Raging Sun - Chapter 4 Up. [PG-13]

[L0SS]

This here, is a story related to the illegal trade of Moonshine during the prohibition of alcohol in 1920's America. As an non-american, this sought of thing has always interested me; from the California gold rush, to the oil boom, these sorts of capitalist ideas have always made interesting narratives to my mind. 

 

[spoiler='Prologue  ']Raging Sun
Prologue
The Deep South: 1920. A cool breeze swept through the dense valleys of fractured stone. The sky hung overhead; like a vast curtain set over the mid-day sun. The desert hung, for a moment, in blissful silence, which was swiftly broken by the sound of laboured footsteps in the dense heat. The rattle of bottles could be heard, a regular vibration which followed every footstep.

 

Then, a silhouette formed in the distance; one of a pale figure, garbed in dark clothing. The closer the figure got, the more impatient Arnold Randall grew. He took his handkerchief out from the pocket of his waistcoat, removed his fedora, and mechanically dabbed his forehead. Beads of sweat laced down his chiselled face. He studied them for a few moments, and then looked up at the raging sun. How he wished for a barrage of cloud to drift along the sky and quell the heat. Arnold’s thoughts were interrupted by a large clunk.

 

“Twenty four bottles of moonshine, and high quality as always” the pale man proclaimed, with a grin. Arnold noted that he had the patter of a salesman. He wondered how many more deals this man must have made in the sweltering heat of West Texas. He took out his pocket watch, and strained to see the time. The glare of the sun made it hard to make out the numbers. He cupped his hand around the watch and made out 1:22 pm.

 

“You’re twelve minutes late” Arnold stated, dryly.

 

“Well, it was hard walk trekking up here in this heat” Replied the pale man. “Anyway, I brought you your moonshine like you asked. I mean, what difference does twelve minutes make?”

 

“There’s a lot I coulda done in those twelve minutes. I could've been back in my saloon, for a start.” Arnold said, bitterly. He pointed to the hazy town in the distance, as if to prove his point.

 

“Well, I'm here now. If you were so fussed about waiting around, why didn't you have me bring it to you directly?”

 

“Because Sheriff Nottingham is a very observant man; he’d have seen it a mile off. That’s why we’re two miles out.” Arnold retorted, letting out a raspy chuckle. “I’ll cart it out in a carriage and that way he won’t think nothing of it. He’d have searched someone like you as soon as you’d stepped foot in that place.”

 

“Fair enough, I’ll let you take it from here. By the way, I didn't catch your name.” The pale man inquired, extending a skeletal hand forward briskly. Arnold was amused to see where his priorities lay.

 

“Arnold Randall.” Arnold mumbled as he placed a cigar firmly from his gums. He returned the hand shake as he fumbled for his matches. “And yours?”

 

“Marty. Marty Spiff.” The man replied, his handshake one of firmness and business-like grip. He doffed his top hat slowly as if to leave, turned, and quickly turned back.

“By the by, that moonshine is pretty pure. Don’t get setting fire to it. I like my customers to be in one piece.” With that, he was off. Arnold watched as he slowly faded into the horizon, the desert immersing him until he was nothing more than a dark speck in the distance.

 

Arnold slowly approached the wooden casket, and took out the first bottle. An ominous ‘X’ marked the peeling label. Arnold dreaded to think what it tasted like. Luckily he wouldn't be drinking it. He returned it, and carried the casket along towards the carriage. He could feel splinters pierce his sweaty palms as he walked. What he wouldn't give to be back in his saloon.
[/spoiler]

 

[spoiler='Chapter 1']1
Crawford, Texas: 1924. The old swing doors of ‘The Crawford Bowling Range’ swung open with a familiar creak. The sound of trodden boots walking the wooden floor echoed through the dusty room. The place had previously been a respected saloon and bar, but after the prohibition, Arnold Randall had realised that his saloon was likely to lose some of its popularity. Therefore, he had decided to tackle the issue of a lack of leisure facilities in Crawford by having a bowling alley fitted. The instalment had been a huge success, attracting near enough the entire Crawford population. The sound of pins was also an easy way to drown out what was going on around the back. Two birds with one stone. Arnold had also realised that it would allow the refinery to be hidden in the depths of the building, disguised as one of the bowling alleys ‘complex’ pin arrangement areas. This had left it undetected by Crawford’s one authority figure, that figure being Sheriff Hal Nottingham.

 

Setting up the whole moonshine distribution line for the state of Texas in such a quaint little town had also been a stroke of genius, if only because it meant there was no monitoring of any sort, and the shipments would go unnoticed. Sure, the logistics were a pain, but it was worth it.

