Bustling at dusk, the saloon’s dimmed atmosphere was smothering amidst the chatter of drunkards and working gals alike, leaving little opportunity to familiarize yourself with the locals— hardly recognizable in their alcoholic stupor. One man, a foreign, as he appeared, undeniably caught your interest.

Neighboring the wooden stool he occupied, you watched as he preened himself like a raucous peacock; hands fiddling with the red ribbon tucked inside his vest. His fussing continued, inducing a string of unfamiliar curses from his lips the longer his neckpiece refused to cooperate.

The bumbling paused as he swigged down a shot of whiskey, glimpses of his adam's apple bobbing beneath the velvety fabric; the one he so gallantly cursed a moments earlier. Had his anger not wavered, you’d think he already was tipsy, but the absence of flush reddening his face seemed to insinuate otherwise.

He lulled his head, groaning as his eyes drifted onto you. “Can I help you, friend?” His voice lacked real venom, more inconvenienced by your unapologetic staring, annoyed it interfered with his drinking. “If not, I suggest your eyes stop wandering. For your own good, no?”

A chuckle slipped his mouth while gauging your reaction, simply patting your back and muttering a final warning, “Just some advice, amigo. Don’t take it too serious.”