It's A Wonderful Life, Tucker

November 23rd, 1869

Editor's Note:

    One night, in a coordinated effort that took everyone to work together, Tucker's Player logged in and was surprised to realize that everything around him had changed, room descriptions, character descriptions, history...  And in one night, William Tucker experienced what Maddock might have been if he had never been born.

November 23 1869

It is afternoon. A misty fog

A gray place, quiet, cool, with drifting fog up to about knee height, no sky or visible floor. Just an iron gray eternity above, and all around, blending down into the fog. There is no horizon visible-- just limitless silence and cool silver fog and diffused source less light.

Tucker has connected.

Through the drifting fog, dimly visible in the diffuse gray light, you can see a man, sitting in a leather armchair with his back half-turned to you, in front of a fireplace, with a sleeping dog at his feet. There are no other furnishings about, nothing else at all, in fact: just the fog, the man, the chair, the dog, the fireplace. Everything else is gently drifting fog up to your knees, iron gray light, and silence. There's a merry fire going in the fireplace, but no smoke issues from it: in fact, if you look closely, you can see that there is no actual wood burning at all. Just red and orange flames dancing merrily and silently just above the stone hearth. "You're late," the man announces, without turning round.

[Tucker]

William Tucker stands just under 6 feet. He has always been lanky and wiry, and even with age, that image still describes him. He appears to be in his middle to early thirties. His skin is darkly tanned from many years in the sun. Wrinkles have begun to add texture to his face, drawing firm lines across what was once a smooth face. His hair is a short, sandy brown. Brief scatterings of gray mark his temples. A sight seemingly premature for a man who still seems youthful. His eyes are hazel and expressive of his moods, changing with emotion and light. A shiny silver star, surrounded by a circle, is always visible upon his left breast. The badge of a Federal Marshal. Tucker's eyes have a fevered glaze. His skin a sickly pallor with a glossy sweat covered sheen. Several days worth of beard growth cover his face. A deep dry cough racks his frame frequently, shaking his whole body like leaves falling from a tree. His voice often changes from a fevered pitch, to a whispering breath. He clenches a muddy duster around his slender frame, his knuckles frequently whiten with a death like grip, as if the coat is life itself, and he fears it may slip away at any moment. Moccasins, equally encased in mud, cover his faltering footsteps.

Tucker opens his eyes and looks around.

[Bishop]

This man is obviously an Easterner by his dress and manner of speaking, which are cultured and carefully refined, but he carries himself with none of the carefree arrogance which Easterners often display on the frontier. Rather, his habitual silence, and the graceful, dangerous precision of his movements give him more the air of a relaxed cat: his silver eyes are most often half-lidded, absorbing everything and giving away nothing, patiently calculating. He is an older man, probably in his mid fifties by the liberal sprinkling of grey in his salt-and-pepper hair, and by the white shock at his left temple, where his hair is parted, but his thin face is curiously ageless, lined next to the mouth and across the forehead but the lines only giving his face character instead of the appearance of age. That face gives very little away, as it is usually fixed in a polite expression of interest and alertness, but the eyes hint at a certain cold, lethal efficiency of purpose. He wears no hat, but in every other way is dressed in the standard Eastern style, from his polished wingtips to his sharply creased trousers to his fashionable shirt and tie to his long black coat that reaches down to mid-calf. His voice is quiet, the voice of a man accustomed to command, a man who never needs to shout to make his wishes known; and his words have a curious cadence to their rhythm, almost a brogue, though it is very faint.

The man lifts his hand from where it was resting on the chair's arm, sips from a glass a third full with some amber liquid, and returns his arm to the armrest-- and then lets go of the glass. For an instant it falls, and instinctively your eyes follow its crashing path to the (only dimly visible) grey floor, but instead, it disappears in mid-air without any fuss, with a soft *pop* of inrushing air. "You're late," the man repeats, and he stands up, brushing at his elegant trousers. "We've got quite a bit to do. Come along, now." He turns from the chair, and strides off briskly in some indeterminate direction, away from the fireplace and chair and dog-- and from you.

Tucker reaches for his holster, it is there. His guns, are not. He looks down at his mud encased feet, still unsure of times past, or times future.

The man stops mid-step, turns around to stride back over to you with an ironic smile. "All will be explained. But for right now, we're late, and we really *must* get going. I'll explain on the way. Perhaps this will put you in a more cooperative frame of mind?" His hand executes a curious little flick of the wrist, and suddenly he's holding your hat, which he immediately offers to you. "Here we are. A cowboy never goes anywhere without his hat, isn't that right, William Tucker?" His smile turns even more sarcastic, and he gestures for you to precede him in walking-- though, this time, the direction he indicates isn't quite the same direction as he had taken before.. Though, with no discernable horizon, no floor and no sky, it's rather difficult to tell.

Tucker stares blankly at the hat, before recognition strikes his belabored brain. He runs a thumb along the bright silver band, then looks up to the man. He coughs into his hand, clearing a clogged throat, "Where.. where am I?" He places the hat upon his head, firming the brim with a quick shove. He follows the man, in some general direction he defines as, 'towards' the odd fellow.

With three more unassuming *pop*s, the chair, the fireplace, and lastly, (after a slight little pause and a bored glance the dog casts at you) the dog, disappear, leaving the two of them in an entirely featureless landscape. Fog swirls around their knees as they walk.

The man walks in silence for a little while, and then speaks again. "You're a very sick man, Mr. Tucker. Very sick, indeed, and in these cases we tend to offer our patrons a choice. Your choice is this: return to Maddock and your life there, or.. you can come back with me. Your choice. But: your case is more complex. If you choose to live, you also choose a path. Your current state of affairs is entirely unacceptable. Lying low, Mr. Tucker, is just a kind way of describing cowardice. Then again, there's always room in Hell for one more coward, and I've not met my quota yet this quarter.." He trails off, and a cigar appears in his hand. He snaps his fingers, and a bright purple flame starts dancing at the end of his index finger, with which he lights the cigar.

Tucker stops in his tracks, that is, if he could define his tracks. He lifts his chin, ignoring his current state of disrepair. He whispers, "I ain't a coward..." His eyes spark with something beyond the fever, something beyond the glaze of confusion.

The cigar trails smoke that diffuses, lazily drifting down, and joins the fog obscuring their feet; and the man's tone turns a little condescending and kindly, like a famous math professor addressing a class of well-meaning and earnest but slightly doltish undergraduate students. "As I was saying, your case is more complex. If you choose Maddock, you also take responsibility for it. I, of course, have no particular objection to simply telling you this, but my.. colleague insists that I not only inform you of this, but demonstrate it to you. Full disclosure *is* such a pain.. But, ah well, that is the price we pay, I suppose, for being in the Business."

Tucker scratches the stubbles upon his face. His hand shakes horribly. He stares at it as it shakes. My sheer force of will alone, he forces his hand to tremble less violently. He asks, his voice cracking, "Where.. am I? What.. what are you talkin' about?" His eyes slide away from his hand to the man before him.

The man sighs, and goes over to take Tucker's arm. This one is going to be difficult, he can tell right now.. He leads him gently onwards. "You have a choice to make."

Tucker looks at the man, trying to picture where he has seen him before. He asks, his voice rising in pitch. Nervous fear and confusion trail a confused webs through his words, "Choice? What choice? What are ya talkin' about?" He looks around, nothing but fog... fog.

The man sighs, heavily. Hillbillies.. "To return to Maddock, or to come with me," he repeats, with exaggerated patience. "Now, come *on*. I don't have all century, you know. I'm a busy man. I have an appointment with one Richard Allard in a few hours.."

Tucker's footsteps waver, as he stops, follows, and stops, then follows this man. Torn in confusion, William Tucker thinks denial most certianly is a river in Egypt. But anger is getting the better of him, "I ain't even left Maddock, no matter how much Ahrv tried... who the hell are you?"

