hell he said he was – could make a nice target, but Hondo and his buddies hadn't found a good opportunity to practice his aim on that boy without anybody else knowing. Rather than lamenting his inability to shoot something or make some money the easy way, he occupied his time with a front row view of all the young ladies – many of whom were a good number of years underage – forced to walk around the wooden boardwalks with drooling sleazebags like him present. It wasn't too bad a day, all in all.

He was just watching Tara the Fox's ass move away from him when he saw an airbike down the sandy boulevard. There were plenty of airbikes around New Mettle, but this one was unfamiliar. Hondo knew damn well who belonged in town and who didn't, so he found his attention more drawn to it than the varying volumes of voluptuous vixenry. The airbike's rider steered the craft into a distant parking lot.

Hondo slowly retrieved the toothpick from his fangs and flicked it away, eyes locked tight on where the machine had disappeared. Seconds later, he saw a man in a brown outback-style hat emerge from behind a building, and he felt his mouth go dry, then suddenly water in anticipation. Someone new and unfriendly had come to town. Off the seat he curled. Down the opposite side of the street, he made a hand gesture to someone, before stepping in to the Black Jack as inconspicuously as he could.

The town felt strange to Fang. It was a stark contrast to Sand Hill's other places of civilization. New Mettle wasn't an old settlement. It seemed new and colorful, with fresh-built wooden storefronts lining the sides of the main street, and he could hear music and laughter from nearby bars and casinos, but while it had just been born, it wasn't being well-taken care of, and there were more unscrupulous-looking people around than there were decent-seeming folks. It almost made him miss the slummy part of Station Square he made his own home in, especially when he began to feel eyes on him. He stepped quickly down the boardwalk, but not too quickly as to bring too much attention to himself. He didn't want to look like he was in a rush, and he had to keep a sharp eye out for any sign of that miserable mole anyway. There were too many places that little coward could hide around here.

He stopped near the Black Jack bar, sparing a small glance in through a nearby window out of habit, then opened the old wooden door and stepped in. Another damn bar, he thought irritably. He didn't like visiting so many bars in so short a time, but the people he hunted for a living seemed to love them (and many seemed to practically live in them), so they made good check-in spots, of a sort.

It wasn't very loud in there, something Fang normally would have preferred, but lots of noise helped a man blend in. Some people talked quietly at new-looking circle tables amongst themselves, but Fang saw some patrons look his way, their stares lingering a little too long to leave him feeling entirely comfortable, then their lines of sight drifted back to what they were doing. Fang ignored them and stepped up to the bar, taking a seat and gesturing to the bartender, a young, short, mouse-like fellow. "Hey."

"Yessir?"

Fang's mouth felt like sandpaper after all the riding he'd been doing. His body as a whole felt stiff and wooden, but he could not rest too long. Not here. "Just water."

He heard chuckling behind him, and quelled his immediate frustration. His face turned a noticeably red color, and it wasn't entirely from humiliation.

"Two bucks, sir."

Fang looked in his wallet, and while he was grabbing for a pair of bills, he suddenly realized how little money there was in there. He was almost broke by now – he had to finish this job soon somehow.

The bartender left to fetch the drink, leaving the weasel-wolf to himself. Fang watched him go, then looked at the various glasses and bottles stacked together neatly behind the bar. Leave it to this shithole to keep itself looking nice while the rest of the town flounders.

He took a swig of water when the man returned, then let his thoughts drift to the woman.

The woman who had helped him when he'd so pathetically asked for it. Fang thought he should have felt humiliated, but oddly, he didn't. Never before had he been bestowed such an act of humanity by another person. He was used to people being afraid of him, or thinking he wasn't as tough-looking as his reputation bragged – before the bounty hunter would get down to business and put those types on the floor, anyway. To see someone help him filled him with an anxiety, a feeling of newness much like New Mettle seemed to have.

