A short "story"

While participating in a thread by Hulyss that discussed the concept of "Laws and Penalties" in EU, I wrote this little scenario about how laws could be enforced by MA. I actually like the story even though I am by no means a professional writer and I wanted to put the story here so It does not get lost as the thread ages. It should be read in the context of the thread it was originally written in, but will also stand alone.

Here it is for all to read.

Any resemblance to real people ,living or dead, or places are purely coincidental.

The sun glistens off the shiny surface of the teleporter. Atlas Haven has not seen rain in years and the slightest breeze stirs up tiny whirlwinds of dust with ease. A lone figure materializes from the teleporter, and all heads turn to see the newcomer. Silence decends on the streets as one by one the settlers recognize the powerful and confident posture and piercing gaze. Marshal Marco has come to town.

Without a word he heads towards the saloon, his spurs gleaming in the sun. Approaching the doorway, he pauses to let his eyes asjust to the darkness inside the saloon, then steps inside.

The saloon is empty, save the bartender and a single patron sitting in the far left corner, hidden by the shadows but not unnoticed by the marshal. Marco steps up to the bar, "whiskey" he orders. The bartender looks around nervously at his empty shelves and replies "s-s-sorry marshall, we ain't got no delivery. Dem badits been robbin all the transports of whiskey."

Marco does not reply, he turns away from the bar to face the stranger sitting in the dark corner. The bartender seizes the opportunity and runs out the front door into the street.

The stranger in the corner has not said a word or moved a muscle since the marshall came in, but now he is trembling. Marshal Marco fixes him with his steely blue eyes, and slowly brushing his master coat back away from his gun, he speaks.

"Are you the cowboy known as JimmyB?" His voice is low but in the empty saloon it sounds like a bull whip snapping. "Y-y-y-yes" stammers the stranger and he slowly rises to his feet. His shaking legs barely able to support his weight.

"You have been accused of spreading rumors and stealin horses. How do you plead?" Marco's hand slowly moves down until his fingetips are gently caressing the butt of his .36-caliber Navy Colt.

Jimmy's eyes follow the motion, sweat now dripping from his forehead. His own hand, still in the shadow is also moving, to the .44-caliber pistol tucked into his belt at base of his back.

Silence, the two men face each other. the only sound is the wind blowing tumbleweed down the street.

Jimmy, his muscles tense with fear, twitches. In the blink of an eye the Navy Colt appears in Marco's hand as if by magic. The marshal fires a single shot that throws Jimmy back into the corner. The marshal steps closer, Jimmy is sprawled in the corner, the small red dot in his shirt slowing spreading. As the light slowly fades from his eyes, Jimmy hears the marshal whisper. "Guilty"

His job complete, the marshal walks back out of the saloon onto the dusty streets. The settlers have come out and are slowly gathering at the saloon. The marshal, ignored for the spectacle that is drawing everyone to the saloon, heads back to the teleporter. He pauses only briefly when he encounters the bartender and hisses, "Next time, there better be whiskey."
Then turns and steps into the teleporter. As quickly as he appeared, he is gone and justice has once more prevailed.

The end.

Now if only I had better writing skills, I could write the first Calypso Western.

Cheers