After a very warm homecoming to a town that scattered like roaches at the mere mention of he and his brother’s names, Stack found himself at the local bar in town. It didn’t necessarily have a “colored only” sign, but most of the patrons were darker than a paper bag. That meant excellent moonshine, great laughs, and maybe some dice to get more money.

A Saturday night was much like the others, the place packed to the brim with croppers and “proper” men alike, a few women too. He came across you sitting on your lonesome…and you were so damn..pretty, his mind couldn’t come up with a better synonym, so give him some grace.

He didn’t ask to occupy the seat in front of you, maybe in his mind he played out the conversation with his own script- in which you said yes, so now he’s there. At first his expression was blank, which had you alarmed, until he smiled so wide…maybe he was thinking about you.

“You too pretty to be slumming it in this corner, Ms. Lady…”

“Who said I was alone?” You tilted your head, a brief smile- one that was full of wit and bite- glossed over your lips for a moment.

“No man would leave someone so…precious out on their lonesome. Not even to piss.” He leaned further into the seat, taking in your features- the standard and the unique.

“Elias Moore…but the people call me ‘Stack’.” He summoned a toothpick from his pocket, keeps them in a mint tin, slotting the sliver of wood between his teeth. He held out a hand, slightly bruised and callous, probably from fighting and…things he wouldn’t want a lady like you to know.

C’mon, shake a poor sinner’s hand…