Movie Weekend

My wife and I have been seriously in movie mode for the last couple of weeks.  We've hit the Pay-Per-View OnDemand thingy two weekends running trying to find something to entertain our over-active, under-slept minds.  With a two- and five-year-old running about bombarding our gray matter with Teletubbies and Dora the Explorer, it's nice to occasionally get a chance to see something addressed to grown-ups.

One of the primary problems with that, however, is me.  My mind doesn't suspend disbelief.  I've come to believe it may actually be some sort of neurological disorder (which explains a lot of other things too), but my wife simply says I'm not able to do it.  Not that I won't do it, because Lord knows I try, but that I am genuinely not able to do it.  So I have a tendency to ruin movies ... for everyone sitting near me.  I've done it to her so many times now she's getting as bad as I am about it.

Last weekend it was a couple of piles of steaming monkey feces called "Children of Men" and an even worse "De Ja Vu."  Neither of them were worth the hours invested in sitting in front of the idiot box to watch them, never mind what it cost me monetarily to pay for them.  Weak plots, overwrought efforts at tension and suspense ... all for some really bad movies.  While I don't want to make an indictment on the actors themselves, I've seen Denzel Washington be better.  And don't even get me started on the time travel thing.

"Children of Men" was just a long series of impossibilities all strewn together for the sake of trying to tell a human interest story without ever bothering to explain why we got to the opening premise of the movie in the first place, which was so pivotal it kept pulling the viewer (me) out of the plot anyway.  If you're going to offer a premise you'd better be able to offer some sort of explanation for it so that the rest of the movie isn't hinged on something that can't be explained.  Duh.

... and, my loving wife has informed/reminded me that we also sat through another, even bigger pile of rubbish called "The Fountain", with what she terms the "nice-to-look-at Hugh Jackman".  (He's not, as she puts it, Johnny Depp nice, but nice just the same.)  I won't even go into that one ... I've never been so unable to follow a movie in my life, and I sat through "2001: A Space Odyssey".  I'll leave it at that.

This weekend we made better choices.  The first of which was "Breach", an adaptation of the Robert Hanssen espionage case that the FBI broke back in 2001 about seven months before the 9/11 attacks.  It's a good movie, but full of what I'm sure represents artistic license in the story.  Don't ask me why; the intriguing tale of a man that sells out his country for ego and what he claims is "patriotism" is surely an interesting story factually recounted.  Especially when he got away with it, duping the entire U.S. intelligence community for 25 years.

Anyway, it was a well-acted (for the most part) and very good story.  It has its weak spots, as do all movies; in particular the ending.  It could've been done more powerfully, but that's just my opinion.  Still, a very good movie.  This was my second viewing.  The first was on a plane trip to or from Puerto Rico for business (I can't remember whether I was coming or going now).  This time I was watching on a screen that was marginally larger than the 9" CRT of the Boeing 757 I was riding at the time.  I also had the benefit of our surround sound system for dialog, too.

But the movie we chose tonight was probably the best movie I've seen in a number of years ... no fewer than three, and maybe more.  It might be the best movie I've seen since "Saving Private Ryan," but then, I don't get to the movies much anymore, and we don't watch them regularly.  That disclaimer is only to shore up the fact that I state that this was the best movie I've seen in a long, long time -- your mileage, of course, may vary.

The movie?  "Good Shepherd", with Matt Damon, Robert De Niro (who also directed), Angelina Jolie and William Hurt.  The plot centers on the birth of the Central Intelligence Agency and its role in the events preceding and immediately following the botched and embarrassing Bay of Pigs escapade of 1961.

