Dead man's Dixie-land

Imagine being so obsessed over a va change that when someone says something you don't agree with, like say: 'it's not that bad, keep an open mind', that you instead go onto anon and send hate mail. Couldn't be me.

And if you're an ADULT or a MINOR, sending *actually horrible messages*, GROW UP. you are being horrible about this for a really stupid reason- there are things worth getting pissed about and this isn't one of them. Sure, ok, you don't like the va changes, I respect that. But I won't go and send hateful anon messages.

It takes 0 seconds to simply scroll on, or to not send something. Don't be that person who spends an hour cussing at anyone who says to keep an open mind about this change.

Very gently, with all the tenderness of a practiced nurse, he lightly lifts her leg. No need to cause unnecessary pain. Just a little pull at the bandages here, and a little shifting there, and he tucks in the end of it. There, that should be better. It looked neater, and it theoretically shouldn’t sting as much. He lets her leg down easy, standing back up.

Seventy five schmucks. That’s a whole lot of bad guys to deal with. He might have to grab a couple members of his posse to deal with this. It would genuinely be a horrible idea to go at it alone. He could do it, but why risk it? They’ve got guns and numbers, he’s got better guns and more skilled gunmen.

He waves his hand, as if to swat away her offers of payment. “Worry ‘bout it….later.” He replies. “'Course I’ll h-help.” She might not be able to see it, but he’s smiling under his mask. He made enough money, he had is own plans for expansion. It was good to see her starting to grow her business too.

He offers his hand out for a handshake. A sign of good faith.

A whimper, not out of pain this time since Dixie was gentle in his administrations, but more out of preperation of being uncomfortable. He seemed to know what he was doing and given their past dealings and the few times he was in her bed, Mimzy had faith he wasn’t going to harm her.

Still, she looked at the offered hand, turning her gaze away from it.

“That’s not enough. We need something in writing and I ought to pay you something, even if it’s just in favors” no fluttering lashes or breathy-seduction, but MImzy wasn’t hard-nosed either.

“I d-d-don’ want n-nuthin, M-Mimzy.” He repeats, squinting. Not that he didn’t trust her, he just genuinely did not want anything out of this. There was nothing she’d said that was of interest to him or his business. He does sigh though, knowing her, she’d press him till he took something. Taking his hat off his head to run his fingers through his greasy hair, he thinks about what he could possibly gain from this.  “Guess’n I’ll...take the loot off th-the b-b-bodies.” He says. It wasn’t unlike him to let his fellow posse-members loot corpses after a shootout. “And...uh...” He clicks his tongue. “Guess...f-f-first pick a’what’s....inside.” He says, really at a loss.

He turns as she talks, sauntering forward into her place, toward her. Flicking the cartridge up into the air, he catches it with his other hand, tucking it into his belt.

He can see the twitches in her face, the pain she was holding back. Being shot, even a graze, is painful. He should know of all people. His body, under the suave cloth and brass buttons, was a canvas of life and the scars were the paint. He leans on the counter next to her, pushing up his hat. “How many?” He asks. She seems to have been there, so she might have an estimate. Normally, going into these sorts of situations alone would be suicide but for Dixie, it was moderately precarious at best. The sharpshooter was as much a pistolero as the next gunslinger, and he’d do it for her.  He does look at her leg, the bandages there. Amateurs the lot of them. He squats down, gesturing for her to let him see it. He’ll just loosen it a bit, make it look prettier too.

Were she not in pain, it’d strike Mimzy how oddly similar this set up was to a film she had done once. A long time ago…back when Westerns weren’t fashionable, but Hollywood was simply throwing everything out there imaginable…

Instead, all Mimzy could focus on was the throbbing of her leg wound and his question. The former made it difficult to focus latter. 

“Most I’ve seen in that building is seventy-five bodies, but it fluc…” another hiss, “goddamnit!” A breath, hands curled into a fist at the counter again. 

“…they filter in and out of the building during the day time. Mostly use the building as a place to shoot-up drugs or have a warm place to sleep at night.”

Didn’t mean they weren’t gonna fight tooth and nail. She found that out the hard way twice. 

“I was doing fine picking them off by myself. Hoping if a dead body showed up every night they’d clear off but…they’ve got guns and the numbers” a pause, she was spilling the whole bit without asking what he wanted. 

A glance answered his gesture and wordlessly Mimzy moved on the barstool, extending her injured leg a little to let him have a look. It burned in pain, so she whimpered.

Seventy five schmucks. That's a whole lot of bad guys to deal with. He might have to grab a couple members of his posse to deal with this. It would genuinely be a horrible idea to go at it alone. He could do it, but why risk it? They've got guns and numbers, he's got better guns and more skilled gunmen.

He waves his hand, as if to swat away her offers of payment. "Worry 'bout it....later." He replies. "'Course I'll h-help." She might not be able to see it, but he's smiling under his mask. He made enough money, he had is own plans for expansion. It was good to see her starting to grow her business too.

A white-knuckle grip to the moulding on her bar counter, trying not to scream as one of her employees bandaged the injury. She had fucked up. Again.

Over the past week, she had taken to picking off bodies. One by one. Every night. Leaving a corpse slumped at the front door as a warning. Problem was, this was Hell. No one took one corpse seriously. Hell, even the annual culling didn’t stop people from going outside right after the coast cleared.

“You were lucky. It’s just a graze…not a full on bullet wound” and at that Mimzy wanted to strangle one of her best trumpet players.

She could SEE it wasn’t an actual bullet wound, she didn’t have a fucking hole in her leg for one!

Still hurt though. Still bummed up her goddamn leg and there were still a few prowling that building and would be on guard again.

Frustrated, at herself, at her situation, at Hell itself; Mimzy snarled at the employees who had stuck around to keep her from bleeding out, before sulking and sniffling as the bar emptied out and dawn came creeping in.

They’ll have to:

Rate on a scale of 1-10 how much they don’t want to answer that question.

A white-knuckle grip to the moulding on her bar counter, trying not to scream as one of her employees bandaged the injury. She had fucked up. Again.

Over the past week, she had taken to picking off bodies. One by one. Every night. Leaving a corpse slumped at the front door as a warning. Problem was, this was Hell. No one took one corpse seriously. Hell, even the annual culling didn’t stop people from going outside right after the coast cleared.

“You were lucky. It’s just a graze…not a full on bullet wound” and at that Mimzy wanted to strangle one of her best trumpet players.

She could SEE it wasn’t an actual bullet wound, she didn’t have a fucking hole in her leg for one!

Still hurt though. Still bummed up her goddamn leg and there were still a few prowling that building and would be on guard again.

Frustrated, at herself, at her situation, at Hell itself; Mimzy snarled at the employees who had stuck around to keep her from bleeding out, before sulking and sniffling as the bar emptied out and dawn came creeping in.

Leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his belt, the other flicking a spare cartridge between his fingers, he glances out from the brim of his hat.