 

Arnold Randall surveyed his vast range, noticing the pre-set pins glisten in the early morning light. He took off his hat, and placed the box he had been carrying on the counter side. He took off the cover to reveal a set of bottles. He took them out one by one, and placed them in a line. The light from outside reflected strangely in the green glass, as the moon was still visible in the morning sky. Arnold stared at them for a few moments, and then proceeded to label each individual bottle himself. Five minutes later, and he was done. The moon had gone, replaced by a new-born sun creeping up into the sky. Arnold returned the bottles to the box and replaced the cover. He scooped the box up in his arms; walking intently towards the open alley before him. He relished the smell of polished wood, the clean squeak of his steps on the floor boards. He chuckled to himself as to why he bothered with the moonshine thing at all. He’d be just as happy running this place. He stopped at a red door to see Jeff, his all-round handy man, preparing the pins for the day’s bowling. Jeff was slim and handsome; and impressively tall. He wore a simple waistcoat, and shoes so polished you’d swear that they were emitting their own light.

 

“Morning, Jeff.” Arnold called, routinely.

 

“Morning sir. I brought some more corn meal in for the new batch of mash.” Jeff replied, enthusiastically.

“That’s good son, you make sure you mix it right. I got a few more bottles here for you to fill.”

Arnold handed the box to Jeff, who balanced it carefully between his arms. Jeff was a young local, but someone who Arnold relied on constantly. Jeff’s father, Thomas Flynn, had emigrated from Ireland. He had worked long hours in the Texas heat as a farmer, and would stop at Arnold’s saloon every night for a drop of hard liquor. All of his free time and every dime that he made were spent in Arnold’s saloon. Thomas brought up his son on the atmosphere of the place, staying late into the night, and early into the day. It was only natural that his son would one day work for Arnold, and that Thomas would supply a large amount of the produce needed for their operation straight from his own farm. The man was getting on, now in his late 60’s, and Jeff had taken a hold of the reigns; firmly keeping track of the farm.

 

“I’ll have no problem filling these up; this latest supplier can’t seem to get enough of it.” Jeff said, making his way through the red door and into the refinery.

 

“And let’s hope it stays that way.” Arnold replied. He unbuttoned his overcoat and threw it on the floor of the alley. Pushing his way through the solid red door, his senses were assaulted by the heat, noise, and claustrophobia of the refinery room. Arnold made sure to lock the door behind him. Jeff was busy placing bottles steadily under giant taps, as the blare of heating copper and gushing liquid filled the room. Smoke rose from the copper basin as the mash mixture was vaporised under an intense heat.

 

“How long do you reckon till we can ship this batch out?” Jeff was evidently full of zeal. Arnold moved towards the basin to survey the mixture, and the rising temperature caught him off guard. He breathed slowly and frisked for his handkerchief. Suddenly, it dawned on him that he had left it in his coat. He let out a sigh, wiping drips of sweat from his forehead. Jeff continued to fill bottles with the resulting cooled vapour of the mixture. The purity of this stuff was hard to believe, as bottle upon bottle was filled with a clear liquid.

 

“It shouldn't be more than a couple of days. I know for a fact that the supplier up north has been raided. They’re gonna be gagging for this stuff up there!” Arnold laughed. “By the way, do you think that we can get the gambling thing off the ground? Is there a place for it in somewhere like Crawford?”

 

“I don’t know. We don’t to be letting on to anything more than we have to. If we start now, it could dra- shit!” Jeff exclaimed, furiously hammering at the tap, and burning his hand in the process.

 

“What is it?” Arnold asked.

 

“Damn thing's blocked. Nothing’s coming out.” Jeff took a large piece of wire from the box behind him, and wrapped his hand in his handkerchief. Carefully, he placed it up the tap, and wriggled back and forth frantically. “I can feel something.”

 

“What could it be?”

 

“I don’t know, a bit of the mixture might not have filtered properly or something. All kinds o’ rubbish is filtered into that mixture.” He then proceeded to kick the pipe, and as he did so, a couple of large stones fell out, and straight into the bottle Jeff had carelessly left under the tap, along with an overflow of moonshine. He desperately motioned to turn off the tap. Arnold let out a small chuckle in response to this.

 

“Continue for a little while, while I set-up for the day. And remember, old Nottingham will be in this afternoon as he usually is on a Thursday, so don’t be too loud, and offer him a free game if he starts to ask questions.”

 

“I don’t know why we don’t just bribe him.” Jeff retorted, questionably.
“Because he isn't worth a damn bribe! Now get on with it. If you have any problems, just turn the whole thing off and lock the door. I’ll deal with that tonight.” Arnold walked back to the door, unlocked it, took his coat off of the floor, and made his way slowly towards the counter. As he did so, a figure appeared in the door way to the range.

 

“Good morning, Mr Randall.” The distinctive drawl meant it could be none other than Sheriff Nottingham. He swung the doors open casually and tilted his Stetson.

