Mad War - The

In a land three winds and a dusty sunset away from that wind-paused field, another warrior began his mission.

Boots thunk on boards as the batwings creak aside. There's a melody note as spurs jangle like shell casings.

The gunner's eyes roll around like the steel turret in his revolver. Click. Click. Click.

He sees no one except the shadows over the rafters, the bottles behind the bar, the painting on the wall.

"I can smell ya." He grumbles.

An errant wind blows his poncho aside so grimy light can gleam on polished wood handles, handles of wood polished by hard hands.

The rafter shadows do not move, the bottles behind the bar... they do not gleam like his polished guns.

"I ain't in the habit of keepin' the whiskey waitin'." The gunner grumbled around a cigar.

Flash, click, snap, the cigar is lit but the lighter is gone before the eye could see it. But the gunners clockwork eyes did see. In the light of the lighter, the shadows above the rafters did not move, and the bottle behind the bar did not gleam.

So, that’s how it was gonna be. The ol’ stare-down. A stand-off, like they have south-ways.

Click-click-click, his eyes went, as his lids ratcheted down into a mean glare. He glared about, two fingers on his cigar, two fingers on a gun handle. Behind him, the orange sunlight glowed on the dusty air.

The shadows all about were dead black, so black that velvet would stand out like sparked powder, so black they made his eyes hurt.

Click. The table, was that shadow too dark?

Click. Did that shadow move?

Click. He took a pull on his cigar, but did not exhale.

A rafter, it was so small it must have been an illusion, but did it just sag under the weight of a shadow-

The gun was in his hand, snapping up with a whipcrack, and another as the barrel spat lead, then a snap as one hand slammed the hammer back, thump as the gunner stepped back and the black form fell before him.

"Damn ninja." He grumbled, now hoisting a gun in each hand. In the flash of gunfire he had seen them, dozens of dark forms painted in India ink crouched and hanging, suspended and ready in every corner.

He whirled and shot on instinct, knocking another ninja out from under a bar stool, then the fight was on.

They swarmed like arrows blocking the sun, as shuriken and kunia flew at the gunner. He rolled, firing with tick-tock precision as his spurs sliced through the air, his poncho thumping on the boards. Blades sank deep into the wood behind him, then into the table he kicked over for cover. He knew better than to throw his back against the cover, to squeeze against it; he’d only be throwing himself into the razor points that jammed through the oak board. And he had no time anyway; a chain kunai yanked it away into the room, where it feel silently against a slippered foot, then launched by a spinning kick, launching it back at him with monstrous force.

The gunner was ready, guns punching out and spitting sparks to shatter the furniture into splinters, but only with five shots instead of six. This trigger discipline paid off as he diverted the last shot through the cloud of shards into the heart of another ninja using the debris as chaff cover. The gunner stepped aside as the body flew past him, already reloading his gun like a sewing machine.

Click-Click-Click, three shells before the barrel snapped up and put them back out into three more ninja; one behind him, the next also behind him, and the third trying to karate chop his head off from behind. This many was easy to handle; they weren’t powerful if there were too- He finished the spin just in time to dive roll away from a decimating flying kick, only to tangle with a ninja hiding behind a painting on the wall.

"Shit tricky-" He spat as his arms were pinned, a shadow dashing at him, head low, arms back.

His poncho flapped in the stiff breeze as this attacker leaped, careening into him, placing one pinky finger into his chest and stopping-

WHAM

The world went black as the strike hit, crushing the wall with his own body, throwing him bodily into the dusty street, passing so fast through the dry plank wall that his revolvers were a spinning blur where he’d been. The body rattled back on knocky knees until it lost its balance and fell back into the light earth, soaked in the blood red dusk light. Ninja peered out through slitted headscarves. The gunner's boots made a wide skyward V. He was still. Killed in one flawless strike, the ninja way.

Crack!

A black hole in black tunic threw one ninja back into the shadows before they could duck away.

"Ugh, been a minute since I got a lickin' like that." The gunner muttered as he got his elbows under him. Coming upright, boilerplate steel fell in pieces out of his patchy vest. He spared a second to yank away the twine that had held it on, then put his poncho back in order. That was his free out, but he wasn’t going to underestimate these shadow boxers a second time. The next out wouldn’t be on the house.

