Thursday, 02 December 2010 · 20:00 Blag Club, 68 Notting Hill Gate, London
He found himself in one of those long forgotten places on the edge of the dustbowl slap bang in the centre of the lonesome American night. A ghost town haunted by the shadows of a past age when people marauded west across the plains, plundering the then bountiful earth for its hidden riches. Nothing left for Georges though after a restless night of searching...
Georges stepped across the threshold of the saloon bar and peered into the gloom. He’d seen this place from across the empty street and it wasn’t just his sore craving for a shot of whiskey to warm his frozen soul that had lured him in. Outside was deserted save for the crows gathering at the cavernous mouth of the abandoned mine shaft, gaping voicelessly up at him from what seemed to be hell’s inner reaches. Something glinted in the darkness; Georges’ hand went straight to his holster; not quick enough though as the bullet had already whistled past his ear knocking his shades to the ground. He heard the faint rumble of an out of tune piano from an adjacent room accompanied by a haunted saxophone, cutting the silence with its sharp distorted song.
“Better beware of those false notes”
Georges staggered out into the noon day sun; the menacing jingle jangle of spurs resounding behind him. He turned to meet his adversary and they stood face to face, 20 yards apart. Arms outstretched. The sun beat down mercilessly on the motionless pair; the burning air reverberating around them. Everything else transfixed. Then, from out of the murder of crows one solitary bird took flight; lifting effortlessly into the air. Georges shot. After the thundering echo of the bang rolled away there was silence.
The crow circled slowly overhead. One figure remained standing who cast no shadow. A figure that eventually stirred, walked slowly back into the bar to pick up his dark glasses and order the shot of whisky he’d been craving from the night before.