Gracey's Gundogs

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Asmodeus, Dec 28, 2009.





    "Son of a..."




    Bill Gracey crashed down the stairs and rolled across the floor of the saloon. The blackjack players glanced at him and the pianist continued playing.

    Lying there for a minute, the black-coated swindler picked himself up and stood with his arm on the bar. "Mornin', Sam." A tequila bottle flew from the stairway and past his head.

    Sam, the old dark-skinned barman, continued polishing a glass. "The Scowler Boys're lookin' for ya, Bill."

    "Me?" Bill said, trying not to sound troubled. He ducked as a vase of flowers flew from the stairway and shattered on the bar. "Now what do them Scowler Boys be wantin' with a decent upstanding fella like me?" A high-heeled shoe bounced down the stairway and struck him in the face. "OW!"

    Sam continued polishing the glass, slowly. "They's saying the horse you sold 'em is blind."

    Bill tried to smile, rubbing the heel print on his cheek. "Now that just ain't fair. Horse sees plenty well... it just none too good with colours."

    "Way I heard it, Bill - that horse is none too good with ANY colours."

    Before he could answer, another vase of flowers flew from the stairway, followed by a furious-looking woman with red hair and makeup. Her dress was torn and she had strange marks on her face... like strap-imprints.

    "YOU'RE A NO-GOOD DIRTY ROTTEN PIECE O' PIGSHIT, BILL GRACEY!!" the whore yelled, nailing him with another of her shoes. As Bill fell over she started hitting him with a tequila bottle.

    The beating lasted a few minutes, then stopped as another customer arrived with a handful of money. The whore smiled and took the man's arm, going back upstairs.

    Bill pulled himself up into one of the chairs around the blackjack table. Grinning with a mouthful of blood, he tipped his hat. "Morning, fellas. What're we playin'?"
  2. Lana Thomas stepped in through the doors, a frown across the face. Anyone out on the street could hear that hooker yellin' at Bill Gracey, and that didn't bode well. Lana had stashed in her back pocket a little note with that man's name on it. When you're out looker for "job" names tend to pass around here and there. Recently, there's been a whole lotta talk about Gracey needing guns. Now, Lana wasn't a gunslinger, but for other things? She could make herself useful. If the rumors were true, it'd be worth her weight in gold.

    Striding across the saloon, Lana only gave a side glance at the man she figured was Gracey. He was picking himself off the floor and sliding in to a chair with some card players. She figured if she were gonna think about workin' for the man, she better observe him in his natural environment. Looked like a damned fool.

    Lana had a seat at the bar, ordering a bit of whiskey for herself. It payed to be cautious.
  3. The saloon reeked of unwashed bodies, booze and other things that were better kept in private.

    A pair of dark eyes watched the inverted reflection in the whiskey bottle in front of him as another man paid for a painted up disease. He shrugged a shoulder. It was their money. . .what they spent it on was their choice. He had some ideas of where it would come in handy though. . .

    The redskin had wandered into the saloon some time earlier. His filthy, mud-covered horse was tied up outside. No need to worry about anyone stealing it. No one wanted a dirty animal.

    The man shifted uneasily. To him, the stench was nearly unbearable. The thought of sitting in a chair one of the filthy cowboys had been in made him twitch. He didn't know how they could live so close together. . .

    One consolation though was that his wide hat was wide enough and pulled down low enough to shield his face from prying eyes and uncovered sneezes. He made sure to sit far away from the spitoon. It didn't look (or smell) like anyone in here had good aim. Of any kind.

    He reached out and scooped up the half-empty glass in front of him, his true intentions concealed as his hand moved up to his face, the back of it pressing against his nose as a fat man's ass nearby made a sound like a rutting bull. The rim of the glass barely brushed his lips, none of the harsh drink touching his mouth.

    Another consolation was that the glass was cracked, a faint trickle of liquid soaking into the worn oilcloth on the table and into the already mildewed wood. This allowed him to refill it from time to time. He had already paid for the bottle, there was no reason to bother him about it. . .

    Well, like that ever meant anything anyway. His lips curled into a look of contempt.

    ". . ."
  4. "Hit me."


    "Hit me."


    "Hit m-"

    The dealer stared at Bill, completely humourless.

    "Er... I mean, I'll raise you five." Bill threw more money into the middle of the table and smiled at his fellow players.

    "I see yer five and raise ye fifty!" sneered the man opposite him, dropping a bag of coins on the pile.

    Bill scratched his neck, coughing, looking at the player on his left then the player on his right, and scratched his neck again.

    "Well, Sir, I'll see you."