He wondered where her husband was. A woman should not be alone in these wild lands and so far from helping hands. A small part of him considered for a moment the prospect of going back there to check on her once he had Claw, provided that jackass was here – but then he thought, why? She had taken care of herself this long. He quickly felt foolish for even thinking about doing such a thing. He wondered if he were losing his nerve.

Was it an attraction? Perhaps. Even in the few moments he'd known her, he could tell she was a person whose beauty was deeper than physical appearance. She had dreams, she wanted a good home for her kids. They were qualities good people had – good people he wasn't used to dealing with. He had gotten along with her well, something that had almost never happened before between he and another woman. His anxiety and unfamiliarity with them had been blatant, but she hadn't seemed to mind. But she was married, or so she had said, and he chastised himself for thinking of her.

But still he thought of her for some reason.

Fang absent-mindedly glanced to his side, towards the room's various tables, jiggling his drink silently until he focused on the nearest one and the rough-looking man sitting at it.

Hondo the Scorpion's dark red, wide-brimmed hat rose until his crude visage became visible, and their gazes met. Malice colored Hondo's eyes.

Fang felt his fur bristle, and he looked back down at the glass in front of him.

He began to remember what exactly he was doing here. An unnerving feeling flowed through him as he realized the danger he was in, and he knew he had to get this over with quickly before something happened. After a short glance to make sure the gun in his holster was still there, lest he be caught up the creek without a paddle, he waggled his fingers at the bartender in a 'come hither' motion.

"Yessir?"

Fang kept his voice very low, suddenly well-aware of the eyes on him again. "Has a mole been through here recently?"

The bartender rested his hands on the bartop and thought.

"Yessir. Fella's been comin' in here from time to time. Seems like a sad little sort."

"Is that a fact?" Fang's brow furrowed. A sad little sort? Whatever.

"Yessir. I do believe he's stayed over at the Palm Hotel. That's down Fuller Street, here. Just past the, uh, marshal's office—"

"The what?" Fang asked.

"Nevermind. Anyway, I think he's still there. He makes his livin' around here somewhere's, but I hear he heads into Station Square for a time. Not sure why. Doesn't look like a man who does bad deeds, but I guess they come's in all sizes."

Fang felt a high run through him. Just like that, he was closer than ever, and that familiar feeling he got whenever a bounty was near his grasp struck him ten-fold. It was time to bring this hunt to its finish. He eased himself from the seat. "Thanks—"

--And turned to the door to see a black-clad javelina standing silently.

Hell, he cursed inwardly.

The brown-furred, boar-like man was looking right at him, and had his hand close to a large, black pistol holstered below his right hip. Juarez the Javelina's smoldering expression made the whole bar shut up like a lit match that had just had a cup of water dumped over it. Fang could only stare back, grinding his teeth and feeling his muscles tense up. Normally he was cool and collected in the face of adversity, for this time, for some odd reason, he felt a gnarled feeling of aggression come to life within him.

"The great Fang the Sniper," Juarez said through a derisive snarl. His dark eyes were alive with contempt. "We are blessed with fortune, today. You are no' smart to bring yourself here, muchacho. This place, it is a hornet's nest, no? Killed, many people are. Sticking their noses where they did not belong, they were."

Fang said nothing. He heard a chair scoot back, and Hondo the Scorpion slowly rose to his full height, sweaty palm near his gun.

"Bad news, bounty hunter," laughed the scorpion poisonously. "Your shit just hit the fan."

At a different table, another gunfighter rose, and then another. Fang studied them each well, and all of them looked mean and more than ready for trouble. A lot of bullets could fly from those hands, more than he could handle in this small space. He remained silent, despite Juarez's stoic hatred and Hondo's cackling.

He remembered what the woman had told him – to watch out for Juarez. More importantly, he had not forgotten her sad request.

Fang's nerves hardened. There might have been a bounty on Juarez and these goons, but he didn't find it in himself to care. She and her family needed—No, from what he'd observed, they deserved a safe home, and having a group of cutthroat thugs like these around didn't help. He presumed the javelina to be the de facto leader among these gunslinging wretches, and if he could take him out...

