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05 October 2007 @ 10:31 am
He'd been waiting for fucking ages. Who the hell did Light think he was, to lock the fucking sheriff's office and leave him sitting out on the fence all fucking morning?

He balefully eyed the pair of fat black flies sitting on the slat next to him. Filthy things. Light wasn't even a real sheriff, and here he was locking doors and letting shit-eating horse flies crawl around like it was nothing.

Whip-fast, he smacked his hand down across the rough wood. That got 'em. He grimaced and scraped the muck off onto the sole of his boot, then spat in his palm and scrubbed it across his pants leg. Good enough.

Jesus Christ, could Light possibly be any fucking slower? He'd wait fifteen more minutes, that was it, and then he was going out to check out the weird shit in the mine himself.
04 October 2007 @ 08:52 pm

Another day, another chance to save the souls of the world—or the tiny slice of it that was allotted to him in this godless little hole. Father Alexander Anderson stumped up the dry dirt of main street, puffs of dust rising from the packed earth under his boots.


The doctor hadn’t been to services last Sunday. He couldn’t allow that sort of neglect to go on, not at all. That sort of tarnish built up on a soul, and before a man knew it he’d be burning in hell crying out for the unforthcoming mercy of the Almighty.


No, he couldn’t let that happen at all.


The doctor was visiting Mr. Swearengen. Nearly a lost cause, that one, a life’s work for a saint. But be that as it may, he himself, the only local agent of God’s holy discretion, would wait until Dr. Cochrane had distanced himself from the unsaved man in question and quitted himself back out to the porch.


His boots thudded up the thin-timber steps of the porch as he climbed up, and folded his arms to wait.

04 October 2007 @ 10:43 pm
"Agh...Goddammit, Doc! Warn a guy before you fuckin' do that, huh?" Al roared, trying and failing to jerk his hand away from the surprisingly strong Amos Cochran.

Blue eyes leveled a death-glare at him over the top of the doctor's spectacles before returning to examining the still-healing stump of his middle finger. Al heaved a defeated--no, resigned sounded better to him--sigh and submitted to the will of the other man, never mind that he was physically stronger and could probably knock the good doctor on his ass if he hadn't respected the guy quite so fuckin' much.

The moments dragged by before Doc made a noncommittal "hmph" sound in his throat and began to re-wrap what was left of the digit. "Always that tender, still?" he asked, voice hoarse and whispery from all the hacking Al had been told he was doing lately.

"Only when loopy cocksuckers poke around at it," Swearengen snarled and practically tore his hand away from Cochran.

Another glare, and Al rolled his eyes.

"Fine, fine. Fuck's sake, it doesn't hurt most o' the fuckin' time, alright?"

"Good, that's what I wanted to hear," Doc nodded. He rose to leave, then, but had to pause in his packing to turn away and cough, muffling it in one dusty coat sleeve. The ragged sound of it grated at Al, and he frowned.

Hadn't the doctor missed a meeting on account of losing his voice?

"Sounds bad, Doc. You takin' care of yourself, too?" he asked in as off-handed a way as he was able as he fished into his desk drawer and withdrew a shot-glass and bottle of all-occasion whiskey.

Once the coughing had quieted, Cochran cleared his throat carefully, took a deep breath and nodded dismissively. "Just a chest cold. I'm going to check up on Jewel, then go get some rest. Get me if you need me."

Swearengen waved him out, and only once the door had closed behind the other man did he pinch at the bridge of his nose. "Fucking 'chest cold' my ass..."
Current Location: Leaving the Gem Saloon
Current Mood: sicksick