Ahead of you, a door slowly becomes visible; the man is leading us right to it. It's an unassuming door, wooden, with a doorframe, but it appears to be totally freestanding. The man goes to the door, puts his hand on the doorknob, turns back to you. "You're not going to like very much of this, I'm afraid. This is a Maddock of Might-Have-Been: if there were no William Tucker here. Maybe you were never born, maybe you were killed in the War, maybe you just never bothered to visit Maddock, Montana. But they won't know you here. And you will either come to understand your responsibilities here, or you will choose to return with me. The choice is yours." He opens the door, and gestures for you to precede him. When you look through the door, all you see is more of that fog.

Tucker pulls his battered duster closer, hunching his shoulders. "What.. what do you mean? re.. responsibilities? Maddock don't need me anymore... what do you mean?" He pleads, gaping hopelessly towards the fog filled doorway. He takes a hesitant step towards it. The man just holds the door open, waiting.

Tucker takes off his hat, running his hand through his hair. He opens his mouth to say more, but instead, it clangs shut as he grinds his teeth togethere. He is going to get to the bottom of this. No matter how far away that bottom may be. He places his hat back on his head, and stomps through the door.

The man smiles. They always give in. Sooner or later. He steps through, after Tucker.

Tucker hurries off towards the opening in the fog and onto the roadside.

You stroll towards the opening in the fog and onto the roadside.

Roadside

You are in the shade of a large rock formation at the side of what might be considered a road but really looks to be nothing more then a few indented wheel carriage ruts. Lengthening autumn night thickens in the snowcovered landscape. On the horizon to the south, you can just make out what appears to be a small town.

The horizon to the north looms like a blanket over the plains, stretching as far as the eye can see. The best haven appears to be southward.

Tucker looks around. Yes, its Maddock alright. Same damn dusty streets. The town will surely choke on it any time now.

Bishop gestures around them. "There's no place like home, right, Mr. Tucker? A charming little cesspool of humanity, isn't it? Any town that would elect Richard Allard as mayor.." He trails off, smiles at Tucker. "Who would you like to see first, my dear sir?"

Tucker points a gnarled finger at the strange man, "Allard? Mayor? He ain't been able to hold his drink long enough ta even vote." He pushes up his hat with a stray thumb and mutters, "drink.. now thar is a good idea iffin Ahrv evva heard one."

Tucker growls, "I don't know who the hell you are.. but Ahrm gonna find out what the hell is goin' on here." He begins to stomp towards town.

Bishop looks quite pleased. "Very well. I'm sure I can convince you of my veracity, *and* quench your thirst at the same time. Save us a little time." He strides off towards town, idly snapping sparks from his fingertips.

Tucker hurries off towards the town to the south.

Tucker hurries off towards the saloon porch. Tucker moves over from the northern road.

Ryn glances up at Tucker.

[Ryn]

You see a small girl wearing only a dirty and tattered shirt that must once have been white. She stands just under three feet tall, and looks to be little more than skin and bones. She has deep brown hair that's coated by at least two or three layers of dust and grime. The mass tumbles in a thick tangle nearly to her waist. When she does talk, it's usually in a hushed whisper, and only just barely loud enough to make out.

Tucker gazes up to the sign above the door, "Quintan Saloon? What the hell is this?" He turns and looks up and down the street. Spotting Ryn, he smiles, "Howdy Miss Ryn.. what are ya doin out here so late?"

Bishop glances at the pathetic creatures on the porch, and turns to the door. Too many waifs, he's seen, to have any compassion left. No matter how cute they are, he always ends up with them, sooner or later.

Ryn hobbles over towards Tucker, a rather angry red mark on her cheek. She murmurs softly, "Sir?"

Ryn pulls a small box of matches from a ragged pocket of her shirt. She mumbles quietly, "Matches, sir? Only two cents.."

Tucker looks a little amazed as he bends down to Ryn, "Ryn? Where's Benington? Ya look like.. like.." He reaches out to her, looking around the street, "Wheres the doc?"

Tucker blinks, "Matches?" Five words? Did she just speak five words in a row? One with two syllables? He blinks again.

Bishop speaks up, blandly. "Ryn isn't Benington's concern, Tucker. Ryn isn't anyone's concern."

Ryn nods softly, looking as pitiful as she can manage. "Yes, sir.. two cents.."

Bishop stares at Ryn impatiently. "Come along, Tucker."

Tucker turns his head sharply towards Bishop, "What are you talkin' about? Benington adopted her a couple months ago.." He turns back to Ryn and fumbles in his pocket. He frowns, his eyes pinched with worry, "Ahrm.. Arhm sorry Ryn.. I don't seem to have any money at the moment."

Tucker pushes open the door, "Ahrl get Benington.. he'll take care of ya."

Tucker moves off towards the saloon.

Ryn looks after Tucker, blinking.

[The Quintan Saloon]

The saloon is large, the ceiling looming one story above you, a small balcony runs the length of the north wall. On the opposite wall, a mahogany bar spans the length of the saloon; bottles, beer kegs and glasses are mounted upon a shelf behind it. Tables fill the bottom level of this room, a virtual maze which one must traverse through to get to the other side. In the night hours, the tavern has a steady crowd, gentlemen playing cards and teasing the waitresses. Ocassionally on the balcony above, a woman will appear to watch over the activities before vanishing again into some door. The windows high upon the walls are open slightly, allowing a cool breeze to circulate through the room. On the west wall, a small door leads to places unknown, but you can only assume it is the kitchen where all of the saloon washing is done. A mysterious curtain hangs over an entranceway to the northwest, just under the stairs. The exit out leads back to the saloon porch.

Contents: Tucker, Coran, Lefty, Lanna, Maggie, Lindley Jr., Hound Dog, Green, Elizabeth, Kyle, Rhia, Lindley, Ylsa, Barnes, Webster, Allard, Al

Lindley is tempted to unload his own gun and give it to Junior to play with, but aside from leaving himself only half-armed, Ylsa would probably kill him later. (Or at least not come to bed for a week.)

[Lindley]

Marshal Lindley Quintan isn't particularly tough-looking, as one might imagine a Federal Marshal to be; nor does he bear that experience- wizened aura brought from years of rough living and pursuiting the 'bad elements' of territorial Montana. Why, you might ask? Simply because Marshal Lindley Quintan has never done those things. In fact, he's probably sat down and played poker with more horse thieves than most Marshals put away in their entire careers. Lindley is short, balding and paunchy. He wears a bear-skin coat, clean shirt and pants, boots and a gleaming badge on his chest. What a fashion plate.

Coran glances at the new arrival briefly, then gets on with his perusal of the crowd.

Ylsa leans over Lindley Junior, helping him aim his imaginary gun at Al, behind the counter. At her table, Proud Papa watches.

[Ylsa]

At first glance, Ylsa appears to be a typical, albeit, very dark young (19 years?) Mexican woman. A second glance, however, reveals that she carries a great deal more Indian blood than the average Mexican. Her hair, bule-black and poerk straight, seems pure Indian. Her features follow a more Spanish cast--they are sharp, casting her face in nearly straight lines. Matching her hair, her large eyes seem black; only in close proximity can one note flecks of brown coloring the irises. Ylsa is of delicate build on a 5'0 frame. Wirey muscles hardly fill out her form, but overall she -is- somewhat curvy. This somewhat is currently a bit more, with Ylsa's third pregnancy--she appears to be about 5 months along. Ylsa wears a noticeably new and noticeably less flamboyant outfight consisting of a beige flaring woolen skirt and a white over-large man's button-up tunic which is belted at the waist. A slender dagger hangs off her belt, as well as a small pouch. Her long hair hangs in a tight braid, captured thereby with a black silk ribbon.

Barnes smiles at the girl again and then notices Lanna, "Just makin sure your girls are working, Lanna, my love."

