Damn Loot!. Mario Micolucci

legs and run off. Then he slipped the important-looking document into an inside pocket of his vest, lit a cigar, and shuffled downstairs to grab himself a whiskey. His throat was dry, and as far as he was concerned, no good business deal was ever made without a little spirit.

      He had just brought the glass to his lips, when an unpleasantly familiar voice made his drink go sideways.

      “I knew I'd find you here! See what happens when you gorge yourself? Like I always say: anybody who drinks alone is gonna choke to death!” His overtly cheerful manner made one wonder if his statement had a double meaning.

      “Ben! A fresh glass of firewater for my friend. What the devil are you doing here, you old spooney? How is it that you didn’t go down with the rest of Little Pit?”

      "Tell me now, Hugg, whereabouts did your little nipper run off to? When I was on my way back to town, a gunslinger on horseback who seemed to be in a bit of a rush went right by me. Then, when I was almost to town, I saw you dart away as though you had the devil on your heels. You was in the same hurry and... riding the same horse. I tried to shadow you in my carriage, but you was just too quick and I lost sight of you. But I knew I’d find you here. What you find on ‘im?” Joe Otthims, who had sat down next to him, accompanied the question with a cheeky grin and an elbow nudge.

      The man was huge and sported a very prominent belly. He was much bigger than Badfinger, who was also slightly better proportioned. His pockmarked and flushed face was surrounded by a black beard and an unkempt mop of salt and pepper hair. The gravelly, powerful voice and the colorful vernacular clashed with his perfect British accent.

      "Shut up, you idiot!" hissed Hugg, looking around in alarm.

      "I’m on to something, eh! What’s it worth? A hundred? Two hundred?” He gave it his best effort, but just wasn’t capable of whispering. Hugg just shot him a fiery glare. Some patrons turned an interested glance in their direction.

      "A hundred bucks and a gold-plated watch that could earn me another one-fifty if I’m lucky," he whispered, while still being deliberately audible. Two to three hundred dollars was the most common payload of Aaron's patrons. A fair sum, but nothing that would instigate a scuffle. On the other hand, the place was crawling with petty thieves trying to get similar amounts from their scanty spoils. He himself had never gotten more than two hundred dollars in earnings before that day.

      "You have a hundred bucks in your pocket and you're hoping to get off with just one sip? You owe me at least a quart of whiskey! And I mean the good kind!”

      Badfinger shook his head, snorted, and finally nodded to the bartender who handed him an entire bottle of bourbon. He grabbed it angrily and slammed it on the counter in front of Joe, then he settled the bill and left without saying a word. He had forgotten about the cigar, but it didn't matter; his urge to smoke had also dissipated. Hugg thought as he walked out, I hope he’ll be blackout drunk by the time it takes for me to disappear! Actually, it’d be even better if his liver dissolved once and for all, the damned fool!

      "Oi mate, watch out for Mansill! He always tries to cheat when namin’ prices!" The Giant shouted after him. He should never have offered him that drink. He should have shot him full of holes to see how much booze would leak out. He had to restrain himself from doing so, but not because he had any scruples. Given how things had gone down so far, much of his discretion had vanished in the wind. However, if he reacted badly, he would have attracted the attention of the entire county.

      Joe hadn’t downed even a third of his bottle before Weasel burst into the saloon. He was breathless and panting.

      “Hey, rascal, you got the wrong waterin’ hole. They don’t serve milk here!” A man taunted, sparking snickers from the other barflies, most audibly his two drinking buddies. The man was a textbook bully; one who would likely never have the courage to ruffle the feathers of someone his own size. The boy ignored his taunting and continued toward the bar.

      “Did you hear what I said, stinker, or do you need my boot in your ass to make you understand?" The bully got up from his rickety chair to cut him off.

      Unfazed, Finn made to dart around him. The man decided then that he was going to teach him a hard lesson and tried to grab him. His lesson was thwarted, however, when he found himself with his arm twisted firmly behind his back. Before he could register what was happening, a well-aimed kick sent him crashing into the table he came from. This time, the laughter in the room was directed at the heckler.

      "That boy is an acquaintance of mine. You and your little shit pals get back to minding your business and you’ll have no trouble.” Joe turned his back to him and joylessly sat back down to finish his drink.

      “I think you’re the one who’s gonna have trouble, ya big babboon!” The sound of three guns clicking into action was unmistakable. Otthims grabbed what was left of Hugg’s cigar, took a shot, put his hand under his vest to scratch his belly and let out a sigh of exasperation. Then, with characteristic indifference, he turned in their direction without getting up from his stool. In his hand was a bomb full of black powder. The fuse was lit, and it was short.

      “First of all, didn’t your Ma ever teach you good manners? You don’t bring guns to the table! By now you will have understood that this saloon and all of us in it will soon be just a mem’ry if you don’t hand over your guns in three...two...one...” The three obeyed and Finn quickly grabbed the revolvers. Meanwhile, Joe extinguished the last quarter inch of the fuse.

      “Much better. Now, since I’m occupied with this lovely dame, I’d like to not be disturbed." He caressed the side of the bottle as though it were the one of the naked concubines depicted in the dingy painting on display behind the counter.

      Otthims had no interest in their pistols, so he left them in the hands of the kid. The three amigos, however, still had knives. The companions exchanged glances and understood each other. The three of them, armed, against the unarmed mammoth. From behind, no less. It was almost too easy.

      They drew their blades and hurtled toward him. The first man tumbled to the ground after Finn managed to trip him. The lunge of the second man was intercepted by Joe, who grabbed his wrist with such vigor that he heard it crack. He simply wanted to make him lose his grip on the knife, but it seemed that he didn’t measure his strength properly. In a flash, without letting go, he slammed the man's hand in the face of the third who, stunned by the episode, froze his attack for just long enough. A double crack was enough to be certain that neither the bones of the hand nor the face on the other side of it withstood the forceful impact. One man lay lifeless in a pool of blood, while the other howled in pain from his shattered arm.

      Fortunately, it didn't last long, because with a knock in the head that would flatten a bison, Joe sent him to sleep as well. In the confusion, the remaining amigo scampered past Weasel on all fours in attempt plant the blade in the calf of the brute. However, the boy saw him coming and promptly and planted the tip of his boot in his temple, putting him definitively out of action. The three amigos would not be back on their feet any time soon. All the other patrons stopped laughing and, feigning disinterest, returned to their own business.

      The barman shook his head with a grimace, threw the cloth he was using to dry the glasses onto the counter and took a deep breath. In that godforsaken place, not a week went by without a fight. Otthims noticed his consternation and consoled him: "I hope I didn't do too much damage. I reckon I know what it’s like: I used to run my own saloon once." Except that in his saloon, there had never been enough patrons to even have a one-on-one brawl.

      The giant rummaged through the pockets of two of the men he had knocked out. He barely made it to nine dollars in all, which he promptly deposited on the counter. “This is for the ruckus. Young Badfinger, clean that one up too." He pointed to the guy lying beside the boy. It was the braggart who had taunted him. He had only six dollars in his pocket. To compensate, he was able to recover a gold tooth with a well-aimed pistol whip to the mouth.

      When he saw the owner take off his apron to begin cleaning up the mess, Joe stopped him with a wave of his hand and a friendly smile. “Don’t you worry about it! I'll take care of throwing out the garbage." He threw one of the men over his broad