 

“Morning, Sheriff. You don’t usually arrive until the afternoon.” Arnold wavered. He was taken aback by his arrival. He couldn't deal with the Sheriff snooping around at this time of morning.

 

“Well, I thought I’d stop by to say hello. How are you holding up on this fine day?”

 

“Swell. Real swell, actually Mr Nottingham.”
[/spoiler]

 

[spoiler='Chapter 2']2

Sheriff Nottingham sat on wooden bar stool, bowling ball in one hand, and his Stetson in the other. At his feet, green bottles lay, their contents depleted. The Sheriff threw the ball carelessly into the wide open alley, and it careened off the wall and into the gutter. Arnold laughed at the hopeless old Sheriff; who had poured, and was now drinking the remains of, two bottles of moonshine in his Stetson. Jeff’s idea had worked; bribing old Nottingham meant they had their little town in the palm of their hands.

 

“Fetch… fetch me, another bottla the stuff, would ya?” Nottingham slurred.

 

“I think you’ve had enough, Sheriff.” Replied Arnorld, patronizingly. “By the way, you’re gonna lay off this whole business now ain’t you?”

 

“’course I will, ‘slong as you keep supplying me with the stumphole.”
Jeff came down to the Sheriff and started to collect the empty bottles. As he did so, he put his hand on the Sherrif’s, looking warmly at him, trying to get his attention.

 

“Sir. Will you make sure that no authority wises up to our operation? We can’t make this work with lawmen sniffing around here. Crawford is a nice, peaceful little town. We intend to keep it that way.” Jeff said, rubbing the Sheriff’s wrinkled hand and trying his best to be sincere. The Sheriff laughed heartedly in response to this.

 

“You boys – you boys really know how to play me, don’t you?” Jeff wasn’t certain what to make of this. He looked over to Arnold, who walked purposefully over to the Sheriff. Now Arnold began to look menacing.

 

His folded face rolled up, and his eyes narrowed. His brow lowered, and his whole jolly nature seemed to sink down with it.

It was obvious the claws were out. He folded his arms, and after staring at the Sheriff for a moment, lit a match.

 

“Tell me, Sheriff. How important to you is your job?” as Arnold said this, an air of soberness seemed to hit the Sheriff. He had evidently realised what Arnold was trying to get at.

 

“Why, very important; I’ve protected this little town for years; I was here when it was nothing more than a-“

 

“Are you going to let us continue this operation?” Arnold said, matter-of-factly.

 

“It’s my solemn duty not to!” The Sheriff retorted, spitting venomously in Arnold’s face. Cooley, Arnold took his handkerchief out from his pocket, and wiped his off the spit. He threw the handkerchief down at the floor. He looked distantly at the match he had lit, and then, almost pitifully, back down at the Sheriff.

 

“Do you know what the proof of the moonshine you’re currently drinking is?” Arnold asked. The Sheriff stopped glugging moonshine from his Stetson and looked, curiously at Arnold.

 

“No. What?”

 

“One hundred and fifty. That’s seventy-five per cent alcohol. I bet it burns pretty spectacularly, don’t you think so?” Arnold said, bringing the match down to the Sheriff. Arnold flicked it into the Sheriff’s Stetson, which shot up in a fierce blue flame. The Sheriff threw the hat to the floor, staggered up from his stool, and proceeded to stomp violently on the hat. As he did so, a flame shot up his sleeve, presumably from spilt alcohol, and the Sheriff ripped his shirt open, flinging it onto the alley besides the hat.

 

He continued to kick at them both for a good few minutes, until only tattered remains were left. His hat sat, scorched and melted, besides his shirt. He kicked it once more for good measure, sending it flying across the alley. He breathed heavily, gasping for air and clutching his chest. Reluctantly, he collapsed onto his stool.

 

“You boys are in for a whole lot of trouble now.” The Sheriff strained, painfully. Arnold, who had been watching the whole charade, nodded over to Jeff; who walked over to the Sheriff and kicked over the stool he was perched on. The Sheriff fell onto his back, and rolled over, his limbs splayed across the wooden floor of the alley.

Jeff pushed him down and restrained him, as Arnold scooped up bowling pins into his arms and threw them at the Sheriff. Nottingham wriggled hopelessly, like a fish wrenched from the water. Arnold gripped a pin tightly in his hand and rushed forward. He raised the pin above his head, and slammed it down forcibly onto the Sheriff’s skull.

 

 

One hit was all it took. A pool of crimson seeped onto the polished floor, oozing and spreading over the distance, and stopping at the fallen stool. Jeff slowly released the Sheriff’s corpse, which was now turning ghost white. Both men stood back for a second, surveying the damage they had caused. Arnold dropped a blood-stained bowling pin from his grasp, and it made a large thud as it hit the ground. The sound rung throughout the alley.

