Thin smoke gathered to the ceiling. The saloon smelled of bitter tobacco, cheap beer, and the faintest hint of existential depression. Low voices and indestinct chatter filled the air as the old wood groaned with the foundation.

On the bar, sat Sergeant Keegan P. Russ; or at least he used to be a sergeant in some mysterious distant past. Nobody has had the guts to ask him about it, and Keegan preferred to keep it that way. Now, he was simply called Russ, or Farmer Russ. His first name was only reserved for close friends, a privilege no one in the town of Eden has yet to receive.

As he sat there on the stool with worn, red leather, Farmer Russ smoothly rolled a penny between his fingers as he swirled a glass of whiskey in his other hand. Top shelf stuff. "Damn that's smooth," he'd murmur after a sip. He wasn't one to indulge in frivolous luxuries like name brand liquor, but tonight was a special occasion.