Copyright November 1 2007 Todd W Cox
When the bar exploded, Jack Bastard was not inside. When the flaming hunks of wood and Formica tables were raining down, Jack Bastard failed to notice. When the firetrucks and ambulances showed up to put out the fire and pick up the bodies, he wasn't aware of it. Finally, when the local cops canvassed the area in search of the 6 foot tall man with a scraggly beard, two sixguns, and a beat to shit motorcycle, Jack Bastard didn't know about it.
Jack woke up feeling like a cat had shit in his mouth. It probably had something to do with those three bottles of booze he'd had a hand in destroying. Well, the ones he drank, since he'd destroyed a shitload more than that.
Jack rolled over and pushed a charred piece of wood off of himself. That was weird, where'd some charred wood come from? He stood up, reeled, and threw up noisily on a broken table that was lying next to him. He finished puking and staggered over to his bike, which had a piece of a sign on it. He'd seen that sign before but he didn't remember or care very much. He shoved it off the Fucking Bastard and started digging in the saddlebags.
Under several bandannas and a beat up pan he found his canteen and took a slug to get the puke taste out of his mouth. Still staggering he turned around and threaded his way between the pieces of exploded building to the top of the berm he had passed out behind next to his bike.
On the other side, to his great surprise, was not the saloon he had shot up last night. Apparently he'd shot it up a lot more than he thought since it wasn't really there anymore. He could make out a few shapes that might've been former walls and the shitter, but that was it. Something, and he doubted it was his .357 revolvers, had blown the living shit out of the place.