Special thanks to String Slinger for inspiring the character and helping me edit the story. I highly recommend his CD, available at www.pjshapiro.com

Thanks also to Sarahetc, Archer, Wulf, and Kaythryn for inspiring me to write at all. After you stumble through this, treat yourself to some of their work. You'll be glad you did.

A Gig's A Gig - Part1

String Slinger climbed down from the coach with his guitar in tow. The coachmaster turned to grab his passenger’s luggage off the rack, but there wasn’t any. All Slinger had that mattered was jammed in one overstuffed guitar case. He paused to gaze around the one-horse town and drew a deep breath. It was looking like another lonely night at another sweaty bar in another dusty town. As if the gods had heard his thought, a gust of wind kicked up a cloud of dust that choked his already dry throat. With a resigned sigh, he headed across the street to the local bar/whorehouse/city hall.

The rarely heard sound of ragtime piano wafted out past the swinging doors, bringing a brief smile to the Slinger’s face. It had been a long time since he had heard a real honest-to-goodness piano. Sure, you could get recordings off of the cortex, but the bits and bytes that were the cortex never equaled the warm and sensual sound of a real piano. His smile faded quickly as the sound was chased out the door by the stench of 100 miners ending their week. Despite the smell, he forced himself through the doors and made his way to the bar.

The bar was being tended by a one armed man wearing an eye patch. Slinger chuckled to himself, “There has to be a story there.”

As he got a little closer he could make out the dull grey script on the eye patch that read DON’T ASK. He thought to himself, “Oh, I’m definitely askin’… after the gig.”

As the bartender spun another bottle of liquor in his one hand, he turned his glare on Slinger, “You the picker, 'pard’?” Slinger replied with only a pat on his guitar case. “Name’s Mauser. Stage is over yonder. You make it through your set alive and we’ll settle up after.”

With a nod of his head, Slinger coolly replied, “Groovy.”

He made his way through the miners to the stage. The stage was barren except for a three-legged stool that had to be 100 years old if it was a day. He set his case on the ground and as he flipped open the latches he could feel 100 eyes, well maybe 99, turn their gaze on him. He brushed aside a songbook and a worn copy of Snow Crash as he pulled out his guitar.

He’d done this so many times in so many places that he could almost do an entire set in his sleep. That was a good thing tonight, as he caught sight of Her. No one in the crowd noticed it, but he felt it. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Everything about her, from her long dark curls to the way she inclined her head as she spoke to her friends was magnificent. The longer he stared the faster his heart raced.

The shattering of a beer bottle on the bar snapped him out of his reverie. Without missing a change he turned his attention to the sound. It seemed like the Friday night fights were about to start. Yep, another typical night in another typical town. This fight looked like it had some promise though. One man was clearly bigger and had the look of a fighter, but the other was wielding a shattered beer bottle and being backed by a few of his miner buddies.

Slinger glanced back to his dark haired goddess and saw two of her companions scrambling from behind the table. He was a little surprised to see a girl charging toward a fight, but as she moved from the table he could tell that she belonged. She moved with the grace and power of a warrior. As they rounded the table, her partner in the brown coat yelled, “Gorramit Jayne.”

“Jayne?” Slinger asked himself. “That big tub of ugly is called Jayne?”

He turned back to Jayne in time to see him body slam the miner through a table. As the other miners made to grab Jayne, brown coat and the warrior girl flew into the mix at full speed. Slinger was very impressed. He’d seen a lot of fighters in a lot of bars, but these three were really good. They were dropping miners left and right.

Mauser just stood behind the bar watching. It occurred to him that his newly hired guitar picker was still playing. He was duly impressed.

Motion out of the corner of Slinger’s eye turned his attention back to the gorgeous brunette. She had taken the arm of the young girl beside her and looked to be making for an exit. His heart almost skipped a beat as he realized they were coming towards him. They wound their way through the crowd and were at the front of the stage. A pair of miners blocked them in. They each grabbed one of the girls. He heard one of them say, “Not so fast ladies, you’re coming with us. We gonna have ourselves a private party.”

The young girl shrieked, “Mal!” No one could hear her over the din of the fight.

No one seemed to notice when the guitar player quit playing, either. Quick as could be, the ancient guitar was back in its giant case, and out came an equally ancient baseball bat. Playing the kinds of places Slinger did, sometimes one of these came in handy. With a dull thud, consciousness was a thing of the past for the first miner. His partner in kidnapping realized what had happened and turned to look at Slinger just in time to get an equally dull thud of his very own.

Slinger tossed the bat back in the case and grabbed for the girls arms. “Back door” he yelled as he boosted them up onto the stage. He grabbed his case, and with the girls in tow made for an exit. An odd thought occurred to him as they broke free of the bar and into the hot and humid night. “I didn’t get to ask Mauser about that patch.”