Since the movie's an old one by most standards, and most everyone reading this couldn't care less for my plot summary, I'll simply state that the movie is brilliantly written and acted.  Matt Damon was on camera a lot, but spoke very, very little.  He captured and conveyed so much in his silence that it was incredible.  And Angelina Jolie, while not a brilliant actress in my estimation, was very passable as a CIA operative's alcoholic wife.  The other players did their roles well, and it was a great piece of work.  Not an edge-of-your-seat kind of movie, but still thick with plot and story.   The last half hour of the movie is an intense and interesting series of events involving Matt Damon's son, his fiancee ( a Soviet operative who decides to settle down and leave the spy game), and the U.S.S.R. counter-intelligence operative.  A really great twist at the end there, and it makes for a good ending that wraps the movie up well.

Overall, if I were a movie critic (and God knows I critique everything anyway), I'd have scored this one very highly.  Very highly indeed.  If you haven't seen the movie, and are looking for a good way to pass almost three hours, this is a good one.

Matt Damon, as an aside, is fast becoming one of my favorite actors.  I haven't seen him in a lot of stuff, but everything I've seen him do has been great work.  From "Good Will Hunting" to "The Bourne Identity" and "The Bourne Supremacy", he's showing me a lot that I never thought I'd see from him.

Anyway, I recommend "The Good Shepherd" highly.  I actually got into the movie, and like I said, that's a rare, rare thing for me.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: movies, movie review, random thoughts

Silenced by Response ...

Well ... exactly one day after belly-aching about whether I should bother blogging anymore or not, I get two overwhelmingly supportive responses on a couple of my blogs, and on another I get the highest page hit count I've ever had.

I have no idea what happened, or why, but I suspect that Hello Stranger had something to do with it, and my wife did too, probably.  No matter who did it, or if anyone did it (maybe I just had a lucky day), I want to thank anyone and everyone who stopped by to read my blog(s).  I'm truly grateful, and now that I know there are visitors stopping by and taking a peek (even if it's by accident), then I guess the effort of posting is all worthwhile.

Thank you very much.  I'm really touched.

And now, for the next great internal debate: Do I really need four blogs, 2 wikis and a web site?

Heh.

More fiction this weekend, I'm sure.  I'm having that "I want to write a story" urge now.  Just don't have time to ponder an idea and work it up.

God bless, everyone, and thanks again.

Technorati Tags: random thoughts, writing

Same Issues with Blogging

You know, some time back I was complaining on one of my blog sites -- when I only had ONE blog site -- about the fact that I wasn't able to get any feedback to know whether or not anyone even sees the darned thing.  Later, I griped again on my DeviantART page about the same thing.  Today, I guess I've been having second thoughts about some of the things I've done to get my blog seen, because none of them seemed to work.

On the help page of the first blog site I joined there was a neat little article about what to do to get your blog viewed by the general public.  I did those things, to the best of my ability, short of paying for a referral service (I'm not that desperate and have better things to do with my money).  But nothing worked; at least, I don't think it did.  See, on some sites I can't even get a hit counter.  On one site, I get some information about how many people have seen my blog, but if I inadvertently go there without signing in first, it counts me as a visitor.  That's got to be the BULK of my hit counts, frankly.

I think I do get some visitors, though.  And despite the fact that I'm getting them, I'm not sure of who or why they're stopping by (I'm convinced some of them are accidental).  No one seems interested in leaving comments of any kind.

All of this leads me to ponder whether or not to even continue posting stuff to my blog, especially my fiction work.  I think it's a lot to ask of someone to sit and read nearly 3,000 words (in a couple of cases) of text about something they may or may not find amusing.  While it's disappointing, the fact of the matter is that most people, even if they are reading the blog, aren't willing to stop long enough to provide feedback.  they're on to the next blog for more information.

Which leads me to a question: Is informational and fact-based blogging the only type of blog that gets consistent readership?  I don't think I could run a fact-based blog; my spouse is a researcher extraordinaire, but me?  I'd get bored.  I can do it when I have to, but then something will give me an idea and I'll start writing a story about it, and the next thing you know, I've posted more fiction and have the same problem as before.

Now, I have a couple of dedicated readers: my spouse and a friend (who is, even as I write, en route to her new home in the Midwest from the west coast).  I'd like to take a moment to thank them for both wading through all my ramblings and taking the time to give me feedback.  This post does NOT apply to you, I'm sure you know.