He regained his feet cautiously. He was lucky that one-inch punch put him outside; the ninja had less power here. But he'd also put a good many of them back in their shinijami world, and that made the rest of them a might more dangerous.

"Ya'll too chicken to take this outside?" He said.

There was a flash and a gunshot as a poison dart flew out of the bar and he shot it out of the air. He'd have followed up with a killing shot on the bastard with the darts, but this Derringer only had the two barrels and he’d just spent the second. His real pieces were inside. What hassle. Least he still had his hat.

“Gonna need some better tricks, bucko.” He said, and reached up with two fingers and took a casual drag on his cigar.

Movement. Out of the corner of his clockwork eye he saw it; the telegraph line was-

He ducked away just before a ninja fell where he’d been standing, grabbing for his neck. Now another was behind him again, falling from the sky itself, but he had no six-shooters for it- Damn! Another devastating blow as the ninja landed an uppercut that didn’t connect on camera. He stumbled back, knowing but impotent to stop his stagger towards the first ninja. Desperate, he plunged his hand into his shirt pocket, fingers closing around flat cold steel.

The flask.

Whiskey vessel in hand, the panic slipped away, he ducked a straight jab, stumbled under a high kick and span for no reason to miss a mad karate chop.

“Ya’ll know the drunken master?” He said, unscrewing the whiskey flask with a snap of thumb, “I’ll learn ya!”

Dusk copper light caught the text roughly scratched into the flask, XXX.

The ninja were circling him as the ink shadows spilled from the bar. Then two ninja were three, a fourth appeared from behind another, then a trick of the eye turned into a fifth, then there were too many to count again. Good.

“Slow dance, huh?” The gunner said, casually turning to match them, the first two on each side, the rest prowling and watching from all around. Looked like only these two were the real threat, for now, but he couldn’t watch both.

“Sorry, buckaroo, but I only get left feet when I’m dancin’.”

They were still pacing him, stanced wide, crab-stepping so they were always facing him head on. One had crossed arms, holding something black in front of his black tunic, the other was holding a bundle of shuriken in each hand.

Well, no time like the present.

The gunner knocked back the flask, feeling the hot fire hit his throat and burn all the way down.

The ninjas pounced; the shuriken master launching high, casting his missiles down from above as the other lunged forward and appeared behind the gunner in a black blur. The liquor hit instantly, throwing the ground asunder. The world tipped drunkenly on some spinning axis, throwing the near attacker off balance and sending the gunner stumbling away from the shuriken in a narrow miss. But the attack did not let up; in a dizzy haze, the gunner found himself swinging and bobbing as the near ninja swung nunchaku at his face, limbs, gut and shins, but never quite keeping up with the gunner’s alcoholic weaving.

“Oh, you wanna fight? Put em up!” The gunner said with a thick slur, raising his fists in a boxer stance as the throwing ninja landed and dashed in for the fist-fight.

Now it was one gunner fighting two ninjas in tight hand-to-hand, but nothing landed. He jabbed and swung, dipped and stepped and tripped and fought, cussing the dust off the ground as the ninja attacked with perfect silent grace. Kicks grazed his poncho, his boots kicked up a dust cloud, but made no mark, lethal chops and grapples flew in from both sides just as he was taken aside by poor balance and dodged again when he was trying to dodge some long-gone attack.

But it was enough to panic the ninja. As a lucky mis-step made him dodge four fists and three kicks at once, the gunner realized through the dust-bowl that he was fighting no less than eight ninja at once.

Perfect, this was a dance he could do.

Endless strikes flew from all sides as he let himself ride the flow, moving with awkward grace away from all attacks, and landing his own with only dumb luck and liquor. Weapons appeared and disappeared in the smoky haze, he accidentally tripped a ninja to impale it on a dao, then threw a spinning elbow into another he hadn’t even known was there.

Then he was out.

In the confusion of the dustcloud, the gunner found he was outside the fight for a crucial second while the ninja karated and kwon-doed the dirt itself. He glanced at the flask, still in hand.

XX

He knocked it back again, pitching the world on the mad tilt of alcohol, spilling the whole brawl right back through the bat-wing doors, with the ruckus crash of a bar fight.

