He awoke with a nose bleed. That was never a good sign. Nose bleeds always came before something bad. Lucky toyed with the idea of just going back to sleep, hopefully avoiding the shit storm that was obviously headed in his direction. But he was, and always had been, a light sleeper. Once he woke up, he was up. Plus the coppery taste in his mouth was slowly seeping down the back of his throat making Lucky feel particularly unpleasant.
He opened his eyes, raised his head and took in the unfamiliar surroundings. He appeared to be in a saloon. A real, honest to god, old west saloon. Just like in all those "movies" he had watched years ago. Everything was made of wood; (except, of course, for the nails. And all the glass) the tables, chairs, floor, ceiling and everything in between. Lucky could name most of the different types of wood used in the construction of this place (Maplebark and Laughing Oak and the bar, the deep red unpainted bar had to be made of Thrice Dead Wallow). He had no idea how he knew that though. Lucky lived in an environment of metal and glass (more truthfully of plastic made to look like metal and glass), he knew not of any Oak. Laughing or otherwise.
That's not true, screamed a part of his mind, you grew up in a small village made of wood.
His mind occasionally did this. Once this voice in his head started it wouldn't' stop until he was filled with self-doubt and conflicting memories, rocking rocking back and forth on the ground in the fetal position. Not a good way to spend the day. Lucky knew of only one way to stop his mind's incessant nattering.
He caught the barkeep's eye. "Tequilla." he said in his morning voice. "Keep the glass, leave the bottle." He spat out a large chunk of phlegm and blood. It hit the sawdust covered floor in the shape of that creepy cartoon rat's head. The sawdust started sucking up the blood and the three circles spread out into a blob shaped blob.
Lucky made his way slowly over to the bar. His heels jingling and jangling as he did so. He stopped short of the bar and looked down at his feet. "...the hell?" He was wearing cowboy boots. Fucking cowboy boots. With spurs and everything. "fuck." Lucky was pretty sure that he had once said that he would shoot himself in the head if he ever wore cowboy boots. He looked away from the sorry spectacle that was his boots to find the barkeep holding out a grimy bottle.
"You sure you need this?" asked the greasy one eyed man. There was an evil looking scar where his left eye should have been. The pale pink of the scar stood out in stark contrast to his dark, dark skin.
"Have you seen what I'm wearing?"
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