    "How's yer sorry ass gonna see me?" scowled the opponent, scoffing at Bill's empty pockets.

    "Oh, no trouble, Sir. I got me some friends coming and they'll be good for the money." Bill gave a wide grin, even as sweat dripped from his forehead.

    "Well okay," said the opponent, laying down four kings and returning the grin. "Ah hope they're real gurd friends!" The rest of the table began chortling.

    Bill smiled, looked at his two-pair, smiled again, looked to one side, looked at his two-pair again, smiled. Then he joined in the laughter as more sweat ran down his face.

  5. It was a nice day for a drink, the dust was kicking up from the wind and it was just about time for Eddy to rest after a night’s plundering. He slinked into the specified building where the famous outlaw Bill Gracey was going to have it out with everyone who was interested. Now in the saloon with people doing their normal thing, Eddy went up to the counter. “So what ya’be wanting stranger?”
    ”A fine glass I be wanting of your highest grade whiskeh.” The bartender nodded and pulled out a jug covered in dust around the side. Obviously nobody here could afford something like that. Yet, Eddy was not from around here and had plenty to be spent from that coach. “I be thank’en ya mister. You ‘ere anything from the Old States?”
    “Only that we be getting along by ourselves.”
    ”Then ‘ere’s to the west, where we have the luxury of being gay and soaked ev’ry day.” He took the shot and it was mighty fine. “Ahhh, whooee, that’s some good liquor. Keep it comin’.”
  6. "Hit me."


    "Hit me."


    "Hit m-"

    An eyebrow was raised in the shade of the dusky man's hat as he listened to the other one. Did he even know how to play Blackjack? Even he knew how to play the white man's game.

    He didn't care for it. You needed no skills to play these card games...but they suited the wascitus well...all you had to do was shuffle pieces of paper and use your face to lie to others, hoping they would believe you.

    The dark man scoffed under his breath, twisting the small dingy glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid swirl around.

    Two of the chairs at his table scraped against the floor as they were pulled back. The rickety pieces groaned as two men took a seat, dropping their own heavy-bottomed glasses down.

    The bartender glanced up from whatever he was working on polishing, one of his own brows raising warily. The scruffy men sitting with the indian were fast. They had snatched a couple glasses without him noticing. He continued to watch them from the corner of his eyes...He REALLY didn't wany any more of his furniture broken...

    One leaned forward, "Hey, Chief. Looks like you've got more'n enough to share." The indian stiffened in his seat, "Hey now, where's that red injun hospitality? Don'tcha'll like to give stuff away anyways?" They chuckled at their own joke as one snatched up the bottle, sloshing some into his partner's and his own glass.

    "Ever'body knows firewater ain't no good for you anyways. Y'might try an' SCALP us or somethin'..." The talkative one laughed as he reached out and lightly punched the dark man in the upper arm. "Don't worry, I'm just joshin' you."

    He greedily gulped down the amber liquid, heavy rivulets coursing down his chin, droplets splattering onto his filthy shirt.
  7. "Best outta three?"

    The grey-bearded player opposite Bill screwed up his face and sneered, "Pay up!"

    "Like I said, fellas: I got me some friends who'll be here any minute now. Then we can settle up and..."

    The other players either side of Bill pulled their chairs closer, cracking their knuckles. "You pay up now, you pig-shit-eater!"

    Just then, the doors of the Switchblade Saloon swung open again and the floorboards resounded with the thud of workboots. Five men entered, each squarely built with hunched shoulders and large jaws. The Scowler boys were built like bulldogs and had about the same IQ. They ran one of the largest ranches to the south and had a reputation for drinking and smuggling.

    The largest of the them, John Scowler, shouted as he entered. "BILL GRACEY, YOU RAT-BASTARD SON OF A BITCH! YOU OWE ME A HORSE!"

    In a few lumbering steps the Scowler Boys had encircled the table, their shadows falling over Gracey and the players.

    "These your friends?" asked the leader of the poker players.

    Gracey looked to one side, had a thought, then smiled. "Why yessir, they are!"

    "Friends my hairy ass!" yelled John Scowler, who promptly grabbed Gracey' coat and lifted him from his seat. "That horse you sold me is as blind as my grandma!"

    The horse in question was on the road outside, bumping into the shopfronts.

    "Well Sir," said the grey-bearded poker player as he got up and tapped John Scowler on the shoulder. "You owe me five hundred big ones."

    Scowler turned towards the player, still holding Gracey. "What the hell you talkin' about? Do I know you?"

    "These are the boys with the money," the dangling Gracey interjected, pointing at the players.

