Reeve (roguish_vice) wrote in ourtrueselves, @ 2010-01-02 07:19:00 |
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Current mood: | predatory |
Entry tags: | shannon reeve |
Who: Reeve/Nottingham & Andi Patricks' father
What: A "robbery" gone horribly wrong
When: Early Saturday morning
Where: Mr. Patricks' bar
It was some ungodly hour of the morning when the sheriff walked into the bar, dressed in civvies, with his dark hair disheveled and his face hidden by a scruffy beard. His collar was turned up against the late December chill, and he kept one hand tucked inside an oversize jacket as he approached the counter with a single-minded look in his eye.
"Look, buddy, we're closed," the said the sandy-haired but graying man behind the counter. His square jaw, dusted with a five o' clock shadow, was set in defiance of the late--or was it early--intrusion, and his words had the subtle inflection of a man who'd indulged in his fair share of what he'd been pouring. The sheriff figured him for a mean drunk. Obstinate, at least.
"I'll make this quick, then," he said, drawing his hand from his coat, and with it, a small--compact--but effective crossbow. "Open the till."
"What that--?" the bartender growled, reaching for an empty bottle, as if that would save him in a shootout. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Three guesses, and the first two don't count," said the sheriff, jerking his head toward the register, "Now, open it, before I open you." He would have loved to wing the man, to put a little weight behind his threat, but it would have wasted too much time loading another bolt. He wasn't looking for a brawl.
Whether he was looking for one, or not, that was exactly what he got. The man behind the bar took aim and chucked the empty bottle straight at the crossbow--knocking the shot wide as the glass connected with the sheriff's knuckles--and vaulting over the counter. He wasn't in bad shape for a middle-aged drunk, the sheriff though, as the man barreled into him--sending the crossbow and bolts clattering across the floor as he rammed the sheriff into a nearby table.
A rousing fight ensued, the sheriff blocking punches, throwing elbows, taking a few knees to the gut himself before he finally threw the drunk off balance and the two ended up grappling on the floor. During the struggle, just as the bartender had regained the upper hand and was poised to smash another empty bottle--or was it the same one--into his opponent's face, the sheriff closed one of his gloved hands around one of the stray quarrels and struck like a snake, plunging the arrow into the bartender's neck.
Pushing the dead man's weight off of his own body, the sheriff stood, wiping the blood off his face with one coat sleeve, then shucking the entire garment to the floor as he went to the register and emptied it of cash.
It was like they said in the old mafia films, with a slight twist. He left the gun--murder weapons would be found at the scene, with no fingerprints, no traceable owner--but instead of taking the canolli for himself, authorities would also find that the money had been anonymously deposited into the poor-box at a local Catholic church.