Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun. I also do not own any Scott Joplin songs or "In the Mood". Those...belong to the respective owners: Yasuhiro Nightow, Scott Joplin/his estate, and whoever created "In the Mood".
Silken strands of brown-black hair frame the face of a mahogany-eyed teenage busboy at a tavern in May City. He polishes a table, his mahogany orbs fixed upon the weary reflection he was getting from the table. A runaway from July should get better treatment, he thought to himself, not daring to speak the same words out loud, after all, I witnessed Lost July as it happened. As he finished, he stuffed the greasy rag in the pocket of his apron, taking care not to stick it in the breast pocket of his next-to-new pink silk shirt he'd gotten at a thrift store.
"One day, I'll have myself a saxophone, and when I do, this place won't know what hit it..." He muttered as he shuffled to the next table.
He soon heard a rowdy group arguing about lord-knows-what. Trying to ignore them as best he could, he begins to wipe the next table, humming "Mapleleaf Rag" to himself to steady his nerves. One of the drunks, a wizend old man with a firey temper, slings a shot glass at the young man across from him, the sherriff of May City. Within a split second, the busboy feels a sharp crack to the back of his head, then nothing; in fact, all is dark, quiet, scentless, tasteless, and numb. So this is what death feels like, the busboy thinks to himself as he feels himself slipping into this abyssal void.