No hiding in shadows now, the ninja were clear and blurry on all sides. His clockwork eye was toc-ticking madly as the gunner appraised the bar full of ninja and tried to keep both feet on the ground at once, grabbing a chair for support, then smashing it across the nearest target, and keeping the splintered legs in hand to attack the next one. Another lunged at him, double nunchuk whistling through the air.

Clack! Snap!

He blocked with the chair legs, bouncing the nunchuck back to crush the ninja’s fingers, then side-stepping away from the skull-swipe from a ninja with a bo staff.

“Huh, nicssse rod, partdener.” He said, grabbing the staff as the ninja swang again. He yanked, the ninja yanked, they circled, tripping another ninja coming in for a killing blow, he yanked, the ninja yanked back, but he’d let go, letting the ninja fall on its ass as he turned to face the next one. All around, ninja were pacing, ready to join the fight, but this one alone was attacking now, in a flashy series of high kicks, low punches and fancy twirls. The gunner stepped in perfectly between two moves and put a straight jab into his nose, marveled that had worked, and turned around to catch a glass bottle in the face.

“Shit!”

The warm, fun spin was gone; now he was in the bottom of the XX flask, were the danger was setting in.

A kunai stuck in his shoulder, he screamed, a sai was flying at his neck, but he managed to catch that and slam it into the fist of an oncoming attacker before he was launched into the automatic piano as someone landed a kick in the small of his back. Jangly music off key added its own musical chaos.

Now, too late, he saw he was up against three ninja. That was too few, where were the rest of the damn shadows?! Lying dead and groaning.

“Got tour- tour- your ninjitsssssu? Huh? Come at it, buckamigo.” He put his fists up again, and saw he miraculously still had the flask.

They were eyeing him through their scarves, each holding a different weapon. That was also bad; a few ninja were bad, but uniquely armed ninja were even worse. He was up against a sickle, a knife and a club. The sun was setting. His chances and light were black.

He looked at the flask, which swam enticingly before his eyes. The booze. The death of a gunner. It made this fight easier, hadn’t it? It would kill him soon enough, though.

He knocked the flask back one more time. This time it didn’t burn his throat, but it burned his hand, as the flask showed one final X. Last sip. One more tussle. If he drank again, he’d be riding to the sunset. But the sun was set. The red hazy light was now sleepy blue. Night was here.

He wiped his lip with the back of his hand as the X flask clanged on the floor, sloshing with one more lick of spirits. His.

“Ya’ll know ssssquare dance?” he asked, then attacked.

No more madness, only a fight like grit sand. Blades cut him, and the club bruised him. He got a hand on the first ninja’s neck, slamming it into the one with the knife, the screamed as the third landed a sickle in his gut. The bottle was red hot need on those dry floor boards. He turned on that one, still screaming, lashing out, landing a fist in that one’s eye, then knocking forward as the other punched him in the back of the skull. He lashed out, but one had grappled his arm, wrenching back until something snapped, but he had another arm to grab their knife, wrong end, slicking his grip with his own blood. Flames licked the floor. A fist slammed into his head, blacking the world as his brain bounced off the inside, but he still wrenched on the blade, pulling the user into a killing boot kick that shattered their jaw like kindling.

Pain erupted in his other leg as the third ninja sliced important tendons with its sickle, felling him, but he fell with it, and landed with all his force focused in his elbow, feeling skull crack like pumpkin husk as he hit the floor, now surrounded by angry red flames from the X flask, incandescent soul vessel for the damned gunner.

One more. One more damn ninja. But he couldn’t see. Eyes out of time. He spat blood. The world was swinging, lit only by the red-hot fire glow of the X flask. He needed it. It would fix this.

Just one more drink would fix the world.

The gunner crawled, digging his fingers into the board floor, baking in the hell fire heat, to drag himself to the last sip, the one that would fix everything. Just drink the last of his spirit-

A black slipper slammed down on his hand, inches away from the X.

X marks the spot! It’s all he need now! Just one more sip, one more ninja-

Honk.

What in the devil?

The gunner, half dead and bleeding like a butcher’s hog, and ninja, a velvet form in the night-lit bar, turned as one to the batwings. There, stood two silhouettes. One small, one dashing. The dashing one had a hand… on his nose?