Bone Us Post 4

There was no helping it, Januariad Post decided, none at all.

That day, he’d gotten a note written in chicken tracks from a guy with a friend who’d heard about this other guy. And this other guy? Well he might have spent time studying at the feet of a few false gods. He knew a thing or two and if you paid attention, you could hear his voice on the night winds south of Easy Street.

And on those winds were directions.

Januariad Post crossed the railroad tracks three times, stood on one foot and barked at the moon just like the wind told him. Sure as counted sheep, an address popped up in his mind.

The dusty shop was off the corner of Sixth and Gowtahell, and when he walked through the door the man was pressing hyphens and m-dashes into fresh brass sized .40 and 7.62, and funneling loose periods into 12 gauge shells.

“Help you?” He asked.

“The wind told me to come here.”

“You bark like Old Man Coyote and I don’t know what to say to that.”

The man yipped with a high-plains drawl and beckoned. He placed a black automatic on the glass counter and leaned on his elbow.

“This here pistol is brought to you by the number six, and the letter I.”

Januariad Post saw the man’s ear and around it were remnants of blue fur and wondered just exactly what kind of life he walked away from.

“I’ll take it.”

“How?”

“Cash and on the small of my back. Got a mirror?”

Januariad Post turned in the mirror like a teenage boy, doused in hair gel and cheap cologne. The pistol profiled too much under his thin shirt and he saw the heavy flannel lumberjack the man was wearing.

“An extra fifty if you trade me shirts.”

The man shrugged and nodded. The flannel fit better over the weapon and smelled of mathematics and oatmeal cookies, but Januariad Post was satisfied.

When they find him, he’ll hold court right there, smelling of cordite, algebra and baked goods.