"Fang the Sniper is quiet," Juarez continued. "I do not think he is so great. Always he shoots from nowhere. Can he shoot from somewhere at men with guns?"

The gunfighters spread themselves out, all eyes on Fang the Sniper. The tension in the room froze as those not involved made distance from the scene.

There was a long period of silence from the bounty hunter.

Hondo's fingers came as close to his pistol's grip as he was allowed without breaking hell loose from its cage. He'd dreamt of this kind of moment for as long as he had lived. Fang the Sniper, killed by his hand... He would be a legend. So long as he could beat Juarez to the shot, anyway – but he was more than convinced of his superiority.

The bartender began to take cover beneath his beloved bartop, but no one was aware of the existence of the shotgun he kept down there. Despite his meek persona and appearance, he'd used it before and lived to tell the tale. Those on the receiving end hadn't been so lucky.

Everything was silent – even outside, all was quiet. Juarez waited, a strong look of invincibility forming his expression.

Then, Fang relaxed, and, to everyone else's shocked surprise, smiled ever so slightly, before he said, "Let me buy you a drink."

Juarez was stunned, but moreso, he was curious. His brow raised slightly and he curved his head to one side, but the gusto remained.

"... before one of us dies," the bounty hunter finished, and he rested an arm on the bartop.

He was met with similar silence from the javelina, who did not fail to notice Fang didn't lift his right hand from his side, where his gun holster was. This was very unorthodox, but still, he was curious, and it too was interesting. He had not expected it, yet he did not consider it a negative twist.

Slowly he ambled forward, leading Fang to retrieve the last little bit of money he had left before slapping it on the bartop. Hondo stood there, flabbergasted at what was unfolding before him.

"Get this big fella something good," Fang said.

The bartender paused, glancing down at the hidden shotgun, then got a small glass of something brown and smelly before placing it before Juarez, who had by then stopped near Fang. The javelina looked down at the drink, then at the bounty hunter. "You are a very interesting adversary, Fang the Sniper. Shoot you now I could, but I like it when things are interesting. Boring, things get. Easy, the shooting gets."

"Sure." Fang watched the gunfighter take a good, hard swig. "I can relate."

"Si, I am sure you can. You do much shooting. A shame it goes to such a waste."

Fang didn't answer that.

"Playing hero for the peacemakers, it is not a job that brings much fortune, I do not think. That leads me to wonder, Fang the Sniper, why are you here? You come to test yourself against men like me, or something else?"

"Maybe you should just drink," Fang said.

Hondo threw his arms in the air. "Buh—wha—Juazy! Whaddya doin'? Kill 'im already!"

Juarez ignored him. "I like the way you deal your cards, Sniper." Glug. "A shame it is you are so small and fragile. I had hoped to meet you someday. Hoped I did for a good test against the mighty bounty hunter, but you are too tiny to be this Fang the Sniper of legend. Afraid of you we are supposed to be. Afraid of you I am not. You will die too easily. Grandé shame, it is."

Fang smiled a tiny smile again, then gestured to one of the larger bottles situated behind the bar. "What's that?"

"Red Eye," said the bartender. "Stuff's a mite powerful."

Fang looked back at Juarez, who was leering at him. "Go ahead and have some of that. It's on me."

Juarez was all for it. "Bring it."

The bartender popped the cork and set the bottle in front of the javelina, not bothering to bring up payment in light of the tension amidst them. Juarez snatched it and took a fast pair of gulps. He grinned widely at Fang and licked his teeth, savoring the alcohol. "You are courteous for a fighting man, Fang the Sniper."

"Perhaps," Fang mumbled. "We're both civilized individuals."

"Shall I have a drink brought to you as well? I no' like to be selfish."

Fang shook his head while Juarez gulped down some more of the stuff.

"As you wish. I suppose it would only go to waste. Enjoyed by dead men, alcohol should not be. Appreciate its effects, they cannot."

