Part II: Bar Talk
“So, what’s it like out there?” The bar owner asks, filling the glass he just cleaned with water and setting it down in front of his new patron. “I mean, on the other side of the desert? What’s the rest of the world like? Been wanting to go out and see it myself, but gotta run this bar. Ya know, obligations, stuff like that.”
“It’s twisted out there. You aren’t missing much,” the stranger says removing his gloves before grabbing the glass. His fingers, long and thin, methodically wrap around the glass. He brings the liquid to his dry, cracked lips. He gulps the entire glass in one long, dribbling swallow, then sets the glass down, and wipes his chin with the back of his sleeve.
“Another.”
He sips and savors the second glass. By the time he is half through, the front doors swing open. A tall man steps in, silhouetted by the strong white light. The doors swing shut behind him and daylight is cut off. His heavy boots clink forward on the hardwood floor. He waits a few moments, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dark room. He is a man of caution.
“How’s it going, Roy?” The newcomer announces.
“Just fine Sheriff,” says the bar owner. “How about yourself?
“Doing OK. Can’t complain. Wife, kids, all that… you know.” He walks in large strides up to the bar. He hikes up his pants a little, and takes off his hat. “One day it’s this, the next day it’s that, never a dull moment. You know how it goes.”
The Sheriff pulls out the bar stool next to the stranger, sets down his hat, and extends a knuckled fist across the table to Roy. His bony elbow rests on the bar top. His hands are scarred and cracked, his callused skin is embedded with dirt.
Roy reciprocates the fist bump, and meets the Sheriff’s knuckles with his own. Roy’s hands are soft from cleaning all the glasses.
“You opening early today, Roy?” Asks the Sheriff. “ You know the law, you aren’t allowed to serve till midday. And that sun ain’t high enough to be called midday yet.”
“Our guest here is just drinking water, Sheriff. He’s from across the desert. Thought I’d show some Kausian hospitality. Anyways, what can I getcha?” Roy turns and grabs a glass from behind the bar. “I got a new ale on tap. Something you might fancy dancing on that palate of yours.”
“Sure, Roy, I’ll give your new brew a flavor sample. Pour me a pint. Just don’t be telling the lady back home I’m drinking on the job and before noon. She’ll give me hell.”
“You got it, Sheriff.” Roy tosses a circular beer coaster with the BARSTROW snake emblem in front of the Sheriff. He reaches under the bar and pulls out a massive brown jug. He pops the cork and places a frothy mug on the coaster in front of the Sheriff.
“Little bit of head on that one, Roy,” the Sheriff eyeballs the mug before taking a sip and setting it back on the coaster. Foam bubbles stick to the beard on his upper lip, and he licks them off. “Pretty good. Not bad at all. Has some flavor. Yeah, almost a nutty kind of flavor. Kind of like you, Roy.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been working that recipe for some time.” Roy pulls out another glass, pours himself a pint, and takes a long swallow. “Sorry about the foam. It’s been hard growing ingredients this year; drought and all. Gotta make do with what I got.”
The Sheriff takes another sip and turns to the hunched stranger who is nursing his water. “That your horse out there?”
“Yep.”
“You lost or looking for a home?”
“Nope.”
“You part of any that mob stuff out there on the other side?”
“Nope.”
“You got business in town or you just passing through?”
“Yep.” The stranger turns to face the Sheriff and sits up straight. “I’m called an independent entrepreneur.” He reaches out a friendly right hand. “I’m an art dealer and an archeologist. The names Alex, Alex Shuffle. Most people just call me Shuffle.”
Setting his beer down and smiling, the Sheriff reaches his thick hand out to shake Shuffle’s. “The name’s Bents, Sheriff Bents. Most folk just call me Sheriff.” Both men’s grips are tight, but not overly aggressive. They shake three times and let go. “That’s good to hear,” says the Sheriff. “I was worried you were one of those mafia types from out there. You see, we don’t get too many visitors. Hell, we get no visitors. Too far for anyone to travel, with no reason to come, I suppose.” He takes another sip of ale and chuckles. “And we like it that way. Don’t be needing any gangster types coming around here bullying us into their agendas. We Kausia folk watch each other’s backs and our neighbor's houses. Hell, everyone knows everyone here.” The Sheriff scratches the growing bristles of his beard and looks down the barrel of a long pointed index finger. “As long as you ain’t intending to cause any trouble, we won’t cause you any back.”
Shuffle looks over his shoulder, up the barrel of that finger, with a smile.
“We’re a quiet town, with good people,” continues the Sheriff, “we live simple lives and run a tight ship. Everyone does their part. It’s the only way to survive out here. We like it that way, and we want to keep it that way.” He retracts his finger and wraps it around his pint with the rest of his digits.
“Don’t you worry, Sheriff,” Shuffle says, sitting upright. The whole length of his vertebrae cracked. “Quiet is what I intend to be. Like a shadow. You won’t even know I’m here.” Shuffle smirks and takes a sip of water.
