Stroke

[Dunedan]

This one is my foray into the Western. This is, I believe, the first three-fourths of the first chapter. I'm not sure because it's all I have down so far.

A warning: it is violent. There is some minor language in it.

It is an early draft, so please understand any issues with grammar, even though I doubt there are many. The intent of this story is eventual adaptation into an independent film.

So, all liner notes aside, here's the story as I see it.

Stroke


Smoking were the guns, the white-wrapped tobacco in his lip, the man himself, the bodies around the man. Bloody was the ground, the bodies, the man, the guns, but not the cigarette. No one likes a bloody cigarette. Well, at least not anyone you want to be in the company of.
The man was not necessarily one you would avoid on the street, but then, he wasn’t one you’d let give your kid a lollipop without worrying. He was lean and tall and tan and calloused… he had the air of a scar-balded cat, grizzled and determined, steely-eyed like a true Old Western hero. But this was not the Old West and he was not exactly what you would call a hero.
He was not really an antihero, either, or a villain. He was nothing. He didn’t have a clue why he was here or how he had just outgunned ten men. He stood still for a second, confused, then went to scratch his head with the gun, only to hit himself in the face. Cursing quietly he sat down, shaking slightly. He grabbed a shot of whiskey from the table and clutched it for a second, holding it straight in front of his face, frowned, then set it back down on the table. He squinted at it for a second, then slowly brought it up to lips, wincing as it finally met its mark.
“If I could laugh I'd love you
If I could smile at anything you said
We could be laughing lovers
I think you'd prefer to be miserable insteadâ€

[Dunedan]

Oh, never mind. No language. The censors got it. Well, like I said, it wasn't bad anyways.