With the remainder of the pirates having their movements inhibited, Sylvester Sweet could take his time stopping the stampede. He finished reloading his revolver and holstered the weapon. There’d be no need to waste more rounds on enemies that couldn’t retaliate. Instead, the cowboy methodically visited each enemy and landed a clean, surgical hook to their craniums, sending them to floor to join the dozens of other fallen combatants. With each opponent frozen in their tracks, perfectly aiming his punches was an incredibly simple feat.
Perhaps it was just the convenience of Klinghoffer and suite of skills that Sylvester was drawn to?
The last of the herd dropped, Sylvester examined his knuckles, ensuring they were still in prime condition to continue combat. He was about to remark something calm and smooth to his partner, when Sylvester was stopped by the sound he heard. Or rather, the lack of sound. “What happened,” Sylvester began to ask, “to the people inside of the tavern?”
No longer was there any yelling or shouting from inside the small establishment. And, as if on cue, its wooden door swung open to reveal a duet of hearty laughter. It swung shut again, and from the bar had come the two conductors of the whole mess that had troubled Sylvester so much.
“Tight Noose,” Rascal Stone, pirate captain of Under Station, worth 15,000,000 beli was in the lead of the duo. Though it was night, he wore a pair of violet-tinted shades over his face. Wrapped around his hips like a belt was a coil of rope, tied in a loose knot at his right hip. Long, gray-blue hair reached the small of his back. He stood almost a whole foot taller than Sylvester himself, with lean muscle stretched taut across his body. His purple jacket exposed a bare chest underneath, and was printed with his crew’s Jolly Roger on its back, a winking skull fallen beneath a pair of crossbones.
President of the Red Forest Company, Uther Lance wasn’t far behind, giggling like a school boy at some joke Sylvester had missed. He was deeply tanned across his body and wore a maroon dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up and tattered. With spiky locks of black hair, an unkempt goatee and sunken in eyes, it looked as if the man had just stared into the face of an explosion and only walked away with a haircut. A loose assortment of tools were wrapped around his waist with a red leather belt, matching the color of his work boots.
It didn’t take long for the both of them to catch onto what had transpired while they were quelling the chorus inside of the tavern.
“Oh… oh no,” Rascal said, “this won’t do at all. Who in blazes is meant to carry my cargo now?!”
Uther started laughing again, stroking his goatee, “Don’t worry, I’ve no doubt our guests here would be,” he started laughing at his own joke, “would be happy to volunteer. Wouldn’t you?”
Sylvester was more than aware of what was about to transpire. This here was the opportunity for a neat, conclusive ending. If these two fell as easily as their men, then this whole circus of an evening could end. He pulled together his rope in preparation for a fight, laying another hand on the handle of Trust.
“My name is Syl-”
“Ah, shut your trap!” Rascal interrupted the cowboy’s introduction, spurring on another fit of chuckles from Uther. He pulled out his own rope, setting his sights on Sylvester from behind those sunglasses. “Less a hangman knows about his client, the better!”
And, with that, he burst forth into a sprint, Uther Lance not far behind. Their confrontation had already begun.
Perhaps it was just the convenience of Klinghoffer and suite of skills that Sylvester was drawn to?
The last of the herd dropped, Sylvester examined his knuckles, ensuring they were still in prime condition to continue combat. He was about to remark something calm and smooth to his partner, when Sylvester was stopped by the sound he heard. Or rather, the lack of sound. “What happened,” Sylvester began to ask, “to the people inside of the tavern?”
No longer was there any yelling or shouting from inside the small establishment. And, as if on cue, its wooden door swung open to reveal a duet of hearty laughter. It swung shut again, and from the bar had come the two conductors of the whole mess that had troubled Sylvester so much.
“Tight Noose,” Rascal Stone, pirate captain of Under Station, worth 15,000,000 beli was in the lead of the duo. Though it was night, he wore a pair of violet-tinted shades over his face. Wrapped around his hips like a belt was a coil of rope, tied in a loose knot at his right hip. Long, gray-blue hair reached the small of his back. He stood almost a whole foot taller than Sylvester himself, with lean muscle stretched taut across his body. His purple jacket exposed a bare chest underneath, and was printed with his crew’s Jolly Roger on its back, a winking skull fallen beneath a pair of crossbones.
President of the Red Forest Company, Uther Lance wasn’t far behind, giggling like a school boy at some joke Sylvester had missed. He was deeply tanned across his body and wore a maroon dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up and tattered. With spiky locks of black hair, an unkempt goatee and sunken in eyes, it looked as if the man had just stared into the face of an explosion and only walked away with a haircut. A loose assortment of tools were wrapped around his waist with a red leather belt, matching the color of his work boots.
It didn’t take long for the both of them to catch onto what had transpired while they were quelling the chorus inside of the tavern.
“Oh… oh no,” Rascal said, “this won’t do at all. Who in blazes is meant to carry my cargo now?!”
Uther started laughing again, stroking his goatee, “Don’t worry, I’ve no doubt our guests here would be,” he started laughing at his own joke, “would be happy to volunteer. Wouldn’t you?”
Sylvester was more than aware of what was about to transpire. This here was the opportunity for a neat, conclusive ending. If these two fell as easily as their men, then this whole circus of an evening could end. He pulled together his rope in preparation for a fight, laying another hand on the handle of Trust.
“My name is Syl-”
“Ah, shut your trap!” Rascal interrupted the cowboy’s introduction, spurring on another fit of chuckles from Uther. He pulled out his own rope, setting his sights on Sylvester from behind those sunglasses. “Less a hangman knows about his client, the better!”
And, with that, he burst forth into a sprint, Uther Lance not far behind. Their confrontation had already begun.