• Chapter Two

    Garrett Wight had a brilliant system for meeting new people and making new friends: he would go to a bar with a pocket full of money that he'd stolen from "Some Dumb Chump," and buy people drinks. It usually got people to stick around for awhile. Its hard to pass up a free drink, even if it was from a shady looking man in his thirties with obviously stolen cash. Of course, Garrett would always reassure you that he was only twenty-five. No one believed him, but no one really cared. Drinks were on him!

    He didn't have a particular favorite drink. They were all pretty much amazing to him. And if it could get someone to come home with him at the end of the night, then it was a good thing in his eyes.

    There weren't a lot of bars in Neptha, unfortunately. When it came to choosing favorites, the list was narrowed down to about three that were even acceptable. Those bars were as follows:

    "The Alehouse," which was classy, usually had someone playing live music,... and a cover charge. Garrett's reaction to learning about the cover charge was a sarcastic "Bullshit. Why would I pay to get in... and then pay more for a drink that probably isn't that great anyway? I call bullshit." "Haytham Street Club," which usually had a good selection of drinks, plenty of potential Some Dumb Chumps, and a bouncer who didn't like the look of his face. To this, Garrett responded one night with "You're no looker yourself, pal," and ended, as one might expect, in the hospital. The last place was simply named "BAR."

    There was nothing really wrong with Bar other than the obvious lack of imagination the owner had in naming the place. It was clean-ish, had a fair selection of drinks, a piano if someone felt that they needed to be the life of the party and make a fool of themselves at the same time, and some good-natured people. It was a bit smoky at time, but overall there were very few complaints from the regulars. And, quite frankly, if someone walked into Bar and expected a classy champagne joint, then they were the wrong kind of people for the place and had no business being there. One thing that Garrett liked about Bar: there was certainly no disputing what it was.

    Upon discovering the Bar, Garrett gave a satisfied "seems like my kind of place" and promptly proceeded to the counter and had since become a regular there. So this had become Garrett's place, except for the nights he felt generous and tried for the Alehouse, or adventurously sadistic and attempted Haytham Street again. But all in all, he spent most of his time at Bar, sipping something potent enough to kill a camel and lying to strangers.

    "Oh yeah," he said to a barely-legal blonde one night, drinking a martini of some variety. "I'm famous back home for sword fighting. They used to call me 'The Tornado' because I was so fast."

    "Are you sure it wasn't because you were a hazard," the blonde replied with a giggle. It was the sort of giggle that was halfway between "I'm joking" and "You're pathetic."

    These sorts of comments were hurtful in Garret's eyes. Here he was, buying this girl what looked like it might be her first drink, and she just insulted him. Play it off, play it off. She must not be drunk enough yet.

    "Well, I never did say, exactly, what my swordsmanship was famous for..." He let that trail off, hoping that she wasn't smart enough to know the difference between "famous" and "infamous." She sure didn't look smart enough.

    If she did, she didn't care to correct him. "If you're so famous 'back home,' then what are you doing all the way out here?" She took a sip of the martini he'd bought her and fluttered her eyelashes.

    He had plenty of answers to that question, and none of them were the sort he could really tell her. Why would he, the "famous/infamous swordsman" that he was, be living out here on the edge of civilization, a town that only had three good bars, and so far from any other main cities that if any news happened in the nearest one it would be three months later and there was nothing that he would be able to do about it? Where it was hot, dry, and the scenery was bland?

    Well, one reason was that no one would be looking for him out here. What kind of idiot would seek out his own death in a sandtrap like this?

    This idiot would. He owed so many people money at this moment that it wouldn't hurt him to just disappear for a year while they forgot about it. At least he hoped they would forget about it; these were the types to charge interest.

    Second reason? Once he'd finally settled down in Neptha, it was kind of cozy. Being the new guy was a big weight off his shoulders. He could let people think he was an honest person, at least until he got a reputation. There were plenty of Some Dumb Chumps here, and he'd been here about three months without being carted off to jail. A new record. No one knew about his bad habits yet. After this long, he figured they should have suspected. But they kept on believing that he was as honest as he said he was, or at least they pretended to believe him.

    Third and best reason: when the water finally ran dry, he could survive on gin. It was great being an optimist.

    It was a pretty snazzy town, altogether. And he could do some damage here if he gave himself enough time.

    Of course, he wasn't about to tell this to the little blonde sitting next to him. She was probably here with her parents on a business trip and snuck out to see the town or something to that tune. He didn't know. He was guessing, but it seemed likely.

    What he did tell her, though, was probably why he rarely had any success when it came to girls. He took a sip of his drink and looked her straight in the eye, trying very had not to laugh as he repeated his infamous pickup line. "I... am on a top secret mission," he said with the straightest face he could muster. This was a test of sorts... to see how gullible she was. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes he was a brilliant liar.

    The blonde shook her head and smiled. She patted Garrett lightly on the head. "You're funny," she said. She slipped off the barstool and wandered, wobbly, off towards the door.

    Sometimes.