    "Your money?" asked Scowler.

    "It's our money now!" said the poker player.

    "Where's the money?"

    "What you tryin'a pull?"

    "Who the hell are you?!"

    "Where's my money?!"

    Gracey raised a finger. "Gentlemen, I think we can come to an arrangement. You see... the money's in my coat!"

    He lifted his arms and dropped to the ground, falling out of his coat and rolling away. Scowler and the Poker Player both made a grab for the empty coat, scuffled, then turned on each other.


    The poker player went crashing through the table as Scowler dealt him a right hook.


    Scowler toppled over as another poker player clocked him a tequila bottle.


    The rest of the Scowler Boys lunged forwards, laying into the poker players and other customers.

    Bill Gracey got to his feet, grabbed a chair, and smashed it against the nearest person. "YEEEEARGH!!!"

  8. A horse throttled down the dusty road, Lobo lazily directed the horse towards the tavern, slowing the horse down to a halt as he approached. He got off and secured the horse to the fence, securing the belt on the side of the seat, he wasn’t feeling that bringing out his rifle was a good idea.

    Though he thought about it when he heard the fight starting, in case someone got out of there and stole a horse to escape, it couldn’t just be him who did that, right?

    He fastened the safety on his revolver’s holster, and just as he entered, a man got thrown out the window, Ricardo smirked, apparently the words Bill Gracey were fighting words in this town.

    Ricardo entered the tavern, and seemingly people wanted him to join in on the fun. Someone grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to a side and towards a table, but Ricardo managed to jump over the table, dragging the drunk along with him after he grabbed the man’s arm.

    The thought of what would happen when authorities came to the place crossed his mind for a few seconds, but someone lunged with a table chair at him.
  9. What an idiot.

    That's what was crossing Lana's mind as she watched Gracey play cards. His friends would come and pay up. Yep, she was just going to wait until they beat him to a pulp and threw him out back. Of course, a whole gang of burly bastards showed up also gunning for Gracey. My, the man was popular!

    Lana had turned her head to frown at a couple of jackasses messes with with a Red Man when the next thing she knew furniture and glass was flying around the room! Those morons done started a bar fight.

    Ducking a flying bottle and side stepping a fallen drunk, Lana was making her way to Gracey. The plan was to rescue the twit and get the hell out. She paused when someone whirled around looking ready to punch her in the face. The guy hesitated only a moment at seeing a female, but seemed to decided hitting a girl was okay. Lana swiftly kicked him in the balls and gave him a knee to the nose when he doubled over.

    "BILL GRACEY! You got two minutes to tell me why it's worth it to save your ass and join your damned gang! Cause it's looking to me more trouble than it's worth!" Lana ducked another flying bottle.
  10. Gracey got up, adjusting his hat, ducking a flying bottle, adjusting his hat again, straightening his jacket then smiling at Lana.

    "Well, darlin', I'm glad you asked..."

    Gracey and Lana moved closer, each punching a drunk who was sneaking up on the other. Then they came back-to-back as the brawl swirled around them.

    "See, I got me a big steal comin' up."

    "How big?"

    Lana braced against him and brought up her heel, kicking a Scowler brother. Then they hooked arms and swung around, punching another two brawlers.

    "The Thunderhawk's as big as they come, Missy."


    Lana ducked behind Gracey as he picked up a table to shield them. A line of Scowler boys rushed against them, pushing the table and pinning the two of them to the wall.

    "Injun treasure," muttered Gracey, flashing another smile as they were crushed against the wall. "From one o' the old tribes."

    "Keep talking," said Lana as they dropped to the floor and crawled out from under the table. Coming up, they exchanged blows with the Scowler boys then caught their breaths as they leant against the table.

    "T-Hawk's being brought to the church in ol' Sleepwood. If we can get it, I got a man who's willin' to pay a small fortune in gratitude."

    Gracey passed Lana one of the few remaining glasses of tequila, then took one for himself. "Cheers."

  11. If there was ever a time for Eddy to make a scene, it would be now. Yet, something about the place seemed so relaxing. He did not take notice of the fight behind, that was until his glass was shattered. He held in his hands just the top rim of what he had been drinking from. The whiskey itself had spilled out over the counter and dripped on his legs. “Oh that’s right fine…I had already paid for that.” Eddy got up from his seat and looked around. “I’d knock galley west the lot of ya’ but I’m on a tight schedule.” He whipped out the pistol and on the spot killed three men. The crowd went silent for a moment as they dropped to the floor. “Anyone else wantin’ to pay fer ma’ drink?”