Cool wind to the face, 'Ah yes I know this place.' Davey is home, the havoc he has come to love, this could be his kingdom. The Big Sky in neon lights hanging western saloon style, this place isn't old, it's doomed. Plenty of friends-cum-enemies, let these pleasantries be nothing more then job opportunities. "Who owns this place?" Barkeep isn't old, but barrel chested from the womb, he's meant to be a tattoo in this world, stained and painted, "Sad Girl," a smirk for a stupid question, "No what the f- you want." Beer never eases fears as easily as whiskey, but it sure is a good place for warm tears, let's see her, this Sad Girl, she just might rock my world."
And in this in-between world, patterned after all it's users, saint James and Chamaco, two misnamed Sheriffs, but definitely not losers join the bread line. "Sad Girl is never sad, I wonder why they call her that?" Chamaco shudders and saint James nods knowing the feeling all too well, hell has no covers to keep that one in bed. But rent has to be paid, it costs to stay ahead of the game and saint James plays for days, the end of days. "Chamaco and his tequila, Bill keep em coming," and barrel chest pours without acknowledging the insult, his mother called him George, the bar Dawg, but this one is trouble. The Big Sky takes all comers and many leave dreamers in permanent stasis, oh this wasteland has places that smells like it tastes. A place to forget, those places to remember aren't for this crowd, it's an occupational boundary, the twilight zone for mercenaries and pigeons mistaken for canaries. Sales are good though especially when Sad Girl's list is full and the market is bull.
Frank is always the boss, even when big Sis says no, because their mom said so. Childish as ever, it's what's kept her clever and far from the cleaver, the meat retrievers always near. Today there are many and she smiles at her brother, the blood suits not tied tight enough, she is the party girl that you don't want to get caught with the lights out. She's not the type to shout, especially when the sport is about to begin, these drinks and special effects of the mind are the best you can find this side of chemistry. She's not sad, she's insatiable until she's had enough. Limits like this have no need for rhythm, they are Gucci glasses, French tipped floozy with the right amount of boozy and smoky eyelash smiles that quiver the inner parts of loin and liver. Sickness or pleasure, does it matter when you have this kind of weather. Sad Girl she is, but happy today for all the smiling faces, the music will take her through her usual paces and these will be places most want to go if only their souls hadn't said no.
Charlie sits by the window wondering how to erase the spot just west of this madness. It's peaceful, but to her war is raging and nothing inside this happy little cage is worth arming herself. She whispers to the wind as loud as a scream and even then it's too quiet for the pin to drop. There is the thought of hope, but that is so fleeting it's like a slippery slope of how far down can this really go? But Charlie is too afraid of that warm rapture of death that would come so quick when her boyfriend(s?) leaves his packing slip on the desk next to that picture. A tincture of blood and that sweet warm brandy leaves her ready for whatever treasure this man comes to gather with whispers that make no sense, even in 7th grade crush notebook. If only she could find that look again, that one warm pleasure that isn't about sin, but is more than anything explainable in her small mind, but her big soul could swallow hole. The sunset is beautiful, she can only almost see that handsome sweat that comes with the work of a smile that cares and will stare forever. If only he would dare, but then knights don't come as would be sweet talking slow dancers, these Astaires move with carelessness that is supposed to be forgiven because she prays a penury rosary. Looking at the phone, maybe a letter? Holding out for that far off home, hmmm, maybe it's better to wish for the stone that is cold, then the one that grows old. If only....