A fanfiction about the past… Enjoy!
It was a long time ago - and yet almost like yesterday. Back when the United-States were still young and frech, despite the land and its people having been here for millenia. It was a time when the ancient and antique was freshly arrived, and when the now-forgotten were still new and shining. The time where the marvels of the circus and its freakhow had to battle the miracles of the Electricity Fairy.
The boy entered the saloon. He usually wouldn’t have been seen in such a place - he was not a creature of distraction, he was a being of work and seriousness, he hadn’t even put on a correct suit, merely a shirt and a waistcoast - but he had been invited to a meeting and he could not dare refuse. He was young and those that welcomed him were old and powerful - much older and powerful than him.
They were four, sitting at a table of the saloon. The other clients did not pay much attention to them - they certainly noticed them, for they were odd fellows, but if they got next to them or looked at them for too long they got shivering and dizzy, so everyone rather decided to ignore them and forget they were here.
They welcomed the boy - for he was still a boy, a handsome young lad freshly out of its teens, with blond curls and a beardless face. Around him were four of the kings and queens of America. The Master, with his immaculate white suit and Southern accent - somebody was fanning him, though no visible hand held the fan, or at least no hand deserving to be seen. The Baron, whose suit was black as coal and whose head was surrounded by the thick gray smoke of his cigar. The Gunman, dressed as a cowboy - or maybe a bandit, it was hard to tell these days -, his large hat hiding the two dark, uncaring, hungry holes he had for eyes. And the woman. None could tell from where she was, for she looked as much from the North than from the South. None could tell what was her status, for she had the dignity of a lady and the appeal of a whore. None could tell what race she belonged to, for everything in her, from her hair to her nails, was pure gold.
They welcomed him, shared a drink and talked with the Boy, eager to know more about him - but only with the Baron did the Boy truly found some common ground. Both loved travels, work and punctuality. The Gunman and the Master soon grew bored of the conversation - too tedious and menial for the Master, not thrilling and tense enough for the Gunman. As for the woman, it was hard to know what she really thought - she teased while staying elusive, joked and seduced while keeping distances and mystery. It was her charm, she was a volatile and capricious one, never where you expected her to be and making you chase her to the confine of the Earth.
As the conversation was growing stale, four Mexicans entered the saloon. Tired and worn-out Mexicans, with durty and dirty clothes. They bought their drink and sat at a table. They did not go towards the others and did not try to interact with them - but they looked at them, set their piercing gaze on them. All except the oldest, the one with hair as white as snow and feathers tied to his necklace. He did not look at anything else than his drink - looking at it without ever blinking.
The woman looked at the Mexicans too. She smiled in their direction, licked her lips and warned her companions of the four’s presence. The Master laughed and told some of his finest jokes about the people from below the glorious South, and the Gunman smiled of his bullet-smile at the prospective of some fun arriving.
The most agitated were the two with the darker skin. One - young and beautiful, but with a missing leg - locked his piercing and venomous gaze on the Master, who lost all merriment and started sweating more than usual. The other caressed the firearm that hung at his belt - though the Gunman knew it was not a gun. It might have looked like one, but it was too scaly and slippery to be any kind of his toys.
The boy was quite confused, for he felt what these Mexicans were not yet ignored what they were. He asked the Baron, but he was too busy looking at his pocket-watch, and he asked the woman, who answered with simple words, dignified and flowery yet awful and soiling words. The Mexican with the firearm tried to stand up, but his elder companion stopped him. He still did not look at the others ones, at the five across the room, but he still did not blink, and a small breeze disturbed the dust on the ground.
The boy looked at the fourth Mexican. This one looked quite sick. He had a yellowish tinge to his skin, skin that he kept scratching as if he suffered from some itch. The Mexican looked at the Boy, with his blood-shot and runny eyes, and the Boy looked at the Mexican, with his own eyes, hard and dark, with his own serious and sharp gaze. And the Boy felt… a form of ominous dread.
If he had been human, he would have said he felt as if someone had just stepped on his grave. Or as if he had seen his own death in the Mexican’s eyes. But he was not human, had no grave and could not die, so he could only translate his feelings in the following metaphor: a telegram arriving before it was sent. A ghost message, not supposed to arrive already and yet right there, under your eyes. You hadn’t even formulated your question that you received the answer.
Ultimately, it was the Baron that left. He kept looking at his watch, and he said he had to go. He always tried to be on time and deeply hated being late for anything. The Boy followed him out, for those Mexicans deeply disturbed him. The Master soon followed - one couldn’t tell if the expression on his pale and flabby face was one of fear mixed with anger, or of pride tempered by frustration. The Gunman and the woman stayed a bit behind, visibly disappointed. But they soon left too.
Now there was only the four Mexicans, along with the other clients of the saloon. They started to talk, and the humans around them started to wonder - seemingly out of nowhere - if they were going to see their family again soon.