Barnes continues to hold Maggie in a strong, far too personal grip.

[Barnes]

Cruelty, greed and corruption are the hallmarks of the man you see before you, but his arrogance is such that he does not even bother to hide these qualities as another man might. Instead, they are readily apparent in every gesture and expression he makes -- there is a perpetual sneer on his heavy-set face and condescension in his dark eyes. He doesn't walk, he swaggers. He doesn't speak, he expounds. He wears an extremely expensive suit that probably cost more than the average man's wages for six months. His shoes alone would probably feed half the starving people of Maddock. Carrying: Cigar Box

Tucker pushes open the door and stomps into the room. He immediately takes a step back, recoiling as if he spotted a rattlesnake curled around his boot. "What.. the?"

Kyle's glance follows Barnes and his eyes narrow again. His right trigger finger twitches. He struggles to keep his composure. Not now Randall, not here. It'll ruin the plan.

[Kyle]

A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, rough-looking sort. His brown cowboy hat is well worm and fits like a glove. He is wearing a brown leather vest over a black denim shirt. His black pants are tucked into a plan, but comfortable pair of well-traveled boots. Around his waits is a gunbelt with holster containing two Colt .44 handguns. His strongly set face sports the stubble of a fews day.

Allard is slumped heavily in his chair, next to Webster, a half-empty bottle of tequila between the two of them. He stares over at the door blankly.

[Allard]

You see a lean young man, in his late twenties, with sharp blue eyes and straight black hair cut trimly short. He is fair-skinned, with a classically angular face and strong, almost hawkish nose; he is tall and spare and slouches continuously and comfortably, the picture of total relaxed self-confidence, arrogance even. His dress is conservative and businesslike, a long black trench coat billowing about him like a cape, covering a dark suit and crisp white shirt, along with the obligatory silk tie. But in spite of the trappings of elegance and respectability, this man looks a little crazed, a little desperate, like a man with a mission-- or a man with a tortured conscience. His eyes are so bloodshot the whites are totally red, giving him the hellish appearance of a demon, and the hard, almost sadistic expression on his face strengthens the impression. His lip is curled continuously in contempt or self- loathing, and instead of a shotgun he carries a bottle of tequila loosely in one hand. His seeming good humor is a thin veneer over quick rage, or vicious indifference.

Lindley Jr. licks gummy, sticky lips, and fires bare index-fingers at Al. Boom! Boom! He even mimics the recoil, falling back against Mama to do so.

[Lindley Jr.]

About three years of age, Lindley Jr. is the spitting image of his father. And spitting is literal. Short, yes; balding, no; paunchy, yes, and with a flicker of drool trailing from one edge of his little mouth. About all that can be said for Ylsa's part in his heritage is the dark hue of his hair and a certain tendency to get into trouble. Oh, and his few words are mouthed with a faintly Mexican accent. The kid is clad in overalls and a shirt, and has a tiny bearskin coat just like Lindley Sr.'s, down to the badge.

Lanna is standing beside Judge Barnes and Maggie, who seems reluctant to be with Barnes. She also looks very jealous, but her tone is honey, "Yes, but that's my job dear." She glances at Maggie then to the man who just entered, "Customer. Git to him, girl."

[Lanna]

Lanna Farling has done fairly well for herself, she reckons. Since Wilona's marriage to Karl Quintan, she has been the head proprietress of the Quintan Saloon, and she does her job with immense pleasure. She is dressed in a gown of deep blue sapphire, the velvet material hugging against her hips before pooling at the floor. The bodice clings against her skin, the neckline plunging deeply to reveal ivory skin beneath. Over the gown, she wears a shortcoat of black velvet, most of the black onyx buttons left undone, save two at her waist. Generous amounts of material went into the careful tailoring of the sleeves, their billowing ending at tightly buttoned cuffs. Her hair has been left free of pins, the deep red curls taking on an amber hue in the evening light, falling past her shoulders.

Bishop looks quite satisfied at Tucker's reaction. "She's alive, Tucker. And so is *he*. *He*, in fact, is the Sheriff." He chuckles. "Beautifully ironic, isn't it?"

Ylsa hugs her son, with a grin, and lifts him onto whatever's left of her lap, that his soon-to-be sibling doesn't take, within the culture of his mother's womb. She doesn't notice the door or anyone walk in. So contained she is in her motherhood.

Maggie swallows and tries to draw her arm out of Barnes' grasp.

[Maggie]

Maggie's face is a bit younger than her height and dress would suggest; you'd guess her at a few years under twenty. Thick black hair frames a dark-eyed face, extremely pale except for artificially flushed cheeks and carefully painted lips. She wears a dress of blue silk, the low neckline exposing her shoulders, the bodice closely fitted, the skirt falling a bit short of her ankles. A string of cheap glass beads glitters around her neck, and small pearls adorn her ears.

Elizabeth tenses as the doors open, then she breathes a quiet breath, and murmurs something quiet to the basket in front of her, on the tabletop where she sits alone. She glances toward the doors again.

[Elizabeth]

As is her wont these days, Elizabeth looks tired, even though she manages to smile. Dark circles lie under her eyes, her face thin enough to display the underlying bone structure quite clearly. Along the left side of her jaw lies a now-fading bruise which she wears with no more than her usual quiet manner. A high-collared dress of dark green dresses her, buttoned tightly over a stiff corset, which displays exactly how thin she is. The skirts hang full, made of quality fabric, nearly to the surface of the ground or flooring beneath shoes that are rarely seen. Her hair is pulled into a long braid, kept neat for all her chasing after Thomas or settled in to sew.

Barnes drops his tight grip on Maggie reluctantly and turns his attention back to Lanna.

Lindley glances over at the door. More strangers in town; the stage coach line sure has been busy lately. Maybe the Quintan's oughta buy it too. he looks back and grins at his son as he shifts to Ylsa's lap. "Thanks for not droolin on me, son. "

Lindley Jr. beams broadly. My lap. Mine mine mine! All mine! Joy roils over his puffy face, and he lets his pistols fall. "Shoot more, Mama?"

Lanna steps gracefully into Barnes arms, draping herself on his shoulder. She smirks at Maggie then crooks her head again towards the door.

Maggie moves quickly away from Barnes, gulping. She looks at the stranger at the door, and walks toward him.

Ylsa nods. "Si. We shoot more later, OK? Are you hungry?" Nothing like watching a three-year-old eat. Mmmmnnn. Appetizers, anyone? Coran yawns widely, still half asleep.

Tucker looks around, his adams apple bobbing up and down. Alright William. Come now, lets just think for a moment. You were feeling a little sick the other day.. fever perhaps. He closes his eyes tightly standing stock still.

Barnes puts his arms around Lanna with a lazy, but still possessive delight. "Now this is what _I_ give thanks for," he says loudly.

Lindley Jr. nods broadly. He's always hungry, you bet. Too bad mom made him stop nursing when his other sibling came along, mostly, except when he screamed a lot. "Gonna eat, Papa?" he asks Lindley Sr.

Maggie walks slowly up to the confused-looking man and produces that smile again. "Evening..."

Allard blinks. A stranger. Hm. Maybe he, as Mayor, in that exalted position and all, ought to go over and greet him. Or, turn him right around and run him out of town for his own damn good. That's Paradise, Maddock Montana. He decides that needs a toast, but Webster's got his glass, dammit. He settles for the bottle, raising it grandly. "To Maddock!" he booms out.

Lanna makes kissie noises towards Barnes, "I have a favor to ask, dear." She's been waiting to ask this one all night.

Lefty clouts Slim over the head. "The Mayor made a toast, now toast!" The table of miners grumble the echo. "maddock" You can hear the lower case.