“I see.” Sheriff Bents gazes over with a serious look in his piercing blue eyes. “And what kind of business brings you to Kausia?” He squints. “You’ve been our first visitor in my lifetime. We’re not too big on tourism here.”
“Like I said, I’m an archaeologist. I specialize in ancient artifacts,” Shuffle says. “Primarily predating the 21st century, and just about anything from the old world. Basically, before history was lost. I’m the good guy going around putting pieces back together. Like a detective. I’m an archaeological detective. I’m trying to see where the world went wrong.”
“Interesting,” says the Sheriff. “Sometimes the past should stay buried.”
“Then the past would be lost.”
“Not always a bad thing.”
“And I would be out of job.”
“Couldn’t help you there.”
“You’re telling me you’d wash away the whole era of man when the world depended on things called federal tenders, a world saturated in advertisements and the strange notion of credit that was the basis of their economy. A world that never promised any true longevity, and was rooted in a philosophy the old culture referred to as justified injustice, under a principle called capitalism.”
“Yep.”
“And the landslide that washed it all away? The Cleansing. You know about the Cleansing that came?” The stranger stared into the darkness behind the bar.
“Nope.”
Shuffles’ hands move quickly, emphasizing his words as they erupt into the air before him. “It was the war that brought the end to that world. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. That’s how everything was lost. Modern living, appliances, fine art, convenient transportation.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nor do I care,” said the Sheriff. “I don’t even know what convenient transportation means. I ride a horse. That’s pretty damn convenient to me.”
“Cars! Gasoline powered vehicles. Combustion engines!” Shuffle slams a fist to the table. “What does it matter?” His chin drops to his chest. “It’s all behind us now. Most of it lost. Buried and burnt.” He looks up. “What is history anyway? A set of arbitrary dates and happenings, written in books by those in control. It could all be lies. Lies! How does anyone know what truth is anymore?”
“I live the truth every day,” interjects the Sheriff. “The truth of this desert. The truth of being alive.”
Shuffle squints an eye toward the Sheriff. “Someone writes down a damn dream one day, and a thousand years from now readers believe it’s what really happened. Who gets to decide what’s important to remember? The past is blurred between lines of lost detail and lies. That’s where I come in. That’s my job. To sift through this shit, and sort out what is worth remembering. What is truth and what is forgettable. You may not know this, but that world out there,” Shuffle points to the entrance, “beyond that desert is a planet buried in thousands of years of garbage, wasteland, toxic water, and more deserts and oceans filled with synthetic polymer petrochemicals. Fucking plastic! That shit will never go away!”
“It’s starting to sound like we have it pretty good here in Kausia,” says the Sheriff.
“A little pocket of paradise you could say.”
“Hey, you need a drink there yet, Buddy?” Roy asks.
“Whiskey,” replies Shuffle.
“Wooowa, we have ourselves a high baller here,” says Roy. “Got hardly anybody in town drinking that ol’ drink. But you did have that gold coin.” He pulls up a narrow empty glass from under the bar, along with a twisted glass bottle three quarters full of amber fluid. It was an unmarked, unlabeled bottle. “This here is Mark’s homemade specialty. Best whiskey in town,” and he pours.
Shuffle reaches for the glass like a mother embracing an infant. “You know about the robots?”
“The what bots?”
“The artificial intelligence that was created.”
“Look, you need to stop talking imaginary,” said the Sheriff.
“Fine, fine.”
“Well, what kind of detective work brings you out here?” asked the Sheriff. “Ain’t none of what you been talking about out here.”
“Indeed. You see, I use to be a collector of fine art. I have a passion for paintings predating the 2045. And there aren’t many left. And the ones there are, are quite hard to find.”
“You come to visit our museum or dig up some ancient finger paintings? Cause we don’t have a museum.”
“Ah, not exactly. I’m looking for an ancient artifact.” Shuffle reaches into his inside pocket and reveals what looks like a piece of tanned cloth. “I was given a really old map.” He opens up the cloth, “and it has led me here.”
Roy looks over the counter wide-eyed. Damn that looks like it’s written on skin.”
“I believe it is,” said Shuffle. “Knowing the source it came from.”
Thanks for the Visit.
If you aren't caught up, don't worry, each book stands alone as a piece in the longer narrative.
Here's the rest of the story to enjoy:
Book One:
Part One: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-one
Part Two: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-two
Part Three: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-three
Part Four: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-four
Book Two:
Part One: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-ii-extinguish-pt-1
Part Two: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-ii-extinguish-pt2
Part Three: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-ii-extinguish-pt-3
Book Three:
Part One: https://steemit.com/story/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-three-ashes-part-one
It's been a long time coming, couple-few-three years, mostly I've been waiting for the illustrator to finish, 'cough' start the drawings for this third and final chapter of the Blue Flame. I got sick of waiting. Here's the story anyways.
Written by Charles Denton
Illustrations by Blaine Garrett
Copright 2018 Dim Media
Very cool man!
Thanks!