But a lot of other blogs I see aren't fact-based, and they still get a lot of referrals and feedback and have very loyal followings.  If one of you has happened upon this lonely branch of the blogosphere tributary, how'd you do it?  Most of them are authored by extraordinary writers, like Hello, Stranger's blog and others, but there seems to be a trick to it that I can't pin down.  (These are, by the way, really enjoyable blogs; I'm not trying to put them down or escalate myself to their level.  It's just an observation.)

However, I've recently come to realize that I really write for myself right now.  I need to work diligently to improve my writing and to get to a point where I'm happy with it (yeah, right), but until it hits bookstores and I'm the new Stephen King or John Grisham or, God willing, J.K. Rowling, it's only for me.  So what do I do?

If I'm writing just for me, I can keep the files on a flash drive and stop taking up server space where someone may put up more useful information, or at the very least, more interesting information.  I don't think I'm a bad writer, I just don't know if I have broad appeal.  I've tried new styles and new genres, and I've experimented with other forms of art (like drawing and sketching and posting those to either my blog or my dA site), but nothing seems to have the appeal that similar works on similar sites do.  I have, apparently, the blog kiss of death.  Or maybe it's the Internet kiss of death.

On the other hand, when I'm surfing blogs and reading things online, I don't stop and comment on every single one either.  I don't know if those folks that published know I was there or not, or if they care or not, but I don't always let them know.  My page views alone are enough to indicate that traffic volume in my neck o' the web is low, but if I can't take that seriously (and sometimes I delude myself into believing I can't), then I have no idea how many visitors have passed my way to have a gander at my spewings and then moved silently on like a virtual ship into the cyber-night.

So ... I will leave my faithful readers with a question: Is it worth it to keep blogging?  Should I only update when I have something interesting and factual to report?  Should I continue to spout my own flights of fancy, or reserve that for the people that give a crud?

Shout back and let me know.

You hold the future of my blog in your hands.  No pressure, though.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: random thoughts, writing

The Cyclone Fence Incident

When you're a kid, and a stranger in a strange land, it is absolutely, vitally important that you be cool.

It wasn't always possible to be "bad." "Bad" was a special kind of cool that carried other sort of things. To be "bad", you had to be really great at something, or a lot of things. But most of all, you had to be tough to be "bad". That was the keystone, the foundation, of all badness -- being tough.

One of my problems was, I was a dork. I had thick glasses and bad teeth, and my thick torso and long limbs made me look funky and weird even though I was more athletic than I knew. That led to the second of my problems: lack of confidence. So, for the most part, I didn't compete with other kids in physical activities, because I was convinced it would lead to embarrassment and not being able to be "cool" any more. Being cool was crucial; it was the difference between being an outcast and being a punching bag.

With all that going for me, my first exposure to physical education in Georgia was horrible. It meant being in shorts -- decidedly uncool -- in front of a lot of kids that were looking for reasons not to like you. It meant being forced to participate in sweaty, stinky games with and against other kids, putting my cool facade at risk repeatedly. In fact, every day. And it meant that I was likely to be the subject of a lot of whispering, laughing and pointing -- all favorite activities of kids with a stranger in their midst.

I didn't have any choice either. This is part of school -- they don't ask you if you want to do it or not. You just do it. I decided then, that hot, first early autumn school year, that I'd try. I'd really try to be less than a dork, and see if I could do it. If I couldn't, well ... I always had the asthma card I could pull out and use.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, while I wasn't an exceptional athlete, I was able to keep up with other kids my age, and was actually superior to some of them. There was big John Magnussen, an overweight smart kid that did everything he could to avoid PE. He brought in a note every year that pretty much excused him from PE, and sat in the bleachers of the gym or on the grass on the field, watching it all happen. There was Johnny Hunter, too, and while he wasn't overweight or anything, he was a nerdy kid, and didn't do very well. They ended up being friends of mine, as you can imagine, because we were all outcasts. It was band together or be isolated and mistreated. There was at least a little safety in numbers.