[Lefty]

Lefty McCarthy must not be worried about failing to surprise people since his, ah, scent arrives well before he does. It is his "one skin" philosophy that if he always wears his buckskin, eventually they will *be* one with his skin. Consequently, he treats them with better care, through judicious "wash-while-wear", than this own hide. The mass of whiskers hiding his face gives clues to his eating habits. Ah yes, he must have had spinach, biscuits and something with gravy at a recent meal. At least, they're the most recent clues. The bush growing under his large, floppy hat leaves little of his face showing. Only when he laughs can you see the few teeth left in his mouth, assuming you can keep your eyes open and tear-free when his laughter discharges his breadth in billowing clouds. Carrying: Pocket watch

Barnes raises his glass absently at Allard's words and asks Lanna, "And what is that my precious angel of beauty?"

Bishop comes up behind Tucker. "Open your eyes, Tucker. You're awake. I *told* you what would happen. Now hurry up. I don't want to miss a chance to get my hands on Richard Allard. We think he would make great middle management.."

Tucker opens his eyes. Nope, that didn't work. He gulps again. Hand definately trembling now, he runs it across his chin and looks at Maggie, "Miss Benington.. what.. what?" Alright... you can't exactly ask her what is going on here. It would sound rather... silly? He shakes his head and squeaks, "Whiskey..."

Ylsa giggles, misunderstanding Junior. "No. We are not going to eat Papa, nino." She flicks a Look over at Papa in question. At least, not until later, and the kids will have no part of it.

Webster raises his glass with Allard. Well, it's an excuse to drink, anyhow.

[Webster]

You see an average-sized man who looks to be in his late forties, his mustache and receding hair dark brown going rapidly gray. He wears a pair of bifocals over his brown eyes. He walks with a pronounced limp, favoring his left leg, and unusually a bit unsteadily as well. He's wearing a pair of black trousers and a black frock coat that look like they were rather nice when new, but are now rather threadbare. His shirt was once white, and his vest grey. At present, he is moving a bit slowly, and his eyes are red and baggy from lack of sleep. Carrying: Black Bag

If Lindley could read his son's mind, he would bust out in a grin that would make even Ylsa blush. "Naw, son. I just drink. You have some supper, though." Smile. Scotch, a Real Meal.

Lanna trails an absent finger over Barnes open collar, she needles, "You got invited to the Quintans for Thanksgiving didn't you?"

Maggie blinks. Benington? That's that man in the wheelchair... "Um...no, it's Maggie. Roberts." She smiles again, sure Lanna's watching.

Lindley Jr. mimics, "Preshush angle of booty." Then, "I'm /hungwy/!"

Kyle shakes his head at all of this. Worse thank good ole Blackhawk, much worse. He heads for the the door, mumbling to the stranger as he passes, "Turn around and get the hell out of this town, before they get their grips on you..."

Kyle strolls off towards the porch.

Tucker looks at Bishop, "Ya.. Ya better have a good reason fer this.." He turns back to the crowd, his eyes flaming with another spark of anger and energy, "Aright Miss Roberts.. Whiskey."

Maggie swallows and nods quickly. She looks over at Al to see if he heard the order.

Allard is pretty plastered for how early in the evening it is. "Yep, that's Maddock, Montana, Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, the Gold- Plated Bastard's Paradise.."

Tucker walks farther into the saloon. He looks around finally heading towards Ylsa. Ylsa has a level head. Lord knows she always beat sense into Tucker. She will know what the hell is going on. His eyes narrow as he spots his goal, moving towards his oldest friend in this town. Or.. was his town.

Ylsa has no idea what her kid is saying. That's fine. As per normal. Hefting Junior on her hip (this looks a bit silly, considering there's another babe on the way and Ylsa is not so large herself), she trails over to the counter. Picks up an empty bottle on the way, in case Al feigns deafness...Oh. There's Coran. "A stew, and bread, and water, gracias?"

Ylsa seems completely oblivious to Tucker.

Bishop watches Tucker go, a slightly snide smile on his face. He always gets a perverse enjoyment out of this part..

Barnes nods at Lanna, "Well, of course I was invited my pet. Karl is my best friend."

Lanna needles deeper, her voice like a child's, "Can I come with ya?"

Coran glances at Ylsa, then nods, bored. "Yah. Sure." He serves up a helping of stew, plunking it deliberately into the bowl, then fetching the bread and water.

Tucker stumbles towards Ylsa, "Ylsa? Ylsa? What the hell is goin' on here? Where is Garrett? Where is Wilona?" What in the world are you doing sitting with Lindley.

Lindley Jr. gets a nice shot in at the people Ylsa's talking to, and looks decidedly smug. Good idea, Mama.

Maggie follows Ylsa's lead and looks to Coran instead. "Whiskey? For.." She gestures at the stranger.

Webster winces at Allard's words, combined with Barnes. But his glass is empty again. He looks at Allard hopefully.

Coran nods slightly to Maggie, pouring a whiskey. A small one, since prices have gone up. Supply, demand, go figure.

Elizabeth studiously ignores Allard's words. Mostly. She knows nothing about this mysterious gold-plating.

Ylsa waits oh-so-patiently, tapping her bottle on the bartop. Hurry, kiddo. Or Junior starts screaming. Ylsa, for one, has heard enough of that to last the rest of her life. And who was it that said that Ylsa purposely makes her kids cry when Conner's in the saloon? Nay...She takes the bowl in her other hand and returns bowl and kid to the table, setting both down in front of Lindley. "Hold him, OK, love?" WIth that, she returns to the bar to get the rest.

Ylsa turns to stare at Tucker. Blankly. "What?"

Allard starts singing. Some things never change, unfortunately. "You still want to hold her, so you must not be drinking enough!" he croons out, at the top of his lungs, and slops tequila obligingly into Webster's glass. "Aye aye aye aye-yah.. You still want to hold er.. Ya musna be drinkin enuff!"

Maggie smiles quickly at Coran and carries the glass over. She hangs back as the man speaks to Ylsa, then steps forward as Ylsa doesn't seem to know him. She holds out the glass. "Here..."

Lindley Jr. is plonked down on the table. His booted feet immediately start waving, threatening to bash Papa in the chest, as he squirms over to get at the bowl.

Under the beady eyes of Lefty, the table of miners dutifully warbles the chorus with their Mayor.

Tucker places a hand on Ylsa's arm, "Ylsa? What the hell is goin' on?" He stares at her, noticing the blank look in her eyes. His widen in return, "Its me.. William Tucker.. what?" He turns and looks at Maggie, snatching the glass from her hands.

Barnes grimaces, whether at Lanna's question or Allard's singing no one can be sure. "Why would you want to do that, Lanna?"

Conner hurries over from outside.

[Conner]

The brown, bushy moustache and beard on Thomas Conner's face cannot disguise the fact that he seems to have a distinct lack of a chin. Hazel eyes scan his surroundings intently, perhaps seeking food, and light brown hair hangs in feathery waves around his face and down his neck. A cream shirt and a gray vest valiantly strain to cover the massive stomach of Conner, and a black belt desperately holds up pants, also black, that tuck into worn cowboy boots with silver spurs.

Coran clears his throat. "Thirty cents, please." And a bargain at that.

Maggie frowns a bit and takes a quick step back. She looks over at Lanna, seeing if she agrees that this one is a lost cause.

Lindley had just picked up his drink and was about go over and sit with someone else. He grimaces. He will look like a Stew Battlefield for sure. "Sure Darlin." He reaches for Junior.

Ylsa flicks a look to Maggie. Hello? Back to Tucker. "Wilona? Senora Quintan is..." She looks around. "Not here." Ylsa is oh-so-helpful. She does, however, stare at the hand on her arm. Pointedly. Then back to him. "I do not know a William Tucker."

Tucker downs the glass quickly. He closes his eyes and shivers. Upon opening them, he spots Lanna. He drops the glass, it slides from his hands and shatters upon the floor. He has definitely seen a ghost. He lets out a small inhuman squeak, "What the hell.. what the hell?"

