Amitywood
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4th April 1999: 02:13pm
In the far corner of Sinclair's Bar, Amitywood's only bar which rested in a small alleyway that ran off the main street, the dark, brooding figure of (ex)Captain Donald Ran sat, sipping his pint of bitter ale and idly flicking through the 'Crystal Lake Herald' with little to no interest, so little that he hadn't even realised that the newspaper held no relevance to Amitywood itself. Occasionally he glared up at the old, flickering television set in the corner, gave it a staunch frown of disapproval and returned to not-really-reading the newspaper.
Donald Ran was a well dressed but bitter-looking man. He had been in the military services since he left school until 2 years ago, at the age of 32, when he was forced into early retirement from the service due to a minor injury in his left leg (though the injury was not crippling. Donald had been given a cane on retirement but he insisted on not using it, claiming the injury wasn't bad enough to warrant it. Many believed, probably correctly, that he was just too stubborn to admit what he might see as total defeat, just yet). He was as well respected an officer of the armed forces as he is, and always has been, a respected citizen of Amitywood. Though he gave an unquestionable impression of disapproval and stubbornness to all around him, there was also the overwhelming sensation, that he had maintained all his life, of wisdom far beyond his years.
The only other presence in the darkened and dusty bar were that of Hughes, the baker from across the street who had just recently taken over ownership of the store from his father, and who had clearly done well today to have closed up shop already, and the landlord of the bar, Del Sinclair himself, a fairly withdrawn man who questioned very little about what went on in his bar but who was also very capable of taking care of any matters that got out of hand. Del was currently cleaning glasses behind the bar but keeping one eye on Hughes's success (or lack there-of) on the one armed bandit, possibly seeing how generous the rickety machine was feeling today.
All that broke the otherwise flawless silence of the bar, aside from occasional 'Chink' and 'Whirr' of the fruit machine was the optimistic cries and pleas of President Galloway that crackled there way from the old television, towards an excited and cheering crowd, as well as every home in the country (and of course, to a few small bars here and there). The President's time in power so far had proved fairly uneventful but people still enjoyed him as a President. He had managed to make himself a real 'people's President', in part due to his weekly show in which he would address the nation just outside his Parliamentary Offices to live television cameras, as well as the heaving crowd that never failed to show up (partly because they wanted to hear the President, but mostly because there was that chance for them to be seen screaming like an idiot, live on T.V.). The show aired live on Fridays at 6pm and was repeated each Sunday in the middle of the afternoon, in most regions. Both showings always received astoundingly high viewing figures and only ever served to boost the Presidents popularity. This, coupled with the non-event which had been his Presidency so far, meant his support remained relatively unfaltered. The only controversy in his career had been brief conflicts with the Catholic church on his severely pro-abortion stance (He famously said it wasn't 'advertised' enough, which led to several mocking comments from the Catholic Church suggesting abortion clinics sponsor the next World Series, sparking an icy campaign of near-hatred between the President and the Catholics) and his even more severe stance against organised religion (oddly, President Galloway's lack of belief in any religion had not been a downfall in his election as many predicted it would be).
Today he seemed to be discussing Health Care, as far as Donald could make out over the crackling hiss and the occasional complete breakdown of picture that the television offered. With a grunt, Donald again turned his attention to the newspaper on the table and stared at some of the words making sure not to actually take in any information.
Outside, on the main street, Blue Canary was nearly knocked over by Jones, the local post-office employee and post delivery man, who turned a corner and almost knocked him backwards as he thumped past him, only leaving a faint "sorry" in his wake. Even if he had stopped it would not have angered Blue Canary. Not only was Blue Canary rarely phased by such unimportant matters, but the look on Jones's face as he ran off had been one of absolute fear, and of determination. Something seemed terribly wrong, Blue Canary paused on this thought and faintly wondered what could have been so dreadful to be turning the otherwise-docile Jones into this frightened wreck who he had just encountered. As he watched he saw Jones turning into the little alleyway that held the entrance to Sinclair's bar. Blue Canary stood pondering for only a moment before deciding that, since all his work had been done for the day, he would head into Sinclair's.
Jones hadn't even managed to get his breath back when Blue Canary entered the bar with a quick glance around, only to see Jones leaning against the bar while Hughes and Donald were busy trying to put him at ease and Del observed the scene with a look of concern, seldom seen on him, from behind the bar as he fixed up a glass of water and handed it to Jones, who accepted it gratefully.
"I've just been... oh God... Sergeant Lang isn't there and... Jesus... I don't know how... or who..." Jones was gasping
"Calm down, son." Donald said in as sympathetic tone as he could attempt "Take a deep breath and tell us what's happened..."
Jones took a huge shaky gulp of his water, spilling a great deal down himself, took a deep breath and looked up at Donald Ran with a look of dismay
"Someone's been killed..." he said
(to be continued...)
