“So yous’ know where he is then? Then, mon bel ami, you and I, we’s going to be thick like grits, you hear? Very friendly, very close. Because I ain’ stoppin’ till I get that man.” Damien says, grabbing Arthur’s chin to force the other man to look at him. Beneath the wide brim of Damien’s hat, his eyes seemed to glow with malevolent energy.
“And it would, hmm, behoove you l’listen, cher. I ain’t a man with a lot of patience, me. I think you playing, I’ll end you quick as huntin’, an’ find me another helpful sir.” His smile is full of white teeth, a rarity in this days, which added to the clean cut look of the bounty hunter.
“Now, you and me, honey, we’s goin’ over to that bar over ‘der, havin’ us a friendly drink, an’ yous’ gonna tell me all you can about Micah Bell.” He moves around behind Arthur and quickly removes his pistol from its holster, tucking it away against his person. “Up with you now, jolie garçon, I’m feelin’ very thirsty.”
Twisted around was the first proper look he got of the man, scowling eyes scanning, quickly analysing. He was slighter than Arthur thought, even from this angle he could tell he had an edge in height, not that size really came into it with a barrel kissing your forehead. Although it was still nice to know, should the time come, he shouldn’t have a problem laying him out in the dirt.
Arthur jerked his chin free of the man’s grip, standing the first chance he was able. “Jesus, you ever stop talkin’?” Right about now he could use a damn drink, not that it would be good to have any fewer wits about him should this turn even more sour. But no gun, no other options left, Arthur began heading for the bar.
“Real charmer, ain’t you,” he muttered, dry as anything. “Why you lookin’ for that bastard anyhow? What he do this time?”
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