Bookshelf Battle

“Slade…”

Smelly Jack had been hearing that name bandied about amongst the barflies all day long. He repeated it in anger as he squeezed his beer mug until it shattered, sending glass pieces and brew all over his brother-cousins.

“Damn it, Jack!” said Frank Buchanan. “You got your suds all over me!”

Jack stood up and flipped the table over, sending cards and poker chips scattering to the floor.

“I WANT SLADE DEAD!”

“Aw hell, come on Jack,” said Rufus Buchanan. We’ve got a pretty sweet deal as railroad security agents here.”

“Yeah,” said Buck Buchanan. “This is our shot at going legit and living the sweet life.”

“FUCK THAT!” Smelly Jack bellowed. “That crooked schiester has kept us cooped up in this joint for two days and we haven’t seen so much as a dime or a job! All the while that chicken shit law man is strutting around like the cock of the walk, probably telling everyone how he got one over on me!”

“Calm down Jack,” Rufus said.

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!” Jack said. “And putting Slade six feet under is what this man’s gotta do!”

Frank, Rufus, and Buck eyeballed each other.

“Shit,” Frank said. “You sure we can’t talk you out of this, Jack?”

“NO!!!” was Jack’s reply.

“He is the boss,” Rufus said.

“We got your back, Jack,” Buck asked.

The quartet walked out of the saloon, proudly shouting about Slade’s imminent demise, just in time to be overhead by Hewitt and Becker as they returned from an unsuccessful day’s hunt.