Lanna's lower lips grows pouty, "You know everyone wants to go to the biggest Thanksgiving Feast in all of Maddock. Pwease babe I want to go babe, babe pwease."

Allard slowly runs out of steam, ends up muttering to himself. "You know, Web," he mushes out..

Elizabeth oh gods. She knew it'd happen. She knew. You should have gone home. She could hide under the table. Really.

Lindley Jr. rustles irritably in Papa's arms, "Want food now!"

Lindley glares at Tucker. "Who the Hell are you? Get your hands off my wife!" Bad move, Bucko. He starts to stand up, junior still in his arms. Still helpful.

"That is Seniorita Natural Causes." Some things never change. Ylsa drops her arm and steps around this new lush to make it back to the table, Junior's water and bread in hand.

Bishop sighs to himself. Inbreeding, I suppose. Hillbillies.. He calls over to Tucker. "I told you she was alive, Tucker. Don't you listen?"

Tucker reaches for his guns again, unfortunately, his holsters are just as empty as they were the first time. "This.. this ken't be real.. I.. I must be dreaming. Don't ya know me? We'rve been friends fer over a year now."

Webster grins at Allard, then returns to looking balefully at his glass.

Allard's probably his best friend in this town. He almost wishes the war wasn't over.

Conner looks about and spots Elizabeth. He bellows /very/ loudly, "Elizabeth Conner!!"

Lindley Jr. shoots Tucker with bare fingers. "Get 'im, Papa, get 'im!!!"

As she turns away from Tucker, Ylsa notices Lindley. But Tucker's words stop her again. "No, Senor. You are wrong. I do not know you." She does remember the few friends she has. Intercepting Lindley, she gathers the child in her arms.

Coran straightens slightly when Tucker's hands move towards his side, then relaxes as he realizes there's nothing there to grab at. No guns. What kind of a stranger .is. this?

Allard winces, and fights his way to his feet. So help him God, if Conner tries to beat her up in front of him, he's going to, to.. What?

Ellis strides over from outside.

Tucker jumps like a scared rabbit. He hears another voice from the grave. A voice he prayed he would never hear again. Since the hanging, he was pretty damn sure of it. "CONNER! I.. I hung ya? Yer.. dead.. dead!!"

Tucker takes a step towards the once departed sheriff.

Ellis steps into the saloon and looks around with a smile. Ah yes, just my kinda place.

Elizabeth flinches visibly, and goes very, _very_ pale. She rises, wrapping her fingers about the handle of the basket. Too late to hide now. "You ..please don't be so loud, Thomas.." she murmurs, walking toward him.

Lindley Jr. gloms onto Ylsa, next, seeing as how he's being picked up. Ah, Mama. Mama of the welcoming presence, Mama who's real nice, who got him food. Nice round Mama.

Maggie jumps at Conner's voice and gives up on the stranger. She heads for the bar.

Bishop rests his head in his hands. Why doesn't he get the smart ones? "Tucker, the whole point is to try to save you from going to Hell. Keep this up and you'll go, no matter *what* I do.."

Webster turns curiously to the stranger.

Conner's wife forgotten he looks at Tucker, "Ya did what son?" Did he say hunged? Conner laughs loudly, oblivious to Allard, "You got yerself some bad mouth wax sir."

Lindley stares at Tucker like he is a lunatic. "What the hell is your *problem* man?!" This is getting really irritating. Maybe he should arrest this fool. Make his son proud.

Ylsa also notes Conner. She tosses him her usual greeting glower, but settles down with Junior first. "Here we go." She switches to Mexican, extolling the virtues (if any) of Al's stew. Someone needs to open a restaurant in Maddock. Badly.

Ellis notices the commotion and hopes it leads to someone gettin' shot. Yes, my kinda place indeed.....

Allard almost sighs in relief. No Elizabeth beating for now, it seems. He, too, turns to look at the stranger, decides he'd better do his Civic Duty. He shambles over to the stanger, smelling of tequila and stale cigar smoke. He offers his hand. "Evenin, ahhh..?"

Lindley Jr. chimes "Get 'im!" just once more from the haven of Ylsa's arms, before settling down to grub. Yum yum. He follows Mama's Mexican with no problem whatsoever, but doesn't talk once his mouth is full. Greed, not politeness.

Barnes sighs at Lanna, "Oh stop whining, my pretty, it makes you look older."

Tucker looks at Bishop, the whites of his eyes so large, his hazel pupils appear shrunken to small peas. He moves quickly, "Doc!.. Webster.. its me Tucker!.. Allard!.. We've gotten drunk more times then." His nose curls as he catches a whiff of Allards breath. Some things are most certianly still the same.

Coran glances around, checking to see how many people are watching him. Few to none. Good. It is now the unofficial quitting time. He slides around the bar and upstairs to get out of sight.

Ylsa feeds the kid--or rather, assists him in feeding himself. Her fastidiousness with herself extends to Lindley Junior, and she constantly gets in his way by wiping his mouth and re-aiming the spoon.

Ellis strolls slowly up to the bar and waves to the bartender, "Whiskey...."

Coran saunters off towards the stairs that lead upwards.

Lanna sighs and does as she is told, turning to look at the man who's starting to stir up quite a comotion. Bigger Sigh. Well, guess she better do her job.

Allard is still offering Tucker his hand, waiting for a name, apparently.

Lindley Jr. squirms, but reluctantly complies. He /supposes/ the food should go in his mouth, not his face.

Webster stares at the man. He squints. He thinks for several moments, then shakes his head. "I don't place you, friend," he says, uncertainly.

Yes. That is where the food should go. In the mouth. Works better overall, that way. Ylsa is enjoying herself, glancing up now and then to watch this interaction between the Hated Sheriff and The Stranger. And the Lush Of A Mayor. Now where did that slimey Barnes get off too?

Lanna unravels herself from Barnes and approaches the men, looking Tucker up and down, whew this one looks like he might have something catchy, better not offer him a girl.

Tucker places both his hands upon Allard's shoulders, shaking him violently, "Damn it.. Ahrm William Tucker.. Marshal William Tucker! Damn it.. Don't ya know me?" He releases Allard and stumbles backwards, hitting the front of the bar.

Feet. Lots and lots of feet. And boots. She knows those boots, those belong to Thomas. And those, those belong to Richard. Those shoes. Whose are those? Maybe, if she looks hard enough, she can see her own shoes. Safest things to look at, Elizabeth.

Lindley stands by, watching this whole conversation as he tries to look menacing. Just like Allard to try to be civil when he's drunk. Heh. More civil than when he's sober, that's for sure.

Allard stumbles back, in his turn, bumping into the table, staring at Tucker dazedly. "What the hell? Do I owe you money?"

Webster blinks. "Marshal?" He waves vaguely towards Lindley. "That's the Marshal, friend. Over there."

Tucker places a trembling hand to his forehead, wiping away a trial of sweat. His chest rises and falls quickly as his eys dart around the room, attempting to find reason in a world gone mad.

Lanna quickens her step, addressing Tucker, "Si, kindly release the Mayor or I shall have to have you firmly exscorted from the room."

Maggie watches, frowning a bit, wondering if he wants another whiskey.

Lindley Jr. eat-eat-eats, not even seeming to notice the hot spots; such a gourmand, already. The occasional beady-eyed stare flicks between Papa and Mama and everyone.

Tucker asks, "Marshal.. Marshal.. Quintan?" There is really so much he can take. He bolts away from the ghost of Lanna towards the strange man who led him here.

Barnes watches Lanna go with disappointment. She's always slipping away from him. He decides to follow her for once.

Ylsa studies the man, accidentally ramming a bite of stew into Junior's chin. What's wrong with Marshal Quintan?