 

Arnold slowly bent down to the Sheriff, and unclipped a melted and bloodied ‘SHERIFF’ badge from his shirt that was lying burnt on the ground beside him. Looking at himself through the dim golden reflection in the light, his features seemed warped. His black hair hung from his head, his brow thick, his face twisted in the light.

 

He slowly put the badge to his chest, and pinned it into his jacket. He flashed it proudly, and assumed a stately and authoritative walk across the alley. Bending down, he picked up the charred Stetson, and placed it on his head.

 

“I don’t have a deputy badge for you, I'm afraid.” Arnold joked. Jeff smiled cautiously in response.

 

“I’ll clean this mess up, shall I?”

 

“Close the alley for this afternoon. Say that we’re doing maintenance. As for the body… hide it down in the pit end until I figure out what to do with it.” Arnold said, detachedly. Jeff obliged, grabbing the body by the arms, pulling it forward, and swinging it over the lane. The body slid smoothly over the oily surface like a snake through grass, colliding with the pins at the other end in a large clatter, and falling down into the pit behind.

“Now we need to clear this mess up, and tonight we’ll send the next batch out.”

 

“I think the Sheriff drunk most of the batch.” Jeff replied, sheepishly.

 

“Well then, drain it out of him!” Arnold called, smirking, as he made his way towards the front swing doors. Now with Nottingham gone, he felt in control. He could run the town; manipulate it as he saw fit. It could be a centre for the Texas moonshine trade.

 

He stepped proudly out of the door, adjusting his badge as he did so. It had taken him four years to get to this position, and it was too late to turn back.
[/spoiler]

 

[spoiler='Chapter 3']3
A thick cloud of tobacco smoke hung in the air, consuming the men that sat around the long table of the county office. The figures were engaged in a long and aggressive discussion, the kind that felt like it would never end. As it went on, the cigar stubs that drooped from the men’s lips became shorter, the discussion from their tongues became slower, and their commanding voices became quieter. Finally, all was silent. The grey cloud slowly departed through the large paned windows of the office, and the figures stood up slowly from their chairs.

“Remember” said a shrill, raspy voice “These kinds of deaths happen all the time. Men who have been respected members of the community for years suddenly get drunk one night and end up wandering into the desert. I expect we’ll find his body any day now.”

“But a Sheriff? That ain’t regular at all. And if you’d forgotten, the prohibition has been enforced for years now. He couldn’t o’ got hold of any alcohol. Certainly not in this town” Replied another figure, whose voice rumbled up into the high ceiling of the office; settling slowly on the departing figures.

“My point is that he likely just got lost in the night. It’s mighty dark out at this time of year. We’ll find his body out there in a couple o’ weeks: mark my words.”


Four days later, and they had found the body. It lied, face-down in the middle of a small canyon outside of the town. There was no shirt, and no hat, but the body showed little sign of decay. One of the deputies pointed out the head wound at the base of the skull; and from the position of the body, and size and shape of the canyon, concluded the Sheriff must have fallen from the top head-first, forcefully hit the rock that jutted out at the bottom, and died. Another remarked that he may have been pushed. All agreed that they were unlikely to find a specific motive, and left it at that.

Another four days, and the funeral took place. Nottingham’s wife had died a few years earlier from flu, and his son had flown the nest and had never been heard from again. Despite this, most of the town were out to pay their condolences. Mrs Polly Norman, the town’s representative on the state committee, and all-round busy body, said a few words on his long service for the town; and read out a poem she had written herself. It had something to do with an owl and a tree. The coffin was paraded through the town, cutting through the main street; and residing at the local church, where it was buried. Reverend Hanks, a good friend of the Sheriffs, read a bible passage; and the coffin sunk slowly into the coarse soil of Crawford. There it stayed.

Arnold slowly removed his black top hat, and cupped the rim between his hands. He nodded his head slowly and soberly at the passers-by, surveying the street as people made their way back from the funeral. The town wasn’t alive at the best of times, but today it was stone dead. He gazed distantly at a passing eagle, as it circled predatorily over the town. Lost in observation, he hadn’t noticed an old woman walk up onto the landing of his Alley.

“’scuse me” she said, in a voice so grating it sounded like her voice box and been replaced by a harmonica. “Did you know him?” she asked. Arnold looked her over suspiciously. She wore a plain black dress, little more than a rag. Her skin was as pale as milk, sickly and almost luminous in the blaze of the sun. Her eyes were dark saucers set firmly into her thin face. She looked up at him, meekly. He shuffled towards her, uncertain of what to say. Making his mind up, he placed a hand softly to her shoulder.

“I knew him, yeah. He used to come along and speak to me once a week. We’d have chats about the general goings on in the town.” Arnold said, matter-of-factly.

