The air in the saloon was still; heavy with the scent of whiskey, and quiet as a church, save for the steady squeaky of the bed frame from upstairs in Miss Kitty’s room.
And the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner, beside the broken mahogany player piano, which was obviously quiet.
And the sound of the bartender whimpering as he stared cross-eyed at the six-shooter barrel in his face.
“Say it again,” said Calamity Agnes, holder of the gun… now among the unquiet in an otherwise silent room; silent because she had shot 4 men dead just moments ago.
“I s-s-s-said, Muh-muh-Miss Kuh-Kitty is w-w-with a customer right now,” said the (un-quiet) Bartender. “Ah cain’t disturb her…”
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“Cain’t,” said Agnes, pulling back the hammer with a click (noise). “Or won’t?”
“Cain’t,” trembled the bartender. “You done sawed off mah legs last month when you was Buzzsaw Agnes, Ma’am.”
She looked over the bar. “So I did,” she said, and sighed. Maybe this possessive relationship of hers with Kitty wasn’t doing anybody any good. And maybe she better get her tinnitus looked after.