Ellis chuckles, "The man's insane! I've seen that look before."

Bishop lets Tucker come, smiling a little. "Something the matter, Mr. Tucker?"

Barnes glances at the stranger with condescending amusement. "What's his problem?" he asks loudly.

Amanda strolls over from outside.

Conner sees the lunatic stranger is firmly surrounded. He crosses towards his wife, stairing holes into her back and lowering his voice as he repeats, "Elizabeth."

Lindley squares his shoulders. Marshal (With one L) that's me.

Amanda edges in the door, her eyes going immediately to Maggie, and she tries to smile at her.

[Amanda]

Amanda Allard is a tired creature: defeated, solemn, frightened, silent. Her violet eyes are dull, and the left one looks like it was blackened, not too long ago; her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun. Her skin is deathly pale, the skin of someone who never goes outside. Her hands tremble very slightly, but continuously. Her dress is black silk, plain, going all the way up to her chin and all the way down to her wrists, but the dress isn't quite enough to hide the purple and yellow bruises that mar one jaw line. Gone is the princess socialite; in her place is a chastised child.

Ellis glances to Maggie, "Are you gonna get me a whiskey or not girl?"

Tucker pushes Bishop away from him. He screams, "I know who I am Dammit!!!! This ain't real!! I know who I am!!" His face is a beet red as he whirls back upon the bar. He screams his accusations, "This ain't real!! This ain't the way it is!!"

Maggie hesitantly returns Amanda's smile, then jumps as Ellis speaks. "I..I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." She frowns a bit at Al, and moves behind the bar.

Bishop clears his throat, and takes Tucker by the collar. "Mr. Tucker, you are going to get yourself arrested, if you don't calm down.."

Lanna tsks tsks quietly, looking to Al. She makes a cutting signal at her throat, no more alchohol for that one, he's had enough.

Ylsa can't help but agree with Ellis. The man's loco. She notices, belatedly, that she's trying to make Lindley Junior's chin eat what is meant for his mouth. Whoops.

Elizabeth jumps. Staring too hard at her shoes. Her gaze comes up immediately as she turns to face Conner, and jumps again as the stranger screams. Heart beating in her chest like a frightened rabbit. "Y-yes, Thomas."

Maggie quickly pours Ellis a whiskey and pushes the glass across the bar to him.

Ellis glares at Maggie, but his look softens. She might be useful later tonight. He looks her up and down, yes quite useful. He nods to her, "Well just make it snappy. I ain't got all night."

Conner glares down at Elizabeth, reaching to take a firm grasp of her arm, "What the hell are ya doing here??"

Lefty hurries over to Amanda. "Now, Mrs. Allard. Are you supposed to be here?"

Allard stares over at Conner, getting alarmed. Well, he can interfere now, with an excuse. "Sheriff?" he calls over, loudly.

Maggie nods, trying to smile instead of frown as he looks at her.

Tucker grinds the palm of his hands into his eyes. He mutters, "Lets get out of here.." He stumbles towards the front door, not looking back to a nightmare that has become a reality.

Amanda blinks rapidly at Lefty, takes a few steps back. "I was just going to.." she trails off, abandoning her excuse. "Just for a minute."

Tucker hurries off towards the porch. Ellis takes the drink and pulls out some cash, which he tosses in her direction. "There's more where that came from."

Tucker almost topples over Benington's wheelchair. He steadies himself, "Mister.. Mister Benington.. my gods!! What..what happened?"

Bishop smiles at Tucker sardonically. "Do you believe me yet? Or must I say it again?" He takes a puff at the cigar that has, magically, reappeared in his hand. "Benington was shot. He's in a wheelchair now. You weren't here to maintain the integrity of Law and Order in Maddock, Tucker. Don't you see? It was a watershed. You were the balance that kept it all from happening."

Beyond the porch railing to the north, Wilona strolls over from the west side of town.

Tucker shakes his head. He doesn't believe it. Feebly, "I wasn't needed.. Garrett.. he did it.. Garrett. He is what changed Maddock." His eyes widen, "Garrett! Mayor.. where is he? Where is he?"

In the south road, Wilona pulls herself up into Torquil's saddle.

Bishop laughs. "He's a convicted felon, and is, at the moment, I believe, an escapee from prison. He was convicted of murder, in fact." You'll notice he doesn't say Garrett actually *is* a murderer..

Tucker places his hands over his ears, falling on his knees. He murmurs, "No.. no..." He shakes his head, an awful grimace taking over the expressions on his face. A face that falls slack when he spots Wilona Jenkins.

Bishop follows Tucker's glance, and his eyes narrow. This ought to be.. interesting.

Tucker rises to his feet and stumbles towards the horse.

Atop Torquil, Wilona is having trouble controlling the spirited mare. "Woah Torquil."

Tucker peers upwards, "Wilona! Wilona? Don't.. don't ya know me? Tell me what's happened?"

Bishop gazes at Wilona, mock-sorrowfully. "She doesn't know you, Tucker."

From Torquil's saddle, Wilona loses her balance as the horse rears spooked at the approaching Tucker, perhaps the mare senses something wrong. Luckily, Wilona lands on her feet and scowls at Tucker, "What is with you man! Can't you see you are spooking my horse?"

Wilona swings a leg over the saddle and slides off Torquil's back.

[Wilona]

The woman before you is petite, at just under 5'3". Her features are small, narrow hazel green eyes beneath thin brows, small pouting lips and prominent cheekbones. Her complexion is smooth, slightly tanned and appears younger then the 31 years she has seen. Tiny wrinkles surround her eyes, becoming more apparent when she flashes her friendly smile, which is often. In spite of her fragile appearance, her voice has a strong steady inflection, a deep husky voice which she never permits to be heard raised in anger. She is dressed in a deep royal blue gown of crushed velvet material. The bodice is drawn painfully tight around her waist considering her impending pregnancy. This is aided by the stiff bone corset she wears below. The neck line dips conservatively across the expanse of her chest, the ribbing lined with small opalescent beads. Her hair is swept upwards, very neatly, the auburn tresses pinned at the top of her head before exploding into a bouquet of curls. The crisp blue silk that comprises the skirt of this gown falls straight to the floor, hiding her slippered feet. On her finger is a sparkling diamond, easily well over a carat. Wrapped neatly around that band is a thicker band of gold. Over her shoulders, she wears a warm wrap, the color lined with white ermine to ward off the winter cold.

Tucker ignores the strange man who seems to have made the whole world go crazy, and William Tucker along with it. He gazes at Wilona, hope glinting in his eyes. She has to know him. Has to. If anyone in this town does, it has to be her, "Wilona.. its me William." He holds his hands away from his sides towards her.

Bishop flutters his eyelashes at Wilona. "Just ask her who she married, Tucker."

Wilona backs up, doing her best to hang onto Torquil's reigns who is stomping and pawing at the ground. "Am I supposed to know you sir?"

Tucker spots the huge ring upon her finger. He licks his lips nervously, peering into her eyes, "No.. not Karl! Ya.. ya didn't!" He stumbles backwards, falling upon his arse. He holds his arm in front of his face, avoiding the horrible aparrition before hin.

Wilona blinks, taking pity on the man who seems to be quite deranged. She drops the reigns and let's the horse go, stepping closer towards Tucker, "Sir? Are you alright sir?"

Bishop tries not to laugh, honest he does. But he mostly fails. "Poor dear Tucker. Do you understand yet?"

Tucker stumbles back to his feet, coiling away from Wilona. "Get away from me.. get away from me." He bumps against Bishop, "Why are you doing this? It.. it ain't true. This town would have gotten just fine without me. This ain't real.."

Bishop abruptly becomes almost kind. "You're still not convinced. Who do I need to show you?"

Tucker places a hand upon Bishop's shoulder, "Where is Zylle? Where is she? Is she alright?"

