(Untitled)

[themanclion]

He sweeps in tonight like a man on a mission, car keys in his hand, obviously en route to kick some scumbag's head in. So, y'know. Not all that happy about being sidetracked.

Still! Always time for a quick snifter.

'Double Sc....oh, you are jokin' me.'

A napkin informs him that no, actually, she is not. He sighs, and runs his hand over his forehead.

'

Comments

[aintnocoonhunt]

The barman might recognise the less than precise diction of one US Marshal, as he seems to be mid-story as he enters

[themanclion]

Gene may be smiling behind his own glass of single malt. Just a bit, like.

'Who was that really meant for?' he asks, fetching down the good stuff.

[aintnocoonhunt]

"Eh, don' matter. Man name of Lee," he grunts a laugh, "save he don't get the humor of it, having the misfortune to be born a Chinaman. They left you in charge of the liquor? What," he glances about, "was there a -- fire or somethin'?"

[themanclion]

He snorts a laugh, and leans against the back of the bar.

'Wha's that s'posed t'mean? Just so happens, people appreciate my general bono...bonhom...good humour, an' easygoin' nature.'

Or something to that effect.

[aintnocoonhunt]

Marshal Cogburn eyes the good stuff and the empty glasses with no small modicum of concern.

"Sure, and I am not faulting your company, let me make that clear. But it was my understanding that, much like myself, you are a lawman. And us lawmen, well, we're more apt to drink the whiskey, not pour it."

His eyes are still fixed on that bottle, parched as he is.

[themanclion]

'Yeah, well.'

He can take a hint. He was only finishing his pint.

'Turns out, you have t'pay for all the whiskey you drink 'ere.'

He pours them both an over-healthy measure, and shoves one towards him.

'Plus a few other expenses. Cheers.'

[aintnocoonhunt]

The Marshal lifts his glass in reply, and throws the liquor down his gullet. Modern whiskey is far superior to the rotgut he usually drinks, and goes down far easier. And the man shares DCI Hunt's studied ignorance of the bar's ledgers.

He puts the glass down with practised ease.

"You mean to tell me, they pressed you into service?" There may be a hint of incredulity in his tone.

[themanclion]

'Well, I wasn' goin' to volunteer, was I?'

He sniffs, a bit put out that he's been caught behind here by a fellow professional.

'As I understood it the first time, it was this or the cells.'

[aintnocoonhunt]

Cogburn's eyebrows bunch and he scratches his beard, half-wondering why there isn't a bottle in front of him already.

"Like to see 'em try that," he grumbles, and it might be unclear whether he's referring to Gene or himself.

[themanclion]

'Well,' he says, and he's not embarrassed to admit this part.

'Head of Security's a God. I've seen him turn folk into small furry animals, an' I'm not havin' that.'

Plus, it isn't so bad. Once you get used to it.

He pours more drinks. Unlimited supply, see? Definitely not so bad.

[aintnocoonhunt]

There's a moment's stillness comes over the Marshal as he ponders this new found information.

"This place gets stranger and stranger, each and every time I find myself here."

More drinks are definitely in order. He glances at his glass for a moment before sending it after the first and Godspeed.

"Got any rye whiskey back there?"

[themanclion]

'An' it'll keep doin' it, I reckon.'

He follows the lead on the drinking, and then shrugs.

''Spect so. They got just about anythin' round here. Hang on.'

He'll have to go searching, but that's OK when there's whiskey at the end of it. He emerges from under a shelf about five minutes later, holding a dusty bottle triumphantly. The label gets some close scrutiny.

'Never tried this stuff. Don' know if it's still made, even.'

[aintnocoonhunt]

While the Inspector hunts around for what surely every barkeep this side of the Rockies should have readily to hand, the Marshal shrugs out of his oilskin coat and throws it at a passing rat. "Hang that up for me, there." The wait rat gives the man an indignant glare, but does his bidding regardless.

"I do not care to speculate about a world without a good rye whiskey. Hell, you can even get it in Salt Lake City, if you know the right place to look." He rummages in a pocket and comes up with a scant handful of silver coins, thumbing through them idly. "This should be enough."

His pay doesn't seem to go as far as it used to.

[themanclion]

'It'll do.'

This is Rooster Cogburn. He'll happily buy him a bottle, if he needs him to.

He fiddles with the wax seal - eventually taking a knife to it - and then works the cork out. It gets an experimental sniff.

'Well, s'all made with corn now, in America. For Bourbon. Rye's not all that popular.'

He sets the bottle down in front of him, and adds a clean glass. If he's paying in silver, he's obviously expecting the whole thing.

'Give me a good single malt any day.'