Scott Bianca was, I was pretty sure, well on his way to being gay. He and another kid -- whose name I can't remember to save my soul -- hung around together. The term "gay" wasn't popular in that age group at that time, and it certainly wasn't accepted. So there we were, trying to survive the schoolyard and the humiliation of PE, the four of us being scorned, picked last or not at all until the teacher had to assign us a team, or just ignored. We liked that best.

But in the end, I did all right. Not a lot of kids were superior, but there were a few. After a couple of months of getting used to trying and not taking anything too seriously, I didn't dread PE quite so much. I still dreaded it, but not as much.

So, that gray and soggy day in October, in the heart of football season, it was time to play flag football on the practice field where the school team ran their routines.

Flag football was something I'd done in California for PE too. I was at least familiar with the game. So when the sides were divvied up and I was left standing there with my four nerdy friends, I decided I was going to go for broke and really try to play well. Not just keep up -- outshine.

It was a bold move. I had to be great or I'd spend the rest of the school year as the butt of every joke by every kid on the football team. There was no room for error. Any screw-up would be certain kid rep death.

John opted out, and Johnny was gangly and awkward. Scott just did his best to hang out with his other femme friend and stay out of the melee. But I dove in head first.

At first, I was reserved. I was being careful and not making mistakes. After about 10 minutes of that, I was really opening up the floodgates. I made catches -- a new thing for me then -- and made plays, ripping flags free from ball carriers, rushing the quarterback, doing whatever was asked of me and doing it really well. It was all going great.

Then my big moment came. I'd been so cool, I was sent to cover a receiver. That was huge for nerds. You're always asked to stay back, stay out of the way, play deep, make sure you don't get in the way of the "good" players. But I was being asked to be one of the good players.

I was in my glory.

I stood there, watching the kid as he flanked out wide toward the fence. That side of the field was mucky and wet from all the heavy autumn rains. The field, belonging to a Catholic school, wasn't the top priority for school funding, so it was bad. Mud holes, thin grass, and one side lined with viney, climbing plants of some kind that grew up over the cyclone fence separating the school from whatever was beyond it. I never knew, and still don't.

He was nothing special and I figured it wouldn't take much to cover him. He was out there alone -- no one else lined up near him -- so I figured he wouldn't be getting the ball. He was just there, but I had been assigned to him and I wasn't going to let him be open on my watch. When the ball was snapped, I was ready.

He did a little fake that didn't fool me a bit. Then he backed up, shuffling toward the fence. He was really close to the edge of the field, and I thought he might go out of bounds, but I had my "cool" on, and I was covering him anyway.

I laid off a couple of yards, and watched the quarterback's eyes. When they locked on my guy, my heart palpitated audibly. Seriously, I could hear the beating of my heart outside my chest. When the ball came racing in at me, on a line, I freaked.

I stepped up and sort of shut my eyes, putting my hands out in front of me to swat the ball away. I felt the pigskin slap on my palms and suddenly I was holding it.

I'd intercepted the pass.

It took me a second to realize what'd happened. I almost screamed, staring at the ball, but something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and I looked up, my limelight short-lived.

Everyone and their uncle was running right at me, full-speed.

I almost yelped, but I had to be "cool". I bit my lip and started my gawky, slower-than-molasses-in-January run down the field. I didn't know what happened to the kid behind me, the one I'd been covering. The waves of shouting voices coming from my right drown out any footfalls coming my way and I just ran. I got up to speed like a Peterbilt truck, but I ran as fast as my hormonally-enhanced body would carry me.

I'd gone maybe 10 yards when the tide of kids came in from the right in front of me, cutting me off. I twisted my body, trying to keep my flag out of their reach, and swerved heavily to my left, trying to get around the swell of bodies in front of me. I was caught up in the moment, running like the wind, my long black hair whipping out from my face as I hurtled headlong forward and to the left farther.

