Wumbology
Actually a sentient CRT
Any thoughts?
Hernan saw his town like a dusty mirage. It was low, made of adobe and wood, maybe two hours walking from where he was now. It was a small farm town along the foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains; two days south by caravan from the city of Tucson. He followed the old highway I-19 for some while on his trips, and bitterly thought about the great old world signs above the multi-lane roads that read “El Segundo- 30 minutes”. If only he had a car, but those were well beyond a humble farm town’s monetary capabilities. He thought of Tucson’s market, where wealthy mercenaries and guns rode in from as far away as Austin in those dusty, rugged, mechanical beasts.
Damn the pendejos who call it Two-Sun, he thought, diverting his attention to a subject that didn’t remind him of his sore feet.
El Segundo. Hernan's town.
He came into the town as the sun lay in the west, massive and low, painting the whole horizon a striking orange. Wooden buildings were black against the sun, the adobe buildings a grey. He walked along the town’s dusty main street, turning sharply into the tavern. The bartender, a dusty older man named Job, broke from a conversation and looked up with a squint and broke into a smug, slightly repressed smile. “Hernando.”
“Job.”
“How the hell was it?”
Hernan revealed slightly yellowed teeth with a thin smile. “Well, I don’t mean to brag, but this humble little municipito is in for a… profitable relationship with the fine Grain Merchants of Tucson.”
Job’s eyes widened like a man hit in the stomach; he broke into a gasping smile, and the corners of his eyes began to become wet with tears. He could only compose a single word: “Hombre.”
Soon, other barflies, in overhearing, became aware. First, heads turned; then snapped in realization. The ten or so present, mostly farmers, made a cheery toast to their Sheriff. A particularly dense farmer named James stayed quiet, sitting at his stool.
“A deal with the Two-Sun Grain Merchants, Sheriff?” Hernan nodded, looking down at the simple man. “Why, that’s so much money… hell, we could buy a car with that money,” James said. Slowly it hit him, and his eyes widened. He looked up to the sheriff, wide-eyed and seeking approval. Hernan’s eyes became slits as the soreness of his feet shocked his mind like a rifle’s crack. “Why, yes, James, we could buy a fine automobile with that money.” You total patán, he thought to himself. James smiled to himself contentedly and drank.
Amongst the revelries (which a number of travelers had joined, unwilling to refuse an opportunity at a free drink), Hernan noticed a man in the corner of the bar, far removed from the yokel cheer and celebration. He wore a thick, brownish duster and torn rodeo jeans. His face was obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke, but a thick gas mask lay on the table. Hernan only wondered who he was for a second before being distracted by the crowd of yokels and goaded into a drink.
Strangers came through all the time, anyways. Some were stealing drinks right now.
EDIT: formatting's shit, forgive me.
Hernan saw his town like a dusty mirage. It was low, made of adobe and wood, maybe two hours walking from where he was now. It was a small farm town along the foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains; two days south by caravan from the city of Tucson. He followed the old highway I-19 for some while on his trips, and bitterly thought about the great old world signs above the multi-lane roads that read “El Segundo- 30 minutes”. If only he had a car, but those were well beyond a humble farm town’s monetary capabilities. He thought of Tucson’s market, where wealthy mercenaries and guns rode in from as far away as Austin in those dusty, rugged, mechanical beasts.
Damn the pendejos who call it Two-Sun, he thought, diverting his attention to a subject that didn’t remind him of his sore feet.
El Segundo. Hernan's town.
He came into the town as the sun lay in the west, massive and low, painting the whole horizon a striking orange. Wooden buildings were black against the sun, the adobe buildings a grey. He walked along the town’s dusty main street, turning sharply into the tavern. The bartender, a dusty older man named Job, broke from a conversation and looked up with a squint and broke into a smug, slightly repressed smile. “Hernando.”
“Job.”
“How the hell was it?”
Hernan revealed slightly yellowed teeth with a thin smile. “Well, I don’t mean to brag, but this humble little municipito is in for a… profitable relationship with the fine Grain Merchants of Tucson.”
Job’s eyes widened like a man hit in the stomach; he broke into a gasping smile, and the corners of his eyes began to become wet with tears. He could only compose a single word: “Hombre.”
Soon, other barflies, in overhearing, became aware. First, heads turned; then snapped in realization. The ten or so present, mostly farmers, made a cheery toast to their Sheriff. A particularly dense farmer named James stayed quiet, sitting at his stool.
“A deal with the Two-Sun Grain Merchants, Sheriff?” Hernan nodded, looking down at the simple man. “Why, that’s so much money… hell, we could buy a car with that money,” James said. Slowly it hit him, and his eyes widened. He looked up to the sheriff, wide-eyed and seeking approval. Hernan’s eyes became slits as the soreness of his feet shocked his mind like a rifle’s crack. “Why, yes, James, we could buy a fine automobile with that money.” You total patán, he thought to himself. James smiled to himself contentedly and drank.
Amongst the revelries (which a number of travelers had joined, unwilling to refuse an opportunity at a free drink), Hernan noticed a man in the corner of the bar, far removed from the yokel cheer and celebration. He wore a thick, brownish duster and torn rodeo jeans. His face was obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke, but a thick gas mask lay on the table. Hernan only wondered who he was for a second before being distracted by the crowd of yokels and goaded into a drink.
Strangers came through all the time, anyways. Some were stealing drinks right now.
EDIT: formatting's shit, forgive me.
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