<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>None<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 20 - 21, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Around Town<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Walker, CLOSED<br/><hr/><br/><br/>Given enough time and inclination, Tommy supposed that it just might be possible to pinpoint the exact worst location in Soddom from which to stage a preemptive strike on the Angel of Death, accompanied only by a taciturn redskin and a handful of playing cards. Such a spot would have to be downwind of a community latrine, the smell balanced out only by the odor of rancid cooking oil drifting over from the Chinese quarter. If possible, the tent would have to be procured at outrageous expense from a man in possession of somewhere south of four teeth who had suddenly been possessed by the spirit of John Pierpont Morgan (who was, as far as Tommy knew, still very much alive) when the subject of temporary real estate dealings had entered the picture. Furthermore, the tent so acquired would be occupied by six feral cats who had evidently made their own tenant-landlord agreement with the tent's owner, and who seemed reluctant to take on new boarders without first establishing their primacy with sprays of urine.<br/><br/>It was a fine tent, and it had been a fine evening.<br/><br/>"Now this time I want you to concentrate. This is important, Walker." Tommy stared at the red man sitting cross-legged across from the remains of their meager dinner. The cats had expressed interest in the empty can of beans, but Tommy was saving it as a last-ditch projectile weapon. The Irishman's fingers moved nimbly in the candlelight; it almost made things too easy. "Is<em>this</em>your card?" he asked triumphantly, holding up the seven of spades.<br/><br/>The Indian looked at the card, then at Tommy, and raised a single eyebrow. It was a neat trick, one that Tommy was going to have to master himself. "Do you want me to lie again?" he asked without guile.<br/><br/>"Crap. No. Just tell me."<br/><br/>"In that case, no. That is not the card I chose earlier. It was the eight of--"<br/><br/>"No! Don't tell--"<br/><br/>"Hearts."<br/><br/>"Crap. Fine. Be that way." Clearly the supernatural energies of the evening were interfering with even mundane card tricks. Or, Tommy conceded, he was too nervous to think straight. What had seemed a foolhardy errand earlier now seemed positively suicidal. He'd been on the edge of his nerves for hours now, listening for a whistle that never came. There had been a whistle earlier, though not in the agreed-upon pattern, and a short investigation had shown that it was just a miner showing appreciation for his purchased lady of the evening. Or of the hour -- the fellow hadn't looked flush enough to spring for the whole night. Walker and Tommy had exited that tent with as much dignity as they could muster after the interruption.<br/><br/>The hours wore on, the candles were snuffed and replaced, and eventually dawn broke just as it does upon even the shittiest places in the West. The cats had worked out a reluctant treaty and stayed on their three-quarters of the tent without further incident. Neither Tommy nor Walker had slept a wink, Tommy sustained largely by wasted adrenaline and what must have been half a pound of tobacco. Eventually it became evident that they would not have a visitor this evening, and with sudden horror Tommy imagined spending more nights in this sodden circumstance. Weeks? Months? What exactly had he signed on for?<br/><br/>Bleary-eyed he climbed out into the weak sunlight, bidding their temporary shelter a not so fond adieu. Today they would meet with the wise woman, Something Feather. Maybe she'd be wise enough to come up with a better plan. Before that, though, there would have to be coffee.<br/><br/>"Come on. I'll buy you a waffle." There was no better place to go after a long night stalking Death than the good old Wafflehaus. For a big enough tip they'd probably even forgive the smell of cat piss.<br/><br/><br/><br/>