There was another huge gulp from the bottle, then another, and another. Fang watched silently before the javelina smacked the bottle back down onto the bartop. It was almost already empty by then – the big man could take a lot of liquor in that big mouth of his. "Good. Very good. A fine drink is like a fine woman. Never stops loving you. And tastes good too."

Fang couldn't suppress a smirk. "Yeah." Then he thought of something. "How are the women in this town?"

"Oh," and Jaurez's grin grew to extreme proportions, "they are excelenté, Fang the Sniper. Perfect they are, as they do not talk back to us. My friends and I – Run this town, we do. Scared the women are, but it is good that way, no? They are like well-trained pets. Obedient and willing to serve, if you see what I am meaning."

Juarez chuckled, and so too did some other customers, all of whom were listening in to the discussion. The only ones who didn't get a kick out of that statement were the bartender and Hondo, whose frustration was reaching a boiling point.

Fang's facial features had stiffened significantly by then. He glanced around the bar for a second, and for a moment, he realized he was having difficulty suppressing a sudden rage that was flooding through him.

"What about the children who live around here?" he eventually asked when he'd gotten control of himself.

"Ha," laughed the javelina. "They make good target practice!"

And the room laughed some more.

"Hey!" Hondo yelled. "What in the hell are you two waiting for!? A blue moon!?"

Juarez held the bottle up and drained the rest of its contents down his throat, relishing every instant of it. He slapped the bottle down on the bar with a satisfied sigh when it had served its purpose.

"All done?" Fang asked amiably.

Juarez licked his lips. "More or less. I like to drink before I kill. Nice of you it is to give me this pleasure."

"You must drink a lot of that stuff to be able to take it in like that."

"Si," grinned the javelina, stretching to his towering height. "Easy it gets. Just like the killing."

"Can you hold it down pretty well?"

"Si, well enough to—"

Fang launched the toe of his steel-plated boot straight up into Juarez's stomach with a deep, painful-sounding whump, so hard he literally jolted the gunfighter off the floor. Juarez's eyes bulged like they were on springs, the alcohol filling his stomach jostling like a tsunami was happening in there, and he quickly fell to his knees in a total heap, making pitiful choking noises and looking like he'd just eaten a fly. Hondo and everyone else in the room went slack-jawed.

"How about now, asshole?" Fang asked, bending down to Juarez's ear and glowering at him. He put a palm against the javelina's head and shoved, sending the gunman's huge frame onto the floor with a resounding thud. "I don't like being threatened."

Juarez just gagged, and started to turn green.

"Is that all you've got? Big nasty outlaw bad boy can barely even hold his damn drink down. You disgust me." Fang kicked the black pistol out of Juarez's holster and sent it skittering across the floor, away from anyone else. "A two-bit sad sack of puss like you couldn't harm a flea. It'd outsmart you before you could tell if it was day or night."

Juarez spat a frothy, sweaty spit hatefully, eyes burning at Fang with a rancor few in the room could match. He clutched his stomach and lay there, grotesque noises coming from both his throat and gut.

Fang turned his attention to the other occupants of the bar and just stared.

"You—" spat one of the customers. "Y'can't do that!"

"Well, I suppose I just did," said Fang, leaning an elbow on the bar beside him. "Isn't that a daisy?"

"We'll kill you!"

"You aim to try your luck, go ahead."

No one tried.

Fang sneered. "Listen here, you bunch of insects. I don't care about any of you. None of you are worth the breath it takes to say your damn name. I'd sooner hunt a cracked-out ten-year-old than I would any of you lowlifes. But let me tell you this—" and his finger rose as he pointed at them, "—if I hear one word about any one of you arousing trouble in this place from now on, whether you're giving trouble to women or children or your damn pets, I don't care if you're on a picnic with your grandmother. I'll find you and spray your blood across this town like I'm painting graffiti on its walls. You hear me?"