“He’d always keep tabs on his citizens. Do you know that he used to come and visit me in my little shack up the street most every day? He’d fetch my prescription for me from down the way there” Arnold nodded to her slowly as she said this, not taking in a word she was saying. He looked above her, and saw a gang of deputies pass by on horseback. He held the gaze of one of the deputies as they rode past, and then slowly returned his eyes to the little old lady. As she spoke, white trails of saliva formed at each end of her mouth. She wiped up a small trial hanging down from her lip as she stopped speaking. “It’s a real shame” she finished.

“Certainly is” Arnold replied. He then turned on the heels of his boots, and walked towards the doors of the alley.

“Who do you think will replace him?” the lady asked. Arnold turned again, and looked directly at her. The lady didn’t know it, but she had sparked an idea in Arnold’s mind that would shape his dealings for good.

He turned resolutely back towards the doors, placed his top hat smartly on his head, opened them both in unison, and stepped forward.

“Jeff” he called, “I need to speak to you a moment.”

Three weeks later, and it was Election Day in the town of Crawford. Only two positions were up for election, which was one more than usual. The usual being State Representative (of which, Polly Norman was almost certain to be re-elected), and this year, the role of Sheriff. Four hopeful deputies sat in a line in Crawford town halls’ old courthouse. This building had been integrated directly into the main hall as a cost saving measure, as it was felt that having to source out petty local cases all the way up in Haywood County was a waste of time and money. Despite this, the lack of any kind of lawyer or legal representative in Crawford meant that most cases were sourced out anyway; the courtroom remaining as nothing more than a fairly impressive social and official meeting area.

The deputies sat regimentally in small wooden chairs across the main floor, as rows of local citizens filled the courthouse seats. In the jury seats sat Mrs Polly Norman (now re-elected for a ‘sparkling’ third term), Mr Daniel Clifton (the supposed Mayor of Crawford), Rev. Hanks, Montgomery Briggs (owned a string of chain restaurants throughout the state, which somehow qualified him as a town representative), various other active community members, and Arnold.

On the left side of the line of deputies sat an unexpected nomination. Jeff Flynn sat proudly in his chair; suited in a clean grey suit and waistcoat, wearing his usual immaculate black shoes, and, to add a sense of occasion, a brown Stetson. He smiled broadly at Arnold, who looked over the voters that sat by his side.

 

Of the eight, five had been bribed; with only Polly, the Reverend, and another member declining his ‘offer’. That was all it would take to make Jeff ‘Sheriff Flynn’. Would the town call foul? Almost certainly, but this didn’t faze Arnold. They would get used to him, and Arnold would carefully monitor his every action. With this kind of influence, Arnold could drastically change the town. There would be one or two stubborn members, but he would weed them out. He smiled back at Jeff as Polly Norman stepped purposefully up onto the defendant stand.

“Ladies and gentleman” she said loudly over the murmur of the crowd. Her voice was steely and strong. She spoke rhythmically and sharply, evidently attempting to displace her southern roots. “We are here to select a new law enforcer to protect our great town. This will be the person who oversees the safety of our homes, of our land, of our children: the person who protects us from peril, who upholds the laws’ of God, and who allows us to flourish as a town.” The crowd let out a small pattering of applause. Arnold shook his head briskly. It was the same speech every year. He let out a loud, persistent clap; just as the applause had died down. She looked at him sternly through her horn-rimmed spectacles, and cleared her throat. “The nominees before you now are young, but they have our towns’ needs at the forefront of their minds. You have seen all the evidence” she waited for laughter. Only the Reverend did so. She continued. “Now you must make your decision.” She stepped down briskly from the stand, and sat back in her seat.

The nominees looked casually from one another as Mayor Clifton stepped forward. He was a large, hearty man; who had strong views on all matters of political affair, and an even stronger breath. He lumbered towards the stand, and stretched his arm out to silence the noise. Taking up a small envelope, he pulled it open violently. Looking at the card that was now between his fingers, he held a moment of tension as he gazed from nominee to nominee. He then nodded towards Arnold, and coughed into his handkerchief. Placing it back in his pocket, he put down the card and spoke: “This will be a memorable day. Let’s hope our new Sheriff will be here to protect us for years to come. Crawford’s’ new Sheriff is…” the crowd were held in anticipation. Arnold was amazed that such an event could be conceived for such an official and important matter. “The new Sheriff is… Jeff Flynn.” The mayor bellowed. Arnold let out a sigh of relief, as the crowd erupted in a mixture of curiosity and fury. Jeff stood proudly amidst the chatter and bowed, throwing his Stetson into the crowd as he did so. Arnold departed through the grand old courthouse, pocket watch in hand. The evening would be rounded off with refreshments in the town hall, and introductions would be made. Arnold felt sick just thinking about it. Now he had a job of his own; finding Jeff’s replacement.

