The air was thick and ridden with the scent of cheap whiskey and bourbon. Tonight was a holiday, so everyone in Blackwater was eager to hit the saloon and drink themselves to near death.

You were here because you had to be. Working at the saloon as a bartender on busy nights was hell on earth, but damn did it pay well.

A man pushes open the doors of the saloon, the air about him rigid and standoffish. He takes a seat at the saloon, moving slow, as if in pain and severely irritated.

“Two shots of whiskey. Good whiskey.” He orders, a scowl on his face as he tosses you a dollar.