"No one tells me what to do!" roared Hondo. "'Specially not some—"

"You shut your big mouth," Fang replied, with all the quiet authority of a general. "I'm tired of hearing it flap. You people are going to start treating your fellow townsfolk with respect, if I have to hold a gun over each and every one of you like I'm babysitting a bunch of kindergarteners in a prison camp."

"You'll have to do worse than that, you walking corpse!!" Hondo's hand slapped to his pistol. The other bar patrons dove for cover like a runaway train was sailing off the tracks at them.

One elbow still on the bar, Fang's other hand flashed to his belt like a bolt of lightning. Hondo's gun never even cleared leather. Fang pulled the trigger once, exploding a shot that boomed across the entire town and seemed to render everything else in Sand Hill still for a moment.

Hondo's body jacked back as a red mist sprayed behind him, a burning-red circle on his right breast. The scorpion stumbled backwards quickly before crashing into a pair of wooden chairs, breaking one during his trip to the floor. He gasped, turned over, and was dead.

Fang frowned and grimaced at once. If you insist, idiot. He shifted his aim at the other customers, conscious of the possibility that some of them could still be ready for a fight of their own. "Anybody does anything stupid, he dies. Just because I don't want to kill any stupid moron who takes a shot at me doesn't mean I won't."

No one moved. From his place on the floor, Juarez watched Hondo's still body bathe in an increasingly large circle of red, silently wondering if perhaps he himself had gotten off easy.

Fang took a few steps away from Jaurez and moved past Hondo, well aware that everyone within the surrounding mile had heard this racket with ease. That could make things difficult. He reached the door after what felt like hours to everyone in the room, and he stepped out, disappearing quickly into the day.

There was a long silence in the Black Jack. Life slowly began to return to it as the bartender wiped sweat from his brow. Some of the customers shuffled over to where Hondo lay spread-eagled.

"God a'mighty..."


Zipp the Coyote was sitting at his desk in the New Mettle marshal's office – or police station, whatever it was – bobbing back and forth in his creaky old chair and spinning one of his six-shooters on his finger while he talked to Festus, his little pet cactus which he'd somehow adorned with a little cowboy hat and bandana. "Boy, I tell y'all what, pilgrim, I ain't never been so bored in my life. Reckon we oughta think about movin' the herd on soon, eh?"

Festus didn't reply.

"This town ain't big enough for a man like me. Can't contain the wild, bubbling testosterone that a fella like me eats for breakfast every gall-damn morning. You'd think this town would have a little more action or somethin', but nope. Just people actin' up is all. And then they come to me and say, why in thunderation didn't you getcher butt down there and stop that bank robbery? Whadda they think I am? A bank robbery... stopper... guy... police officer?"

Festus said nothing, but rather stood there in his little pot.

"People these days, I tell ya. I thought I made it darn-for-certain clear that I'm here to bust me some outlaws. Like that Fang the Sniper fella. Nobody like that around here, though. Yep, I do believe that if we don't hear any fun goin' on soon, I'll just have to ride back out into the harsh, wild wilderness of the west and commence to look damn good doin' it—"

A gunshot rumbled across the skies, coming from down the street, near what sounded to him like the Black Jack. Zipp didn't flinch, blink, or even seem to notice the shot for a moment.

He looked over at the cactus. "You hear somethin'?"

No reply.

"Sounded like a bomb or some balloons poppin' or somethin'. Wonder if somebody's havin' a party."

Still no reply.

"Well, I sure as hell ain't gonna sit here and let them have all the entertainment to themselves." Zipp hopped out of the seat. "Might as well have some fun while the gettin's good, eh?"

The coyote-marshal-officer checked his guns to be certain they were loaded, and spun both of them back into their leather holsters with fancy twirls. He straightened the red cowboy hat on his head before exiting the office and spur-jingling his way down the boardwalk towards the Black Jack, and unfortunately for those inside, it was in his jurisdiction.

Despite all his attention to outlawish details, however, Zipp did not think much of the suspicious-looking lizard wearing a white sombrero, a bandana over his face, and twin pistols on his belt when he walked past.