    This happened almost routinely. He would come in, buy the new girl a drink, lie to her, and she would leave without giving a damn. Garrett would have liked to leave some kind of impression other than being the Sleazy Old Guy at the Bar. He didn't know if he would rather be the Sleazy Old Guy or Some Dumb Chump. At least if you're the Chump, you can be blissfully unaware of what you are.

    "Annuddah one, Garrett? Dat de tird rejekktion dees week," pointed out Kareem, the bartender. Kareem, to Garrett, symbolized all of Neptha: Dark, hard-working, and unable to learn to speak properly. Everyone could tell if you weren't from there. Garrett tried to blend in the first month, but spending time in the sun only ended in sunburns and peeling. And after that, he just figured that the city would change around him.

    "Yeah, another one," Garrett said, putting his head down on the bar counter.

    "Meebee you shoulla tell de trute nesstime," Kareem warbled. He had one of those voices that belonged on stage somewhere, but the kind of personality that belonged behind a bar. Garrett wondered, once or twice, what Kareem must sound like when he sang. He would have wagered that he'd have had a chance at fame if he gave it a shot, but then he'd be out a bartender, and then where would he go when he needed a drink and a friend? Bartenders were like head doctors without the credentials: they knew how to cure what ailed you and gladly take your money that you were blissfully ready to just hand over.

    "Pfft," said Garrett, dismissively. "I am on top secret mission." He took another sip of his drink. Truth was subjective. He was on a top secret mission that involved stealing from every Dumb Chump that he came across and using that money to buy more booze.

    No one ever said that his top secret mission had to involve helping anyone other than himself.

    That girl was the last of anyone worthy of lying to for that night. She'd dismissed him, though he would tell you that he had allowed her to be dismissed if you had asked him, at around 2 am. No one ever did ask him, though. When it came right down to it, Garrett didn't have many friends in Neptha. His acquaintances in this town extended about as far as Kareem and his landlord. Well, acquaintances that he kept frequent contact with. He talked with a large number of people when he was out drinking, but he never really expected to ever talk to them again. If he was lucky, it would stay that way.

    Part of his problem was that he favored blondes in a town that was sitting on the edge of the desert. That last one was certainly an out-of-towner: she looked almost more out of place than he did. And he certainly did stick out like a sore thumb: pale, twig-thin, even dressed differently. There was no doubt that he wasn't from these parts, and he liked it that way. He could blend in if he wanted to.

    He just didn't want to.

    The rest of the evening... or rather early morning, was spent discussing with Kareem on the importance of blondes in society and why it was such a shame that there was a serious lacking thereof in this town. Kareem sighed and kept an eye on his pocket watch.

    "Iz shame, ah know," said Kareem at every pause in Garrett's rant.

    "I know, right," Garrett said, continuing his rant and not noticing that his bartender was keeping an eye on the time. When the bartender is getting tired of talking with someone that's willingly paying for his company, then there is something to be said about the company he is keeping. And what that something to be said is generally not very polite.

    "Yah, yah," Kareem replied. "An' Ah'm sorry I gotta tell you dees, but iz late anna I needa cloze up."

    Garrett looked rather disappointed, but still dazed from about his third martini. "Oh, its already three, then... I will see you later then," he said, and slip-stumbled off his barstool.

    "Iz dat a promise," Kareem mumbled under his breath, smiling as he began to clean up and take inventory. To anyone who didn't know him very well, there was one thing to be said about Garrett Wight: he was certainly keeping Bar in business.

    It was surprisingly cold out in the middle of the night. Seemed like when the sun went down the land stopped being scorched and began being frozen. Funny how that worked. It was like this part of the world was confused. Garrett stumbled through the dark and cold, wishing he had brought a jacket with him but otherwise completely satisfied with the way things turned out this evening, even if he had been blatantly snubbed by what was quite possibly the last blonde in Neptha that he had not already been acquainted with his habits. The fact remained that he was full of booze, and therefore he was quite happy.

    Even in his drunken stupor, there was something odd about this evening. He tried to put his finger on it, but its hard to put your finger on something intangible. It was the same kind of dark that it always was at three in the morning. It was the same kind of cold. Three in the morning, though... more people should be stumbling home from the bars. Well, that was certainly odd, he admitted.

    "Is today some kind of... holiday, or something," he mumbled, holding his head to keep it on straight. It sounded more like "Rrrr ddamsahdoff.... rrawrolda, osumfin?" It always happened this way: he was more coherent in the bar after a few drinks, but once he stood up it all caught up to him. His feet did all the walking now, not that they did a particularly good job of it at the moment. They stumbled, tripped over things, forgot which direction they were going, and overall didn't have any contact with his brain... which would have been useless at this point anyway.

    He wasn't really sure where he was going. He was trying to get home, he was sure. But since it was, in fact, three in the morning, and progressing towards daylight with every passing minute, there weren't any lights or landmarks to go by. Was it two lefts and then a right, or two rights and then a left, he asked himself. He didn't seem to know. His feet eventually would find a way there, he was sure.

    An hour later, he turned down an alley and completely missed the black shadowy figure that was heading towards the hospital.