The sound of the ruckus downstairs didn't mean much to Reuben. Hell, nothing meant much to him anymore. As he tugged up his trousers, he found himself swaying a bit, almost as though the wooden floorboards were those of a ship.

	"Going so soon?" The aging whore looked over her shoulder at him as he dressed, apparently both eager for him to leave, and skeptical about when shed be getting her payment.

	"Hmph. Nothing of the sort. I'm just going t' get myself another drink. I'll be back in just a bit, and we'll see if you have any holes tighter than that sad gash you're tryin' t' sell me."

	"That costs--"

	"I know it costs extra. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, woman. I hired you as a whore, not as a wife. Quit your nagging and fix your face. You've dropped an eyelash." He buckled his gunbelt low on his waist, where it would be easy to draw from, and stumbled out into the hallway. He just had to get to the bar, then remember his room. Second on the right. That was easy enough. He gripped the wooden railing tightly as he strode, heavy-footed, down the stairs, scuffing his boots against the steps to force them on more solidly.

	The gathering-room downstairs was quite a sight. Something had clearly gone down, but whatever it was, he didn't much care. He somehow managed to land himself in a seat along the bar, where he raised a finger to catch the barkeep's attention. He placed an order for bourbon, by the bottle, and rolled a heavy coin idly along the scratched wooden bar as he waited.

	A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he went for his gun instinctively.

	"Whoa, there. No need for that, Luckshot! I'm not lookin' for any trouble." The speaker was a thick-gutted man, with soft features and often-patched clothing.

	"Tarson." Reuben looked at the portly man distastefully. "I told you the last time I saw you, I'm not going to be your hired gun. I'm over all that shit." His drink arrived, a stout bottle, and he forced the cork free with a slight grunt of exertion. He took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt the slowly greying bristles of stubble, and realized it'd been a couple of days since he'd bothered to shave. Damn, but time passed quickly when you were waiting around to die.

	Tarson waved his hands before him, as though trying to physically dispel the notion. "No, no, nothing of that sort. I won't keep you for long. I'm sure you have... other things to occupy yourself with." He looked Reuben up and down, taking in the taller man's unkempt appearance and crookedly-buttoned shirt. Given the reputation of the saloon, there was little doubt what Reuben had been up to.

	"The fact is, Mister Luckshot, that there might finally be a job to keep your interest." He smiled, a rather oily, untrustworthy look. "You see, there is a proposition that appeals to all of your interests. A chance at wealth, lovely company, a spot of vengeance, and even--"

	He was cut off by the thump of the bottle against the table. "Say your damn piece, man. I've a middle-aged woman who says she's twenty to get back to." He started to rise from his stool, gripping the neck of the quickly-emptying bottle.

	"Alright, I'll be brief! I'm sorry, mister Luckshot, sir. There's a girl who was in here, real young-lookin' thing, right pretty if I do say so myself. She were lookin' for someone like you to help her get vengeance or something. Said she could pay handsomely..." He trailed off as the other man stepped back toward the stairs.

	"I'm not interested, Tarson. I'm no Luckshot anymore. I'm just Reuben Caerwynn now. And fact is, I'm not interested in any get-rich-quick plan of yours. I'm sure you mean well... no, actually, I doubt that, but either way, I have a cheap whore who wants to be paid. Let me know if you want to share a drink some time, but don't waste my time with rescue or revenge." He turned away from the sputtering man, stumbling more and more as the bourbon, his third bottle that day, started hitting. He elbowed roughly past a couple of upstarts crowding the way, growling under his breath at them. They were the sort to start wearing a gun once they left home, wispy mustaches and like-new boots telling more about them than their likely-to-crack voices could.

	Back up the stairs he went, relying more and more on the handrail as his boots nearly slipped. First door on the... no, that wasn't right. Second door. Which side? Left. No, that couldn't be. Right? He thought back to coming down the stairs. No, it had to be on the left. He passed the first door, then at the second on the left, he threw the door open, hands on his belt buckle to begin undoing it as he did.

	"I'm back, you worn-out piece of meat--" He stopped, seeing a young woman resting, fully clothed on a bed that was not the one he had been in. "Who the hell are you?"