Dystopia Chapter 21: What Were the Odds

A voice from behind, both unsteady and unexpected, babbled, “Tu… turn around slowly… and keep… your hands in view.”

I froze, took a second to catch my breath, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Minding my own business, a stranger. Feeling dizzy, shoulders tightening, jaw clenched, come on, keep breathing, steady. Could see the server headed to my table, food in hand, stopped, now watching the scenario play out. Her eyes transfixed on the weapon aimed at my back, she tilted her head, confirmed what she saw, and I thought.

“Turn around slowly,” he said, louder now. “I heard bout you. You’re famous around these parts. You’ve got a reputation. Seen you on a wanted poster. Shot some doc in the back, how you out-drew three bounty hunters, my brother, and a ladies’ man. Been hoping you’d crawl out of your country club on the hill. Bingo, today is my lucky day.”

Turning, squinting, focusing on the form before me, “I don’t recognize you. Have we met?”

“Interlock your fingers and place your hands behind your head, and shut up,” he demanded, his weapon pointing at me, twitching, ready to fire.

The room had maybe five or six others, but I was not sure who was here with whom. Of course, my dinner was ready and smelled edible. I glanced at the server, “Just set it on the table, please.”

Centering, trying to determine who, what, still clueless, “Sir, it seems you have misidentified me. I’ve been on the road for days, saw some lights, hungry, stopped, hoping for a proper meal, and a little peace-and-quiet.”

“Take the food back to the kitchen. He won’t be eating. Don’t wanna waste it,” he added, confidence now piqued.

“Mitch, check his back to see if he has that SOB holster. If yes, he is the one; remove it with care.”

Mitch checked. “He does,” he said, placing it on the table to my left.

“Is there a sheriff, maybe a magistrate around that might intervene?” I asked hopefully.

“Got a governess, but doubt she’d be much interested in coming to your rescue. More likely a reward, don’t really give a… sorry, ladies present,” he concluded.

“They say you never gave my brother a chance, just shot him dead where he stood, never touching or even reaching for his gun.”

“They say they buried him with his saddle, and that you stole his horse.”

“They say you just walked out, stepping over his body.”

“I’ve never heard of ‘they,’ and I do not know what you’re talking about,” I fibbed, hoping he’d back off.

“I say,” Mitch announced, now standing next to his friend, “I watched, saw the whole thing, in cold blood, it was.”

I closed my eyes, trying to relax, to think. “Okay, so you seem convinced I’m the one, and there’s not much I can do to convince you otherwise. So… is your goal to shoot me where I stand? You got a plan?”

“Shoot you where you stand. That’s ironic, no, we’ll vote, then I’ll shoot you. We’re not executioners, we’re law-abiding citizens.” He snorted, laughing at his own joke. “Everyone in here that heard his BS and thinks he’s innocent, raise your right hand.”

Looking around, “Seems they all think you're a liar.”

Hmm, should I reach for the pistol on the table, or my sidearm? Talk him down? Faint? Beg?

“I’d like to hear more. Heard a different version. Can I vote?” a familiar voice from the doorway interjected.

“What the… sorry miss, hang around and I’ll get to know ya later, sweetie, but still outvoted.”

She turned away, halted, and said, “My apologies, friend, but it seems they nullified my vote.”

“But then again, I brought a friend, and he brought a friend,” she said, stepping through the kitchen doorway.

“Listen, you all need to butt out. None of your…” he started.

He could not complete his sentence before Addison drew, cocked, and finished it for him: “Business…” suggesting he stand down. Meanwhile, both Cord and Joshua joined the confrontation, advising everyone to relax, eat, drink, and not get involved, and “keep your hands on the table.”

Addison stepped closer. “Holster your weapon. If you think I won’t drop you where you stand — then Mitch before you hit the ground — you’re mistaken.”

Addison smiled. “So, dude, having a bad day?”

“It’s your lucky day. Now get your pistol and put it back in your holster. Tip the nice lady. Then exit through the front door where another awaits with horses readied for our exit,” Addison directed. “And if someone should stick their head out the door before we’re gone, our other friend, outside, will greet you with a scattergun. Clear? Oh, and dude, be sure to limp. It was so realistic.”

Slipping by, I said, “Good day, gentlemen; dinner’s my treat.”

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