Molasses trade
"This rum is distilled from blood & suffering" the man at my side announced. Pretentious bastard I thought. Catching his girl's eye, it was obvious she agreed. It didn't keep him from drinking it down. "My daddy was there, fighting for the moonshine express, back when the feds put the heat on. So where my two brothers. What they fought for, I must enjoy." He didn't sound happy.
The saloon was quiet. Somewhere a glass was set down on the table. The two eyed each friendly-like and smiled winning grins. The Bartender didn't like it all. Tomorrow she'd be the one sweeping up broken glass and reshingling the roof.
"I can taste it," the man continued, oblivious to the enmity enveloping him. "I've always been able to, but no one seems to care."
The snickering had a little swell to it, much like the ripple in that glass someone had set down. I didn't like him much either, and what was more, I wanted his girl.
Now Irene would slap me down for that line, seeing as how a girl is always her own, but I always felt a girl could use a little steering, and I like volunteering for the job. I call myself a guide, and they are purty little things.
This loudmouth stands up and yells, "You all saw what my dad ..." and that was as far as he got as I leaned into the punch. He glassjawed to the floor and I caught myself grinning at the look on his face.
The Bartender rolled her eyes and headed for the mop & bucket. The loudmouth's chains clattered about him as he fell, and the chairs nearby jumped a little on impact. He was a burly fellow.
"Gold's shinier, but it makes just as good a noise" I muttered, gathering up my own molybdenum. The girl looked like she wanted to etch her name in them, and I was about to let her.