That's when I noticed the immovable object coming up on me fast and merciless.

The fence.

I noticed for a moment that it was weird. Most cyclone fences had cylindrical posts, poles that held up the chain link portions. This one had I-beam posts, with the flat sides pointing toward the field -- right at me.

I shut my eyes and held out my free hand, determined not to let go of the ball. A split second later my vision exploded into white and yellow sparks as my forehead careened off something, snapping back my head and causing a deafening ringing in my ears.

My weight shifted from the force of the blow, my head pulling back over the top of my body and sending me onto my back into the sloppy, gooey brown and red mud of the Georgia field. There was a splashy sort of plop! as I landed hard, full onto my back, my hair immediately sopping up water and flotsam from the turf, my clothes soaking through to underwear, jock strap and finally skin.

When I looked up, I was surrounded by kids, all looking somewhat concerned for me. My glasses were crooked on my face and I could only partially see the crowd, all of them murmuring and staring wide-mouthed at me. The PE teacher was bent over me, his hand resting on one knee.

"You okay?" he said, and I knew no matter how I answered, my "cool" was all gone, washed away by that muddy puddle in the middle of the practice field and swept away into the leaden sky.

"Yeah," I lied, "I ... I think so."

"Can you move okay?"

I checked; all my limbs seemed responsive to my mental commands. "I think so."

This brought a relieved bit of quiet laughter from everyone.

"Tell you what -- that was one hell of a hit on the noggin. Why don't you call it a day? Go get showered up."

He lent me a hand and helped pull me out of the quagmire, and quickly whipped his hand down my back and legs to knock as much mud off as possible. I was glad my socks weren't too bad -- just a few spots from the splash. But I'd have to go without underwear the rest of the day.

As I handed him the ball and walked across the field, trying to knock more crap off my head and the backs of my arms, I was about three quarters of the way off the field when the teacher came up behind me, the game having resumed.

"Hey, hold up," he said. "Why don't you go ahead and call your parents when you're done showering. Go on home for the day."

I looked up quizzically. "Really? I mean, I'm okay, I'm pretty sure I'll be fine." Secretly, I wanted to go home. My head was ringing and throbbing and all my cool was long, long gone. I had no idea how I was going to face the rest of the day. And without a hair dryer to control my long locks, I knew I was in for even more uncool.

"You're gonna end up with one hell of a headache, JD," he said gently. "I don't think you've got a concussion, but you should probably just rest for today."

I shrugged. "Okay," I said. I continued on toward the gym.

"Hey JD," he called once again, and I turned around to look at him, still trying to knock the thick, gooey gunk from my skin.

"Great game, man," he said, and smiled broadly. "Why don't you think about playing next year?"

I smiled and went on my way.

I joined the team the next autumn, too.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction, writing, kids

Grizzled Old Warrior

I strutted into the saloon, pushing the creaking ancient wood-slat swinging doors aside as I came in from the brightness of the outside. Every eye in the place fell on me as my own adjusted to the dimness of the interior. The heavy planks on the floor were unfinished and worn over from all the boots dragging over 'em, but the bar was polished and shone like water. The great mirror over the wall behind it reflected my silhouette backlit by the hazy gray light outside.

It was overcast and chilly in the mid-November day. There was a howlin' wind whippin' tumbleweed and rattlin' shutters through the town. It helped shake the dust from my clothes and hair. My dry lips and parched throat wanted whiskey, and plenty of it. My purse told me maybe one or two shots was about it.

It'd taken me a week to get here from my home in Oklahoma, but I heard he was the best there was. Perched himself in Kansas, just south of Witchita. I'd bested every gun I'd come across, and I was ready to prove that I was the finest around. But he stood in my way.

He was known through the west. Steely nerves, steady hand, quick slappin' and lightning aim. Hadn't had to actually pull the trigger in over a decade, they said. He'd just get the drop on ya, no matter how fast you thought you were. He'd have it there ready, just in case you wanted to push the issue, take it all the way. Some said he wasn't human; too fast to be a man, they said. Must be some wraith, or spectre haunting the prairies. All I know is, without gettin' here to try it, my name'd never be higher than second on that list of the best. I wanted to see if he was everything he's supposed to be for myself, and let the chips fall where they may.