As he prised open the large door of the building, he found himself tapping at the rim of his top hat. It was getting late, and a cool breeze swept through the town, and into the valleys beyond. Tomorrow, he would find himself a new workman. He’d visit Jeff early and discuss his plans for the future. Walking along the main street, he passed by the refreshment stand outside the town hall. Coloured bunting was draped invitingly above the doorway. A couple of the town women were setting up for tonight’s shenanigans, and Arnold walked over to them.

“Mind if a grab a drink now?” he asked, winking at a young woman who was pouring orange juice methodically into cups.

“Why, of course.” She replied, in a strong accent. She had fiery red hair that matched the colour of the juice she was pouring. “They’ll be some fresh lemonade later on as well” she said sweetly.

“If this is good, I’ll be back for more” Arnold replied. He wandered back to the alley, drink in hand. He set out a chair on the decking at the back, and watched the sun set. It sunk slowly over the distant valleys, as the sky darkened around it. Arnold folded his arms, tilted his hat over his eyes, and laid back. His worries were over, for now at least.



[/spoiler]

 

[spoiler='Chapter 4']4

On this particular humid morning in July, Arnold awoke to the sound of bottles clinking. He quickly jumped to his feet, pulled on his trousers that were lying by his bed, and ran through the back door and into the alley. He saw the tall, slim shape of Jeff stride towards him, a crate of moonshine by his side.

 

“What are you doing, and what time is it?” Arnold asked, he was irritated at having been woken up to Jeff’s smug, fresh face.

 

“The time is 6:30 AM, and I'm collecting myself a crate of moonshine. I think it’s only fair, after all, it’s not like you ever paid me.” Jeff said, amused. He still wore his brown Stetson, and, Arnold noticed, a pair of intimidating brown boots. The spurs made a firm click as they hit the wooden floor.

 

“I paid you in experience. But take it for all I care. What do you gotta do now?” Arnold asked, figuring that now was as good a time as any to have a serious conversation on Jeff’s’ role.

 

“I've got to meet up with the Mayor and the rest of the board for a basic outline of my duties. There is also the matter of my official address.” Jeff said.

 

Arnold noted that his voice was already slower and more authoritative. He reckoned it was the boots. Arnold drowsily walked over to the old bar at the left side of the Alley and sat at a stool.

 

He yawned loudly, outstretching his arms and then rubbing his eyes. Jeff was seemingly wide awake. As Jeff walked forward to sit next to him, Arnold raised his hand.

 

“Stay standing son.” He said. Jeff came to a halt and placed the crate by his feet; standing regimentally, his arms by his side.

 

“You going to give me a fatherly talk?” Jeff asked, expectantly.

 

“Well, something like that.” Arnold replied. He took a large cigar out from his trouser pocket and lit it casually. Placing the cigar in his mouth, and the matches on the bar side, he took a long puff, and exhaled laboriously.

 

“Jeff, you’re a good man. You’re a scoundrel and a cheat; but you’re a good man. Your father was a good man too. Maybe the best man I knew. I've done wrong by him. I haven’t visited him in a long time. I write to him, but that isn't the same.” Arnold took another puff, and rubbed his forehead. “He deserves better than that, which is why I'm going to go and visit him today.”

 

“He’d be more than happy to see you, Arnie.” Jeff said.

 

“Well, I hope so. I don’t know how much to tell him. We've killed a man. And not just any man, we've killed the former Sheriff of this town. Not only was he an acquaintance of your fathers; but you've now taken his role and title. My point is it’s too late to turn back now. We are too far down this road. This is your last chance to get out.”

 

Arnold let it sink in for a few moments. He was offering Jeff a way out of the whole sorry business. He stood up from his stool and paced back and forth as Jeff thought the offer through. “You know, I think you’d make a great Sheriff.”

 

“I hope so, if not they’ll have to wait a good while before a re-election.” Jeff chuckled. He took of his Stetson and scratched at his head.

 

Arnold had stopped pacing, had seated again, and was now tossing a bowling ball routinely between each hand.

 

“If I quit, then it’ll be over for you too. I think my father ‘d be reluctant to supply from the farm if I wasn't a part of it.” Jeff enquired.

 

“Why do you think I'm going over to speak to him in the first place?” Arnold replied.
In a way, he hoped Jeff would leave. It would be ironic that a man embroiled in criminal activity would serve as the towns’ protector and law enforcer. He felt Jeff deserved a normal life, free of crime.

 

“I’ll say this. If my father agrees to keep supplying you, and only if; then I’ll leave you for good. For now, let’s carry on as normal.” Jeff stated.

