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Jesse was five beers into the night, draining the bottles like they were water, when Betty Lee and Marie entered the Sin Den. These fucking beers weren't doing anything except putting a dent in his pocket. Goddamn fight, fucking up his night. Coulda been he would have watched some peelers, finished a box a' beer, and gone home to fall onto his cot. But no, these assholes had to come in, start shit, and tweak his head. It was bad enough being close to the Moons, just working on the blacktop all day. But there was no fucking escape in this town. He saw faces he knew. Faces that he knew, knew him. But he couldn't speak to them. Couldn't have swung a fist even if he'd wanted to. Parole. Straight. Fuckers. 

This had gone on long enough that the pigs would show soon, and that was a headache he didn't need. He was marked for harassment, it seemed. Every time a bronze badge even caught a whiff of him, he was being questioned about his business. No thanks. He got up, and drained the last of his Coors, tossing the empty bottle onto the table. He walked to the bar, paid for one more round, and began his walk through the Sin Den, to the door. Stepped over one pair of fighters, rolling on the floor. Side-stepped fists that were flying (not at him, but close by) and ducked a beer bottle aimed at a Laurent head, all while trying (and failing) to make eye contact with those he knew. 

He managed to make eye contact with a Bloody Moon who was beating his opponent to a fine, misty pulp, and nodded once at Marie as he cracked his last beer, and took a long pull. Jesse cast a final glance around the bar, spotted Bambi, and half-smiled at her before pulling his hood up and stepping out into the hot night. Not his scene. Maybe never was. His shitty, rusted-out 67 Cougar was parked against the curb, and he opened the drivers' door, slumping heavily into the seat, finishing off the beer and tossing the empty onto the passenger footwell, beside five or six others. 

He twisted the key and the engine roared to life, settling into a lumpy idle. Jesse reached into the glovebox, and pulled out what remained of a fifth of whiskey, biting off the cap and pouring a measure down his gullet. For a moment, he almost hoped the brawl would spill out, into the street. But it didn't. Shifting into reverse, he backed out, into the deserted street, and drove the two blocks to his trailer. He got out, leaving the door to the car open, and flipped an overturned lawn chair back upright. A couple more pulls on the bottle, and it too was empty, tossed into the grass. 

He thought of something then, and got up, kicking the unlocked door to his trailer open. Inside, it looked as if someone had turned the place upside down, looking for evidence. But no, this was just Jesse's life. He found what he was after under the mattress. His 1911. Walking back outside, he sat on the bottom step of his stoop, cleaning the gun (chamber empty, slide back and locked, magazine ejected. Couldn't be too safe...) After the final wipe-down with fine oil (Louisiana moisture and humidity were terrible for firearms) he reloaded the weapon, and studied it awhile... 


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