Ol' Stan Lichtner, on one o' his trips through town, told a couple of us down at my local waterin' hole that he'd seen 'im in action, in person. Some young gun come into town lookin' to gun 'im down, and wouldn't take no one's word about his speed. So that young boy found him right here, in this very saloon where I was just now steppin' through the door, sittin' on a corner stool and just watchin'. The madam offered the treats of her girls, the bartender offered booze -- nothin' was going to sway the young 'un from his mission. He just kept at the old man, then started threatenin' everyone else. Said he'd shoot someone everytime the old man told him "no," and when everyone in the bar was dead, he'd start goin' through the streets.

Well, I guess that done it for 'im, 'cause Stan said he got up, fixed 'is hat tighter on his head and strode out the doors behind the kid. They faced off in the street, and the kid got all jacked and edgy, ready for the deed. When the madam said "draw" all the kid heard was a whisp of worn leather and the click of the gun metal. He was staring down the barrel of the old man's cannon before he could get his own rig free from the holster. Old man just eyed him, raised his eyebrows to ask the question. You know, making sure the kid had the belly for it an' all. He didn't. He put up 'is hands and left town with 'is tail 'tween 'is legs like a whipped dog.

Everybody knew Stan Lichtner was a lyin' piece o' shit, and nobody believed nothin' he said, but we all hung on every word of that story. Right then, I knew I was comin' to Kansas to find this man an' see for myself.

I eyed the crowd real careful, lookin' over each face. I didn't have a picture of 'im or nothin', but I figured he'd stand out. I held them doors open for a long while when someone patted me on the shoulder. I about jumped outta my skin but didn't yelp. I had to stay cool.

"'Scuse me," a gravely voiced murmured next to my ear, "you're blocking the door, stranger."

I turned around deliberate and slow, and stared into the coldest, blackest eyes I'd ever seen. They were sparkling and lively, but deep as the night sky in the high prairie. The deep lines webbed his eyes, nestling them softly under his bushy white brow and light, wispy hair that rode across his forehead like those frail, thin clouds in an autumn sky. The heavy lines around his mouth showed me he knew how to laugh, and the creases up and down from his lips told me he knew how to smoke. The strong, firm, gnarled hand on my shoulder conveyed both strength and control. His smile told me he didn't worry, and the badge that winked the light spilling from the deepening clouds piling overhead told me he didn't have to.

It was HIM. I didn't need a picture to know him. His every move, every breath, every heartbeat told me this was the man I'd come lookin' for.

He eyed me for a moment, and as I stared back with as little expression on my face as I could manage, the smile slowly faded from under his mustache and beard. He drew a long sigh and stepped back just a hair, settling his weight when he knew he wasn't goin' into that saloon.

"I guess you come lookin' for me?" he said slowly, and his voice was softer than I thought it'd be. It was gentle, and almost kind. I don't know what I was expectin', exactly, but this wasn't it. He seemed like he might actually be ... I dunno. Nice, maybe. I couldn't put my finger on it.

I nodded slowly, never takin' my eyes off him. I half-smiled at him. "You'd guess right about that, then," I said. "I come up from Oklahoma to find you. I heard you're the best."

"Lemme guess," he said, sneering into the distance between us, not really focusing on me, "YOU wanna be the best, right?"

I snorted and shook my head. "No," I said, "I reckon I AM the best, and I'm here to prove that."

He burst out laughing then, and I could hear the shuffle of feet over that dry, dusty wood floor inside the bar as curiousity overcame their distance and distrust. They were startin' to crowd inside so they could see us just on the boardwalk outside under the eaves, the wind just kissing us cold.