 

A cheeky smile spread across his face. It was evident that he drew a sense of excitement and adrenaline from his work with Arnold. That was to be expected; in this town the people woke at 9am and went to bed at 7pm. Above all, this business was an escape route from the monotony of day-to-day life.

 

Arnold relaxed the tired folds of his face. He yawned again to shake off his tiredness completely. Rising up from his stool as if he was a puppet being tugged by the strings, he let the bowling ball in his hand roll slowly down the alley way. Both the men waited for the ball to come to a standstill.

 

“You know”, Arnold finally said “I’d always wanted to open a bowling alley, right from when I was little. My daddy took me to one of the first alleys that had opened in this state, up in Temple. There was something about the atmosphere, the noise, and the people, which really reached out to me. Like anything in life; with bowling, you knock enough of your obstacles down and things soon pick up.”

Arnold pulled his cigar away from his lips. “Or else, you end up in the gutter.”

 

Arnold rubbed his hand smoothly through his jet black hair, feeling the strands pull away. This was the usual sign that he had finished speaking and was now deep in thought. Jeff clocked on to this, and sat himself firmly next to Arnold.

 

Another moment of silenced passed over the alley. Arnold stared resolutely out of the small framed windows at the end of the bowling area. As he watched the sky lighten, he made up his mind.

 

“ I'm going for a walk.” He said, detachedly. With that, he heaved himself off of his stool, straightened himself up, and went into his bedroom to pick up his shirt and coat. He threw them on quickly, tightened his tie, and observed himself in the mirror. He looked as if he’d aged ten years since he had started in the moonshine trade.

 

His defined, chiselled features were now lost under drooping masses of skin and blemished speckles. His body was stooped; his gait lower, less lively, and more commanding than before. Where had that young, ambitious entrepreneur gone?

 

He placed his fedora over his head firmly and made his way out of the alley and onto the main street.

The town had begun to wake up; fuelled by the prospect of a new Sheriff, and a new term. He walked along the street, eyeing the distant valleys that stooped beyond the town; beckoning him forward to be engulfed in their monolithic stone jaws.

 

As he continued down the road, the wraith-like woman he had met the day before waved at him as she sat rocking childishly in her chair on the front porch of her house. He doffed his hat to her.

 

“Where might you be going this early in the day, young man?” She asked, mockingly. For a second, Arnold saw flashes of youth in the deep pools of her eyes. He wanted to know what she had seen; what she had done. How had time changed around her? This thought arrested him as he continued towards the canyon.

 

He had been willing to manipulate this town and its inhabitants for as long as he could remember. Now he was having doubts. Jeff becoming Sheriff was the turning point. An opportunity had presented itself that Arnold could no longer ignore. Arnold could seize this town, have it put into full time Moonshine production, and have an operation that would rival the biggest produces in the country. Or, he could let these hopeless, petty people keep themselves to themselves.

 

As he reached the outskirts of the town, past the motel and into the range and farm area; he saw a group of three men on horseback. They were all crowned with the same wide-brimmed hats. Arnold put a hand to his forehead and squinted in order to get a better look. He could make out the Deputy badges and the cut of their uniform as the sun continued to rise above them.

 

The horses rode gracefully along the rocky path; and Arnold slowed to greet the men.

 

“Morning boys” Arnold called as they approached. One-by-one, they all slowed beside him. Looking down at him from their horses, the Deputies each gripped their belt and tilted their hat. Arnold was very slightly intimidated.

 

“Say, Mr. Randell, where are you heading for?” The first deputy asked, coldly. His voice was distinctly low. Arnold assumed he was ‘in charge’ while the Sheriff was away.

 

“I'm just going for a walk to clear my head; I've another busy day ahead.” Arnold replied.

 

“Speaking o’ busy” said the Deputy again “Your boy Jeff certainly has been, hasn't he fellas?” The other Deputies chuckled in unison. “Tell me, how did he get to be Sheriff so easily, and above all us fine candidates too?”

 

“It had nothing to do with me. Now if you wouldn't mind-“

 

“Hold it right there Mr. Randell. I’d just like to say we’re keeping a firm eye on you and your boy. We don’t like him. We don’t like you. In fact, we despise the both of you. And I do suspect that more than a little bribery led to his election of Sheriff. And although we have no evidence, let me make it clear; we’re gonna make your life a living hell.” The Deputy finished; tugging firmly at his horses reigns and shooting forward, nearly knocking Arnold over in the process. The others followed speedily behind.

 

As Arnold watched them make their way into town, he continued along his journey. When he eventually reached the valley, he sat at the edge of the crevice.

It was the same one that he had deposited Sheriff Nottingham’s body into in the dead of night.

 

It looked far less intimidating in the morning sun. Its stone was a fiery red colour; it’s canyon vast and jagged.
As he gazed down into it, he made up his mind; or rather, the deputies had already made up his mind for him.