Wilona advances after Tucker, no fear in her eyes and not seeing anyone but herself in the square. "What? Why am I doing what to you sir??" She reaches a hand towards him, the one with the big fat ring, "Zylle? Why, Zylle's in jail sir.." She looks crestfallen, "They intend to hang her."

Bishop's eyebrow raises, and now he looks solemn, even. "Not.. exactly." The cigar disappears again, and he brushes his hands together..

Tucker lets out a cry of anguish. "Take me to Zylle!"

Bishop winces. He likes them better when they fume and rave.. He leads the way over to the jail.

Wilona winces and backs up, now she's scared. She retreats to her horse, "I have to be getting back to my husband sir." She gives him an odd look.

Husband. The horror. The Horror. He practically flees after Bishop towards the jail.

Tucker strolls off towards the northern part of town. You walk towards sheriff's office.

Martha seems to be on her way out when the door opens. "Oh. Pardon me." She looks at Tucker and frowns.

[Martha]

Martha Framingham is a thin, frail-looking woman who seems somewhat older than her fifty years. She is slightly below average height, with light skin, tired green eyes, and an expression of great weariness. Barely a trace of the original deep auburn of her hair shows through the gray and white. She is dressed in somber, dark colors, black and dark gray. She walks with a shuffling gate and slightly hunched shoulders, her head bent, and fusses endlessly with her gloves.

Tucker barely recognizes Martha. "Mrs.. Mrs Framingham?"

Bishop looks around with interest. A Jail. How quaint. Bars and everything. He waits for Tucker, hands clasped behind his back.

Martha nods. "Yes?" She looks at the man, confused, but also concerned. "Sir, you don't look well..."

Tucker is most assuredly not well. He is a stubborn man. That has always been well known. He still insists that this cannot be. "Terrance... where is Terrance?"

What life is left in her worn face seems to pass out of it. "You were a friend of my husband's?" Martha asks quietly.

Bishop yawns. Any more Tender Little Scenes and he is going to need his stomach pumped.

Tucker places a hand over his mouth, "Was? Was.. what has happend to your husband?"

Martha sighs. "I'm afraid he was killed." Her voice is steady, barely. She looks up at him again.

Bishop considers calling up some violin music, but at last decides it would be in Poor Taste. He tsk tsk tsks, softly.

Killed... Killed. Tucker shakes his head and pushes past the woman into the back jails. The Judge.. murdered...

Tucker hurries off towards oak door.

Desmond glances up at this newest interruption. On his desk is scattered a meal whose origins are apparently from a basket. A plate of food sits on the floor, by Zylle's jail cell, and wanted posters are spread like comic books, on Desmond's desk.

[Desmond]

Tall and slender, reminiscent of a serpent--a snake, perhaps--Desmond Sneed is dark of hair, skin and feature. Standing a full six foot four, he moves with reptilian grace--starting and stopping fluidly as if movement is only an extension of the thought behind it. Likewise, his black eyes show little emotion beyond the basics, yet there is a steely, penetrating, calculating depth to that sharp-eyed gaze. His handlebar moustache, constantly twisted by nervous fingers, almost seems to slice his long angular face in half with it's linearity. Long black hair hangs in delicate rings down his neck and capes over his upper back. Desmond is well-dressed in immaculate black garments, vested and cloaked. A silver and black gunbelt with matching boot dagger completes his image of sinuous charm.

Tucker bursts into the room, his eyes still wide and afraid of what he might find here.

Desmond quirks an eyebrow. Quirkingly. "Can I help you, sir?" One never knows where his hands are. Or his guns.

In the first cell, Zylle is crouched in the far corner of the cell, staring at all the people that tromp in and out, hour after hour, staring at her like she was an animal in a cage. Well, she tries not to disappoint. Her eyes widen at Tucker, behind a screen of matted hair. Open the door.

[Zylle]

This is a starved, half-frozen savage, shivering in the cold, as she wears only torn, bloody breeches and tunic, and her feet are bare. Her long black hair is tangled and muddy, and she is filthy dirty. She might have been stoic once, but now her dark eyes blaze continuously with white-hot rage and the urge to _kill_. Her face is bruised and ruined, and one arm is kept clasped tightly across her middle at all times.


Tucker does not recognize this man, having never been fortunate enough to share a glimpse of this well known murderer. He takes a step further into the room and spots Zylle behind the bars, "Zylle!! Dear Lord."

Bishop stares over at the figure in the cell. "She doesn't know you, Tucker. She'd probably kill you, in fact, if you gave her the chance."

Desmond manages to look very amused. "No. She's not immortal. Or..." He smiles sinisterly, twirling his handlebar moustache over that sly grin, "We'll have an opportunity to find out, soon enough."

Bishop smiles over at Desmond. He's going to be seeing dear old Desmond, soon enough. And this one will involve no bargaining. This one is already his.

Tucker whirls on Bishop, "You.. you son of a bitch." His right hand curls into a fist. With all the sheer frustration of fear, confusion, anger and hatred, he hurls that fist towards Bishop's cocky smile.

Desmond picks up a toothpick and begins cleaning one of his molars, watching the deranged man. His other hand is *quite* out of sight.

Bishop is used to this reaction. He doesn't duck; that would be unseemly. Instead, his head just goes.. semi-transparent, and Tucker's fist goes right through. He speaks anyway though. "Literally, that's not true, but I am assuming you mean in the figurative sense..?"

In the first cell, Zylle stares out at the strange loud man, and at the quiet dangerous man, alternately. If the loud one just moved closer, just a step or two, she could get hold of him...

Desmond cocks that unseen gun. "Yes sir, Sheriff Conner--this insane man- -rabid, I think--came into the office, started screaming about the Indian, and then throwing punches at the wall. I had to shoot him, sir. Self-defense. He would have killed me..."

Tucker stumbles forward, falling to the floor. He picks himself up just as quickly, turning back around to face the strange man. There is no pleading in his voice. "Take me away from this. Take me back to Maddock. Take me away from this." Once again, he falls forward to his knees. He places the flat of his palms against his eyes and whispers, "Please.. please.. take me back!"

Desmond leans forward to watch this new development. If nothing else, his job is interesting.

Desmond still watches. Most interested.

Bishop seems unmoved by this display of emotion. "Does that mean you've decided? You've made your choice?"

Tucker peers up to Bishop. He growls, "Choice? Choice! Yes!" He nods, rising back to his feet, "Take me back to my home. Back to Maddock."

In the first cell, Zylle almost shakes her head. Whites are always yelling. No self control at all.

Desmond is not yelling. He's vastly amused, however. "Go home, then, Mister. And be quiet about it You're likely get yourself shot." If a rattler had a voice, that voice would be Desmond Sneed's.

Bishop brushes at his expensive trousers, regards Tucker thoughtfully. "That that mean that you accept your role? Your responsibilities?" He'd really hate to lose this one.. Quota, and all.

Tucker would grab Bishop by the lapels and shake him silly if he could. He grinds his teeth together and nods slowly. Through clenched teeth, he speaks, "Ahrm the Marshal.. Ahrv.. always been the Marshal. I ain't evva gonna let this happen. Not while Ahrm still alive." Of course, he is being rather liberal with the still living category. But in times like this, he thinks everyone else has taken the liberal concept. He is just following through.

Bishop sighs, patently disappointed. Oh well. Well, there's always Richard Allard.. You lose some, and some come flying into your lap, right? This one would be boring at parties anyway, he can just tell. "Very well," he says calmly. "Come along." He turns without further ado, heading out the door.

Desmond just shakes his head. Crackpot.

Tucker turns and glances back at Zylle. Never. He will never let this happen. Without further preamble, he saunters, not staggers, out the door.

Tucker strolls off towards the office.

Kyle crosses the square and heads for the saloon. He merely glances at the crazy man.