"Kid," he said, "I ain't the best. Best at what? What's there to be the best at?" He shook his head again, then leveled his eyes at me. "The best at what YOU want is the Reaper, and none of us get away from him for long. Eventually, he comes for us all. I got mine comin' same as you an' everyone else."

I looked down, adjusting my worn and weathered old hat on my head, keeping my long hair out of my eyes. "Well," I said slow and soft, tryin' to convey calm, "until I beat you, I can't be counted where I wanna be. I figure you and I had a date with destiny from the beginning, and today's that day."

He just shook his head again, slower, and turned his mouth up snidely.

"Well," he said at length, "I guess I can stand here all day and debate this with you, but seems to me your mind is set. Do you want a whiskey first? You look like the road's still on you."

I felt the cracking of my throat when I swallowed. "If it means you ain't gonna try and wiggle outta this thing, then yeah, I'd like a whiskey. Otherwise we can do this right now." I wanted to make sure he knew he wasn't getting away from me.

"All right, then," he said, "let's get a shot first. I ain't run from a man in all my years. I don't reckon I'll run from you either."

I nodded and he gestured like a genteel southern man for me to step inside. I did, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight on end. I was tight and listening for ANY indication that he'd draw on me with my back turned.

He didn't. I figured out later, he wouldn't've. Never.

We stepped up to the bar, and every eye was on us. I was used to it by now. The man behind the bar, with his long waxed mustache and tight vest, thinning hair slicked back against his scalp, came up when we leaned against that polished surface, thumping our soles on the brass foot brace running under the stools.

"Whiskey, Jed," he said smoothly to the barkeep, "for both of us."

"On the tab, Will?" the barkeep said, and he nodded.

I learned two things right then: his name was Will, which didn't seem to sit right on him somehow, and he was confident he was comin' back to pay that tab. I nodded approvingly; the surer he was, the more he'd be surprised.

The barkeep slid two shots at us from down the end of the bar, and I snatched one as it passed and let the second go on. He caught it smooth as silk and never spilled a drop.

I turned to face him when I caught his motion out of the corner of my eye. He raised the tiny glass to me.

"To life," he said. "May it be long and happy."

I dipped my head in acknowledgement of his toast, and we threw back the shots together. It went down slick and warm, and spread through my empty belly and lit the life fire back in me. I'd been on the road lean and hard, and the liquid washed down like I'd swallowed a beam of sunlight. It soothed every nerve in me as it settled into me sound.

He licked his lips politely, tasting the last of the droplets, then stared at the bottom of the glass for a moment.

"Well, then," he said softly again, "I guess you'll be wanting to get this over with."

I didn't reply. He drew a long breath in through his nose and hitched his gunbelt up, pushing his coat tails back at the same time, expanding his chest with air. Then he looked at me dead in the eye, and those laughing, dancing eyes I'd seen before were now as cold as a grave in winter.

"Let's go," he said, his voice emotionless and stony.

I dipped my head again, and he turned and walked without hurrying out those swinging, creaky doors, with me a step behind him. He paced in a practiced, rehearsed stride out from under the common eaves that ran in front of the street front buildings, and into the dusty dirt road that spanned through the town. He continued to walk toward one end of the street, and I instinctively went the other way. Eventually, we stood squared off from each other in the center of that powdery road, tiny dust devils playing up from our heels as we strode, the jangling gear of our gunbelts rattling in time with our steps.

He pushed his coat tail behind the heavy wooden handle that gleamed in what sunlight was left under the dense overcast, and he rested his hand in a habitual way on it.

"You sure you want this, son?" he said, and even though he spoke softly, it was like the wind carried the breath of his words to me. I thought about it, just then -- and only then -- for a second. No more.

"Yeah," I said firmly, and it was only then that I noticed the crowd that had spilled onto the street under the eaves on both sides of the road. They stood safely away and out of the weather, the cool air wet with rain that hadn't fallen but would.