 

This town didn't deserve Arnold's respect or honour. He would drag them all through the dirt, and then he’d make them eat it.
[/spoiler]

[?someone?]

Keep doing it. Good descriptions, an interesting setting not-oft-seen, plus general writing competence make this interesting. Problem is, I was just getting into it as it just ended. As abrupt, if a bit kinder, than being hit by an automobile.

(In other words, MAEK MOAR PLS)

(Seriously, we need more stuff like this; it's intruiging)

(Brackets are underrated)

[L0SS]

Keep doing it. Good descriptions, an interesting setting not-oft-seen, plus general writing competence make this interesting. Problem is, I was just getting into it as it just ended. As abrupt, if a bit kinder, than being hit by an automobile.

(In other words, MAEK MOAR PLS)

(Seriously, we need more stuff like this; it's intruiging)

(Brackets are underrated)

(I agree)

(Will continue, thanks!)

[The Amazing Avian]

During the prohibition, bars were called Speak Easies (because patrons were told to speak quietly), not saloons. Speak Easies were commonly found hidden behind other establishments such as restaurants, clubs, and the like. They commonly offered gambling tables as well.

I find this interesting and I want to read more of it and I agree that sadly, settings like this are very uncommon.

[L0SS]

During the prohibition, bars were called Speak Easies (because patrons were told to speak quietly), not saloons. Speak Easies were commonly found hidden behind other establishments such as restaurants, clubs, and the like. They commonly offered gambling tables as well.

I find this interesting and I want to read more of it and I agree that sadly, settings like this are very uncommon.

Yeah, that dawned on me. But the idea was that it was originally a saloon before the prohibition, and therefore he sees no problem in referring to it as such when in private. Thanks for that point though.

[L0SS]

Chapter 1 up!

[L0SS]

Bump.

Chapter 2 will be up some time tonight. Don't hold your breath.

[L0SS]

Chapter 2 is up!

[?someone?]

Ah-hah. Only thing to pick on is the slightly awkward cut from chapter one to two, and the misuse of "wrung"; it should be "rung."

That's pretty much it. Otherwise, keep writing, and I'll keep reading. I like how brutal the sheriff's death was, and it's juxtaposition against how seemingly chummy Arnold and Jeff were before.

[L0SS]

Ah-hah. Only thing to pick on is the slightly awkward cut from chapter one to two, and the misuse of "wrung"; it should be "rung."

That's pretty much it. Otherwise, keep writing, and I'll keep reading. I like how brutal the sheriff's death was, and it's juxtaposition against how seemingly chummy Arnold and Jeff were before.

Thanks for picking up on that. I think my main issue when building a story is the progression of chapters. The narrative is going to very much show a transition through time, and so hopefully that should sit better when more chapters are up. As for 'rung', yes, I completely overlooked that. Thanks for that.

[L0SS]

Chapter 3 is up. Sort of sets the general scene of the town and its populace, which is why it's a little slower. 

[?someone?]

Blurp. I think it's better than the last one.

So, Arnold's gonna be more of a douchenozzle, eh? Well, I guess we'll see.

Oh, and I'd like to mention this: “’scuse me” she said, in a voice so grating it sounded like her voice box and been replaced by a harmonica.

That's a pretty genius description, I must say. And I'm pleased with the general lack of "I'm gonna leave this story foreveeeeeerrr~"; that sh*t is whack.

Good going.

[L0SS]

Blurp. I think it's better than the last one.

So, Arnold's gonna be more of a douchenozzle, eh? Well, I guess we'll see.

Oh, and I'd like to mention this: “’scuse me” she said, in a voice so grating it sounded like her voice box and been replaced by a harmonica.

That's a pretty genius description, I must say. And I'm pleased with the general lack of "I'm gonna leave this story foreveeeeeerrr~"; that sh*t is whack.

Good going.

Glad you liked it. I think I'll continue it regardless of reaction and comments. It's quite cathartic. Arnold is certainly going to be more mean, but I think he's a business man at heart, rather than inherently evil. Thanks.

[L0SS]

Chapter 4 is up.

[L0SS]

Bump for reviews and that.

[?someone?]

Good, as usual.

One thing: Or, he could let this hopeless, petty people keep themselves to themselves. The underlined part should be these.

Petty, I know, but I'm trying not to be the standard one-line commenter here.

 

 

[L0SS]

Good, as usual.

One thing: Or, he could let this hopeless, petty people keep themselves to themselves. The underlined part should be these.

Petty, I know, but I'm trying not to be the standard one-line commenter here.

 

 

Thanks for the corrections. You're now my elected proofreader. Feel proud. ;)

[?someone?]

Thanks for the corrections. You're now my elected proofreader. Feel proud. ;)

 

Well, thank you. Although, I may have voided my right to be proud a while ago. :p