On the porch of the Grey Horse Saloon, Lefty casually puts his arm around Ryn. He looks down with sad, sober eyes. "Now, have you paid your dues to the Union?"

Bishop leads the way back north at a brisk pace. Gotta keep that appointment..

On the porch of the Grey Horse Saloon, Ryn blinks slowly, looking up at Lefty.

Tucker closes his eyes at the horrors of this Maddock. Real or not, he will not let this exist. Not even in his nightmares.

Tucker saunters off towards the northside of town.

Garrett slinks out from the darkness behind Tucker and slips his arms around the man, holding what feels like a knife to Tucker's throat. A raspy and almost unrecognizable voice whispers. "Don't make a noise and you live... I don't want to kill you."

Bishop stops, and bursts out laughing. Oh, this is rich. He grins at Tucker. "Here's your dear upstanding Michael Garrett, Mr. Tucker."

[Garrett]

You see before you a man broken. Bereft of spirit, he is obviously running from someone. His clothes are all the same shade of gray. A simple tunic with matching pants and very plain shoes. They are tattered and show traces of dried blood. He could have been handsome once, you think. His nose, having obviously been broken more than once seems too large for his delicate cheeks. His left eye is almost completely obscured by one of the worst scars you have ever seen. When he walks, he limps quite a bit, favoring his left leg. His black hair is ratty and long and obviously hasn't been washed in a while. His beard is scraggly and unkempt, although not very long.

Tucker gasps, "Garrett.." He remains still other than that.

Garrett swallows. Oh shit, the man knows my name. He begins to slowly ease Tucker back towards the side of the road. "You just came from town mister and you seem to know my name... Who are you?"

Tucker quivers, feeling the knife at his throat. He mumbles, "Michael.. its me William.." He isn't about to let himself die. Not with Maddock Montana like this. Not with people like this. He can't let it be... not while he still lives.

Garrett 's voice rasps, but his grip on the knife never falters. "OK 'William, there's a girl in there... a pretty one. Named Thyme. Did you see her?" He glances furtively around him, always wary... He took a big risk coming back here...

Bishop follows, hands clasped behind his back, peering at Garrett interestedly. "I find this all a terribly fascinating study of human nature, of coincidence and probabilities, of quantum physics even.. Though of course you wouldn't know anything about that.. But Schroedinger's cat can certainly identify with you at this point." He paces up and back now, getting ready to expound, back in Lecture Mode. "One reality really is as valid as any other, Mr. Tucker. It's all a matter of perspective, you know."

Tucker ignores the French speaking strange man who got him into this nightmare to begin with. "No.. no Michael.. I ain't seen Thyme.. not in a long time."

Bishop interrupts his lecture to supply, helpfully, "She's dead. She killed herself. Now, where was I? As I was saying, any reality is as valid as any other.."

Garrett frowns. "You know her then.... and me?" How is this? I don't recognize him. He frowns as he hears the shots. Suddenly the knife is tighter around Tucker's throat. "You aren't one of Karl's hooligans are you?"

Tucker shakes his head, well, at least a little. That knife is awfully close you know. "No.. I ain't one of Karl's men. I hate him as much as you do.."

Garrett chuckles, the knife dropping. "Okay..." He backs up a step from the man. "Just tell me where I can find Thyme then. Is she at home? I haven't been here for a good year since Karl paid off Judge Barnes to convict me..." He looks fighting mad, the blood flushes against his cheeks.

Garrett's left arm trembles slightly. Now you notice that the knife was in his right hand, despite the fact that you know he is left handed.

Tucker slowly moves his hands up. He continues to speak, "I ain't seen her Michael.. but everything will be alright. Ahrll help ya find her." He looks at the strange man, "Get me out of here.. this ain't my reality.. I don't belong here. No one belongs here."

Bishop continues his lecture, unaware, or at least not caring, that his lone student is utterly ignoring him. "You see, the dual nature of matter and energy, that is to say, wave-ness and particle-ness, form a single duality, a wavicle. It is only in the nature of these wavicle's spins that there is any difference between matter and energy. You see? This has profound implications for what we laughingly refer to as 'reality..'"

Garrett nods, then suddenly jerks bolt upright, arching his back as you hear the *crack* of a single gunshot.

Karl walks over from the town to the south.

Garrett crumples to the ground at Tucker's feet, a red stain on the gray prison tunic he wears.

Bishop stops, stares at Tucker, impatient, angry for the first time. "You're not *listening*, Mr. Tucker. They belong here." He doesn't flinch at the gunshot. "This is Garrett's fate, to die by a Quintan bullet. It is only by the grace of a single quantum event that it isn't *your* reality, too."

Garrett tries to get up. He murmurs something.

Karl strides up from the south, a smoking gun still in his hand. He sneers down at Garrett, "I thought I spied you." Pure bloodlust and hate in his eyes.

Garrett turns over, the pain causing tears to streak down his face. "You.... bastard..."

Tucker reaches for his guns again, only to find they still aren't there. He isn't having much luck in the gun-toting area tonight. He cries out, bending over Garrett, "Michael..." He turns upon Karl Quintan.

Garrett stares feverishly at Tucker. "Tell her... I tried to come back for her..."

Garrett clutches at Tucker's sleeve. "Tell her!"

Karl levels his gun towards Garrett again, since the first bullet didn't quite do the trick, "Tell who Garrett? Thyme?" His voice is ice, "Maybe you could tell herself, but I doubt your going to the same place. Thyme is dead."

Tucker graps Garrett's arm, "Ahrll tell her Garrett.. Ahrll tell her."

Bishop stares without mercy down at Garrett's face. "See you for dinner, Mr. Garrett."

Ryn strides over from the town to the south.

Tucker rises stepping towards Karl, "Yer a bastard in any world Karl Quintan."

Garrett coughs blood as his gaze turns hate and pain on Karl Quintan... "You lie!" His eyes close..."You..." And with that, he breaks down... his voice turning into quiet sobs of abject sorrow.

Ryn looks on from a distance, attracted by the sound of gunfire.

Garrett's voice gradually quiets as his energy runs out for the last time.

Karl glances at Tucker, not recognizing him for all the world, his gun still trained on Garrett, a smug satisfaction as he watches this man suffer by a Quintan's hand. "She took her own life Garrett, as I just took yours."

Just to show how some things just don't change. I would like to point out William Tucker's big mouth. Previous sentence regarding Karl's parentage is used to prove my point. He backs away from Karl and turns to Bishop, "Ahrv seen enough.. I make my choice. Take me back... I accept my responsibilities."

Garrett's eyes flutter open, but they do not see this world.

Bishop smiles to himself. Listen to them, silly foolish mortals, talking about taking lives. Don't they know all these lives are *his*? And that annoying colleague of his..

Karl kicks a handful of sand onto the dead Garrett and turns, holstering his gun. He mutters towards Tucker, "I suggest you make your stay in Maddock short sir." An order really. He passes the small child that looks onto the horrific scene without even a backwards glance.

Karl hurries off towards the inner part of town.

Bishop looks back at Tucker, and smiles, more broadly. "Very well, Mr. Tucker. We'll go back. But you mustn't forget this. I don't want to do it again. A pain in the arse, really. And I *do* have a quota to meet.."

Ryn waits for the man to leave so she can get on with her looting..

Tucker stands straight, walking towards the man. Almost as an afterthought, he pats his duster, opening it up. His fingers curl around the silver star surrounded by a circle upon his breast. Seemingly reassured by this face, he tips up his hat with a familiar stray thumb, and turns to look over his home, Maddock Montana.

Bishop waits, trying not to tap his foot impatiently. He has poetry in his soul.. Unfortunately, most of it is Dante-esque.. "Better to rule in Hell.."

Bishop watches Tucker, and nods to himself. Ahh well. Better luck next time. Now, to find a certain Richard Allard..

[Tucker is whisked away..]