He sighed again, and I heard him as well as if he'd been right next to me. "Maddy," he called, and one of the whores from the bar stepped to the front of the crowd from the saloon. She was short, but her bosoms spilled nearly out of the tight bustier, the big feather on her head whipped in the breeze, and her skirt was cut up the front so that her milky, rich thigh showed.

"Yeah, Will?" she yelled back.

"You start it off, hon," he said quietly, and she nodded.

I spread my legs, pushing my coat back behind my holster and out of the way of my hand, and my fingers instinctively twitched over the familiar cold handle of my piece. I felt my heart racing and willed it to slow down, settle into a rhythm. I felt my breathing get controlled and deliberate. My ears were ringin' with the adrenaline in my veins. I hunched down just a touch, cat-like and ready to spring.

He just stood there calmly, his face completely blank and his hand hovering over the handle of his own shinin' silver unit. He never twitched, and I swore he didn't even BLINK.

"Ready?" Maddy called.

We both dipped our heads slightly to acknowledge her.

"DRAW!!" she screamed.

What I thought I saw was impossible. I was moving FAST -- faster than I'd EVER moved. I pulled the gun free and my arm swung in the same smooth motion as it raised the barrel toward him. Watching in slow motion, like time was standin' still, his hand snatched his piece out of the holster and his arm bent and locked dead on me before I'd finished getting my weapon in position.

But I wasn't going to make the mistake the kid that came to town before me made. I wasn't goin' home with my tail 'tween MY legs.

I squeezed the trigger.

I knew I'd missed the instant I fired. It was too soon, but he was on me already, impossibly, incredibly fast, blindingly fast, like lightning from a summer storm. The bullet whizzed by and tore the fabric of his coat just next to his ribs, but I didn't kill anything but the coat. The INSTANT I fired he squeezed one off too, and he was ON target.

It hit me in the side, barely above my gunbelt, and I felt the hot metal burn through me like fire, the force of the lead spinnin' me on my heel and takin' me down. It didn't hurt as bad as I figured, and I wondered for just a second why he didn't hit the head or the heart -- he could've had his pick of targets.

I felt my mouth filling with dust and realize I'd fallen onto the road. Embarrassed, I struggled to stand, but only realized then that my body wasn't workin' right. I couldn't heft my weight up off the ground. My hands went under my shoulders but I couldn't muster the strength to push myself up. My head was still laying on the dirt, and just then, drops of rain started hittin' around me. There was an odd sound, through the ringin' in my head, and I realized it was the rain beatin' down on my coat back. I couldn't get up.

I heard his footfalls comin', and the crowd goin' back to whatever they were doin' before I got here. I knew then he was goin' to finish the job. I turned my face to one side and with everything I had in me, I rolled over, the fire rippin' through my side again like I'd been shot a second time. I lay there, pantin' like a horse for water, mouth dry and full of dust, and stared at the gray sky and the rain falling right into my face.

Then he stood over me and shielded my waterin' eyes from the light, his outline distinct and his black, shinin' eyes staring at me from under his hat, through that web of wrinkles in his face.

I couldn't speak, and he settled just beside me there, and lowered onto his haunches.

"Nah, I ain't gonna kill ya while you're down, young blood," he said softly. "In fact, I ain't gonna kill ya at all."

I was confused, and tried to form words, but he shushed me quietly. "Don't try to talk, now. I'll get Doc and he'll fix ya up. It ain't bad. I made sure it wouldn't be."

I shook my head, narrowing my eyes at him.

"We're all going to face the Reaper, son," he said. "You're good. You're as fast as I've ever seen, and with just a hair more time, it'd be me down there 'stead of you. You're going to take my place here someday, and you'll have to face the endless line of young bucks that want to make a name for THEMselves comin' after YOU."

I was fading, slipping toward what I thought was death, and he put his hand gently on my shoulder and squeezed.

"You did fine," he said, "and you'll have your day. It will come one day soon, and you'll be sorry you had it. Just like me. There is no joy in sending a young man to see the Reaper before the Reaper comes looking for HIM."

I slipped into sleep then, with his words echoing through my head.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction